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never go back.“We should all go there,” he said. “Come with me. Christmas in the country and all that.” He liftedhis glass to his lips and frowned when he saw his empty hand.Mr. Gascoigne groaned.“Country misses and all that?” Lord Pelham said, waggling his eyebrows.“And country matrons and country squires,” Mr. Gascoigne said. “And country morals. Don’t doit, Ken. I take back what I said. We will put up with your damned handsome exterior, won’t we, Ede?We will compete for the ladies with our superior charm—and Ede’s blue eyes. A man can look like agargoyle and the ladies don’t notice, if he has blue eyes.”There was no reason why he should not go back, Kenneth thought. Eight years was a long time.Everything would have changed. Everyone would have changed. He was a different person. He wasno longer an earnest and idealistic young man with romantic dreams. The very thought was amusing.God, but he wished he had not drunk so much. And he wished he had not gone to Louise’s—again. Hewas getting sick of casual beddings. And sick of endless drinking and gaming. It was funny really—for years the life he had lived for the past few months had been his dream of heaven on earth.“I mean it,” he said. “Come to Dunbarton for Christmas.” He remembered Christmases as themerriest of times at Dunbarton, the house overflowing with guests, the days filled with parties—andthe grand ball on the day following Christmas.Mr. Gascoigne groaned again.His mother would be delighted, Kenneth thought. She spent most of her time now in Norfolk atAinsleigh’s. Viscount Ainsleigh was married to Helen, Kenneth’s sister. His mother would love tocome to Dunbarton. She had written to him more than once asking him when he intended returningthere, and when he intended choosing a bride. Ainsleigh and Helen and their children would cometoo, though Helen might not be too eager about it, he supposed. There were armies of relatives whowould come, despite the rather short notice. He would invite some himself. He would give his mothercarte blanche to invite others as she saw fit.No, there was really no need to avoid going back to Dunbarton. Was there? He frowned andthought of one reason. But she would be eight years older than eighteen by now. The devil—hefrowned in concentration over the arithmetic. Six-and-twenty? It was hard to imagine. She would bemarried with a parcel of children. That was hard to imagine too. He reached out to take his glassfrom the mantel—of course, he had set it down there—and drained its contents. He grimaced.“He means it, Nat,” Lord Pelham said. “He is going.”“He means it, Ede,” Mr. Gascoigne agreed. “Tonight he means it—or do I mean this morning?Deuce take it, what time is it? Tomorrow—or do I mean today?—he will change his mind. Sobrietyalways brings sanity. Think of all he will miss if he goes to Cornwall.”“Hangovers,” Kenneth said.“He will miss hangovers,” Lord Pelham said. “They do not have hangovers in Cornwall, Nat.”“They do not have liquor in Cornwall, Ede,” Mr. Gascoigne said.“Smugglers,” Kenneth said. “Where do you think all the best smuggled liquor lands? I’ll tell you.Cornwall, my fine lads.” But he did not particularly want to think about smugglers. Or abouthangovers, for that matter. “I am going. For Christmas. Are you coming?”“Not me, Ken,” Lord Pelham said. “I have wild oats yet to sow.”“And I have to find a bed,” Mr. Gascoigne muttered. “Preferably my own. Cornwall is too far

