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Anything.

Except kiss her, it seemed.

She had to offer some response though because her dazed and defeated brain had told him one truth—she was there to see him. She would not tell him the other truth. Why she was there to see him. But what, then?

She didn’t dare look to the stars again, mocking things. And the dust had no answers. Neither did the iron bars behind him. She finally managed to meet his gaze but found nothing there but dark eyes, kind and gentle.

A bashful smile, half grown, greeted her. “How are your daughters? Last I visited Max, they were aching to learn to ride. Has Max purchased a horse yet for them?”

“No. No horse, but …” A way out of this muck. She swallowed to wet the way for words. “That is precisely why I came to see you. I was in the audience tonight, and I realized there is no better rider in all of London. England. The world!” She was laying it on a bit thick, but the words would come now without her prior approval. “I would … I know it is too much to ask, but … would you, perchance, give the girls riding lessons?”

He scratched his jaw, clean-shaven and strong. “I cannot.”

“Oh.” Further disappointment? Or relief? A mix of both, no doubt.

“I am busy.”

“Ah. Of course.” She shook her head and stepped around him. “I am sorry to waste your time.” She wrapped her fingers around the gate, cold and unforgiving, and slipped through.

She tripped, the back of her gown catching snug on some metal. She turned to release herself and found the skirts not trapped on some iron spear, but between the strong fingers of the trick rider. He stepped closer to her, his hand dark against the pale-green muslin of her gown, his gaze fixed to the meeting point of her skirts and his skin.

He dropped the material like a hot coal and darted his gaze to her face. His eyes held stars in their dark-brown depths, and they found her lips and seemed unable to look away.

“I”—he cleared his throat, stepped even closer so that she could smell the horse and sweat on him again—“I do apologize. You are a lady and do not deserve such treatment, especially from the likes of me. Do … do you need an escort home?”

She shook her head. “I have borrowed the Cavendish carriage this evening.” Max’s in-laws were well-to-do and generous. She had use of the conveyance whenever she pleased. “I am well taken care of.”

He ripped his gaze from her lips. “Of course. Good.” A weak smile. “I’ll help you find it, shall I?”

She needed time to think, but she could not seem to tell him no, so they stepped into the alley together and right into a warm body.

A small feminine scream emitted as the body tumbled to the ground.

“Bloody hell. How many other women will I assault this evening?” Mr. Webster squatted before the shadowy lump. “Are you hurt, madame?”

“I do not think so.” A sultry voice. The woman lifted her face to Mr. Webster and the moonlight. No hiding for this woman. Young and beautiful and golden, she had no need of shadows. “Can you help me to my feet, Mr. Webster?”

He did, and she clung to his arm.

“My, you’re as strong as you look. I was so hoping to … speak with you this evening. Shall we retire to your dressing room for a conversation?”

Freddy slipped through the alley, leaving the conversation behind her.

Mr. Webster did not call her back, had likely not even noticed she’d left.

Two

Blanket-thick darkness flooded the alley between the Cavendish townhome and the mews, but several windows burned bright as afternoon with flickering candles. A figure, fully dressed, paced by a third-floor window. Sarah Cavendish in the nursery. She was awake, then. Excellent. Freddy had need of the other woman’s council, and Nora’s stepmother always gave excellent council. Close in age and experiences to Freddy, both having been widowed with young children in their care, Sarah knew suffering of the body and of the heart. And she knew the necessity of fixing such maladies on one’s own. She’d readily encouraged Freddy to take this risk on Webster, and she would be curious to hear the outcome of that night’s events.

The butler admitted Freddy to a parlor on the second floor and moments later, Sarah strode in, her dark hair loosely bound and her blue eyes glinting in welcome. She dropped her slim frame into a chair and gestured for Freddy to join her before a cozy fire.

“The children are all abed, including your girls.” Sarah heaved a sigh. “Did you enjoy the show this evening? You have returned … sooner than expected.” She grinned. “Tell me, how is Mr. Webster this evening?”

Freddy sat carefully in the offered chair, contemplating the fire and her failure. Sarah had been so excited for her to grasp life with her own two hands. She’d be so disappointed once she found out. She let her friend bask in the warmth of not-yet-dashed possibilities a moment longer then took a deep breath. She rubbed the pad of her thumb against that of her forefinger. It helped calm her, helped her think.

“Mr. Webster is quite content, I assume, ensconced with a paramour in his chambers this very moment.”

Sarah sat up straight, her spine going rigid as a steel pole. “You are supposed to be that paramour.”