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He sauntered farther into the room, leaned over the back of Sarah’s chair, and dropped a kiss on top of her head. She turned bright red, her lips twitching up into a satisfied smile as he rested his arm on the back of her chair and let his fingers flirt with the revealed skin of her neck.

Freddy blushed too and turned away. The intimacy made her hungry, made her envious. She wanted a man’s hand on her neck.

“Well, Freddy,” Henry said, “are you staying the night? Your girls are nestled in the guest room. I’d hate to have to wake them up when they’re so snug.”

She and the girls had rooms in her cousin’s townhouse. The Viscount Woodfeld, known to his family as Max and to all of London as Garrison’s strongman The Beast, had married Henry’s second daughter, Nora. He’d not ever wanted to be a viscount, but the death of Freddy’s husband had made him one, and he took his duties seriously, caring for his family as fiercely as Henry Cavendish did.

And Freddy, like a leaf in the wind with no real home, shuttled between them.

Freddy dared to turn back toward their affection and managed a civilized smile. “I do thank you both for looking after the girls this evening. And, yes, I will stay.”

“Good. Now that my eldest daughters have left the nest, I do so enjoy having it loud with little ones again.”

Sarah patted his hand. “As if we are not already filled to the brim with rambunctious children.” Henry had a small daughter and two young wards, his twin nephews.

He scratched his neck. “Zeus, Sarah. They’re very devils. I adore them all.”

“I know.”

“I do hope my girls do not add to the chaos.”

“Absolutely they do,” Sarah chuckled. “We adore that, too, don’t we, Henry?”

He nodded, his hand molding to Sarah’s shoulder. “It’s late, my dear. I just came to tell you I’m, ahem”—he slipped a brief glance at Freddy—“retiring for the evening.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “Ah. Yes. I’ll be along shortly.”

“How shortly?”

“Very.”

The fire seemed to have leapt from the grate into their eyes. That’s what Freddy wanted. The heat of passion. But without the hazards of the married state. The two before her were lucky indeed. Freddy knew not all stories ended as happily as their own.

She stood. “I’m quite tired. I’ll be retiring, too. Thank you for your hospitality. Tonight and every day before this one. I have been blessed to have my family fall into the arms of your own.”

Henry helped Sarah to stand, and they stood arm in arm.

“No gratitude necessary. Your cousin has married my daughter. That makes you family.”

And that, for Henry Cavendish and his wife, his progeny was the last word.

“Nevertheless,” Freddy said, “you have it. Good evening.”

“Good evening.” Sarah reached a hand toward her. “I’ll walk with you to Nora’s home tomorrow morning. There is a matter I must speak with her on.”

Freddy nodded and slipped from the room.

She climbed into the bed between her daughters and settled against the pillows, exhausted and raw from rejection. But had he truly rejected her because of her? Or had he turned away from her because of Max? He had, after all, enjoyed their kiss until he’d learned her identity.

If that was the case, Mr. Webster ran from false fears. Max respected Mr. Webster and respected Freddy’s ability to make choices for herself. She could not believe that to be the problem. Perhaps she should speak with Max, ask him … what?

To speak with Mr. Webster? To consider giving his friend permission to make love to her?

Ha. That, she could not say.

But she could ask him to put in a word with Mr. Webster about riding lessons. Sarah had seemed to think that the most expedient means to an end.

If there were riding lessons, there were opportunities. To test Mr. Webster’s reaction to her some more. To see if she could convince him, tempt him. But to put her daughters in the middle of what was, ostensibly, a seduction? No.