away, Ken.”He would go on his own, then, Kenneth decided. After all, Rex had gone alone to Stratton whenthey had all refused to accompany him. It was time he went home. High time. It seemed rather typicalof him, though, that the decision should be made impetuously, while he was too drunk to think straightat all. There were all sorts of reasons why he should not go. No, there were not. Dunbarton was his. Itwas home. And she was six-and-twenty and married with a parcel of children. Had someone told himthat?“Come along, Nat,” he said, taking the risk of pushing his shoulder free of the mantel. “Let us seeif we can weave our way home together. Rex has probably been in bed for hours already and willwake with the dawn—and with a clear head, the lucky devil.”Both his friends winced visibly. Mr. Gascoigne stood up and appeared rather surprised that hislegs held him, even if they did so rather unsteadily.Yes, Rex was the wise one, Kenneth thought. It was time to go home. Home to bed and home toDunbarton.* * *IT wasa beautiful day for early December: crisply chill, it was true, but bright and sunny,nevertheless. The sun sparkled off the surface of the sea like thousands of diamonds, and the wind thatso often whipped across the water to buffet the land and knife through its inhabitants was a meregentle breeze today.The lady who sat at the top of the steep cliff, almost at its edge, in a slight grassy hollow of landthat hid her from the road behind, clasped her arms about her knees and drew in deep breaths of thesalt air. She felt soothed and invigorated both at the same time.Everything was about to change, but surely for the better. How could it be otherwise when she hadthought herself beyond the age of marriage just two days ago—she was six-and-twenty years old—and was now awaiting the arrival of her future husband? She had told herself for the past severalyears that she had no wish to marry, that she was happy to live at Penwith Manor with her widowedmother, enjoying a freedom that most women never knew. But the freedom was illusory, and she hadalways known it. For longer than a year she had lived with insecurity and ignored it because there hadbeen nothing she could do about it. She was a mere woman after all.Penwith Manor had belonged to her father and to his father before him and so on back through sixgenerations. But on her father’s death, it—and his baronet’s title—had passed to a distant cousin. Inthe fourteen months since her father’s death, she had continued to live there with her mother, but theyhad both been fully aware that Sir Edwin Baillie might at any moment wish to take up residence therehimself or else sell it or lease it. What would become of them then? Where would they go? Whatwould they do? Sir Edwin would probably not turn them out destitute, but they might have to move toa very small home with a correspondingly small income. It had not been a pleasant prospect.But now Sir Edwin had made his decision and had written a lengthy letter to Lady Hayes toannounce his intention of taking a bride so that he might produce sons to secure his inheritance and tocare for his own mother and three sisters in the event of his untimely passing. His intention was tosolve two problems at once by marrying his third cousin once removed, Miss Moira Hayes. Hewould come to Penwith Manor within the week to make his offer and to arrange for their wedding in

the spring.Miss Moira Hayes, he had seemed to assume, would be only too happy to accept his offer. Andafter the initial shock, the initial indignation over his taking her meek compliance for granted, Moirahad had to admit that she was happy. Or if not exactly happy, then at least content. Accepting wouldbe the sensible thing to do. She was six-and-twenty and living in precarious circumstances. She hadmet Sir Edwin Baillie once, soon after Papa’s death when he had come with his mother to inspect hisnew property. She had found him dull and somewhat pompous, but he was young—not much olderthan five-and-thirty at a guess—and respectable and passably good-looking even if not handsome.Besides, Moira told herself, looks were in no way important, especially to an aging spinster who hadlong outlived any dreams of romance or romantic love.She rested her chin on her knees and smiled rather ruefully down at the sea below the cliffs. Oh,yes, she had long outlived dreams. But then, so much had changed since her childhood, since hergirlhood. So much had changed outside herself, within herself. She was now very ordinary, very dull,very respectable. She laughed softly. Yet she had never outlived the habit of going off by herself,though a respectable female had no business being alone outside her own home. This had always beena favorite spot. But it was a long time since she had last been here. She was not sure what had drawnher here today. Had she come to say good-bye to dreams? It was a somber thought.But it need not be a depressing one. Marriage with Sir Edwin would doubtless bring no realhappiness with it, but then, it probably would bring no great unhappiness either. Marriage would bewhat she made of it. Sir Edwin wanted children—sons. Well, so did she. Just two days ago, she hadthought even that dream impossible.She tensed suddenly as a dog barked somewhere behind her. She tightened her hold on her knees,and her toes clenched inside her half boots. But it was not a stray. Someone gave it a sharp commandand it fell silent. She listened attentively for a few moments, but she could hear nothing except the seaand the breeze and the gulls overhead. They had gone, the man and the dog. She relaxed again.But just as she did so, something caught at the edge of her vision, and she knew that she had beendiscovered, that someone else had found this spot, that her peace had been shattered. She feltmortified at being caught sitting on the grass like a girl, hugging her knees. She turned her headsharply.The sun was behind him. She had the impression of a tall, broad-shouldered man dressedfashionably in a many-caped greatcoat with a tall beaver hat and black top boots. He had arrivedearlier than expected, she thought. He would certainly not approve of finding his future bride thus,alone and unchaperoned. How had he known she was here? She was more than three miles fromhome. Perhaps his dog had alerted him. Where was the dog?Those thoughts flashed through her mind in the mere fraction of a second and were gone. Almostinstantly she knew that he was not Sir Edwin Baillie. And in the same instant she knew who he was,even though she could not see his face clearly and had not set eyes on him for longer than eight years.She was not sure afterward how long they stayed thus, staring at each other, she sitting on the grasswith her arms about her knees, he standing above the hollow, against the skyline. It might have beenminutes, but was probably only seconds.“Hello, Moira,” he said at last.* * *

KENNETH hadcome to Cornwall alone, apart from his valet and his coachman and his dog. He hadbeen unable to persuade Eden and Nat to come with him. They had been unable to persuade him tochange his mind, even though his decision to come had been made when he was deeply inebriated.But then, he often acted on impulse. There was a restlessness in him that had never quite been put torest since his sudden decision to leave home and buy himself a commission in the cavalry.He was coming home for Christmas. His mother, Ainsleigh and Helen, numerous other familymembers, and some friends of his mother’s were coming after him. Eden and Nat might come in thespring, they had said, if he was still here in the spring. Perhaps Rex would come too.It had been a mad decision. Winter was not the best time to travel into such a remote part of thecountry. But the weather was kind to him as he journeyed west, and despite himself, he felt his spiritsrise as the landscape became more familiar. For the last two days he rode, with only Nelson forcompany, leaving his carriage and his servants and baggage to follow him at a slower pace. Hewondered by how many days his letter to Mrs. Whiteman, the housekeeper at Dunbarton, hadpreceded him. Not by many, at a guess. He could imagine the sort of consternation he had causedbelowstairs. However, they need not worry. He was used to rough living and no one else wouldarrive for another two weeks.He rode frequently in sight of the sea along a road that never took him any great distance from theedge of high cliffs except when it dipped down into river valleys and up the other side after passingthrough fishing villages and allowing him glimpses of golden beaches and stone quays and bobbingfishing boats.How could he ever have thought that he would never come back?The next dip in the road, he knew at last, would give him a view down into the village ofTawmouth. Not that he would go down there on this particular occasion. Dunbarton was on this sideof the valley, no more than three or four miles inland. There was sudden elation at the thought. Andmemories crowded in on him—memories of his boyhood, of people he had known, places he hadfrequented. One of the latter must be close by.Nostalgia caught at his stomach and knotted it. He unconsciously slowed his horse’s pace. It hadbeen one of his favorite places, that hollow. It had been a quiet, secluded place, where one could situnobserved on the grass, alone with the elements and with one’s dreams. Alone with her. Yes, theyhad met there sometimes. But he would no longer allow memories of her to color all his memories ofhome. He had had a happy boyhood.He would have ridden on by if Nelson had not barked, his head toward the hollow. Was someonethere? Quite unreasonably, Kenneth felt offended at the thought.“Sit, Nelson,” he commanded before his dog could dash away to investigate.Nelson sat and gazed upward with intelligent eyes, waiting for further orders. Without realizing it,Kenneth saw, he had drawn to a complete stop. His horse lowered its head to crop at the grass. Howfamiliar it all looked. As if the eight years and longer had never been.He dismounted, left his horse to graze unfettered and Nelson to wait for the command to berevoked, and walked silently toward the lip of the hollow. He hoped there was no one there. He didnot feel like being sociable—yet.His first instinct was to duck hastily out of sight. There was someone there—a stranger dressedneatly but rather drably in gray cloak and bonnet. She was sitting with knees drawn up, her armsclasped about them. But he did not move, and his gaze sharpened on her. Although she was clearly a

woman and he could not see her face around the brim of her bonnet, it was perhaps the girlish posturethat alerted him. Suddenly he could hear his heart beating in his ears. She turned her head sharplytoward him and the sun shone full on her face.Her plain clothing and the passage of years made her look noticeably older, as did the way hervery dark hair was dressed beneath the bonnet. It was parted in the center and combed smoothly downover her ears. But she still had her long, oval face, like that of a Renaissance Madonna, and her largedark eyes. She was not pretty—she never had been. But hers was the sort of face that one might see ina crowd and look back at for a lengthier gaze.If for a moment he imagined he was seeing a mirage, it was for a mere moment. If his imaginationhad conjured up her image here in this place, it would have been the image of a barefoot girl with aflimsy light-colored dress and hair released from its pins and falling wild and tangled down her back.It would not have been this image of neat, almost drab respectability. No, she was real. And eightyears older.They had been staring at each other, he realized finally. He did not know for how long.“Hello, Moira,” he said.

2HE should not have called her by her given name, he thought too late, but he did not know herother name.“Kenneth,” she said so quietly that he saw her lips move more than he heard the sound of his name.He also saw her swallow. “I did not know you were coming home.”“I sold out a few months ago,” he said.“Did you?” she said. “Yes, I knew. It was spoken of in the village. Such things are talked about,you know.”She had stood up, though she had not moved toward him. She was still very slender. He hadforgotten how tall she was. He had always admired the way she held her shoulders back and her headhigh, disdaining to stoop or try to diminish her height even after she’d grown taller than most men. Hehad liked the way she had grown to within a few inches of his own height. Although there was apleasantly protective feeling about being close to women who did not reach even to his shoulder—and that was most women—he did not really enjoy having to look so far down to them.“I trust you are well,” he said.“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”Why was she here? he wondered. Had she made it so thoroughly her own private haven during thepast eight years that memory of his being here with her had been eradicated from her mind? Not thatthey had been here often together. Or anywhere else for that matter. But there had been such stealthand such guilt involved in their meetings that they had seemed many. Why was she alone? It was not atall proper for her to be without any companion, even a maid.“And Sir Basil and Lady Hayes?” he asked stiffly. He was reminded that her family and his hadbeen estranged for several generations, that they had had no social dealings with one another for all ofthat time. He had once hoped, with the youthful idealism that had clung to him almost until he lefthome, that his generation—and hers—would bring about a reconciliation. But the enmity had onlybeen made worse.“Papa died over a year ago,” she said.“Ah,” he said. “I am sorry.” He had not heard. But then, he had heard very little from Dunbarton.His mother no longer lived here and he had not kept up a correspondence with any of his formerneighbors. With his steward he had exchanged only business news.“Mama is well,” she said.“And—” He paused. The name would have changed. He spoke reluctantly. “Sir Sean Hayes?” Hislips tightened at the thought of Sean Hayes.“My brother never succeeded to the title,” she said. “He died a few months before Papa. He waskilled at the Battle of Toulouse.”

He grimaced. He had not heard that either. Sean Hayes, the same age as himself, had gone awayjust before him. His father had purchased a commission for him in a foot regiment, presumablybecause he could not afford anything more glamorous. Sean Hayes, once his closest friend, at the endhis bitterest enemy—dead?“I am sorry,” he said.“Are you?” The question was quietly, coolly asked. Her dark eyes, looking directly back into his,held no discernible expression, but he could feel her dislike, her hostility. Eight years had notchanged that, then. But she had suffered the loss of both her father and her brother in that time. Andshe and her mother . . .“Your husband?” he asked.“I am not yet married,” she said. “I am about to be betrothed to Sir Edwin Baillie, a cousin whoinherited the title and estate from Papa.”She was not married? Had no one been able to tame her, then? And yet she looked tame. Shelooked different—and the same. More different than the same. Why was she now marrying thiscousin? For convenience’s sake? Was there any affection involved in the match? But it was not hiscon

"Mary Balogh at her riveting best." —#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber "Thoroughly enjoyable." —New York Times bestselling author Janelle Taylor "Balogh once again takes a standard romance trope and imbues it with heart, emotional intelligence, and flawless authenticity." —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)