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“He did not keep me from anything,” Sophronia said cooly, adjusting her ribbons and stroking the neck of her mount. “He was my husband, and it was my duty to see to his needs.”

“What about yours?”

She pressed her lips together and looked away. Her face had a more womanly shape to it now, a soft curve of cheek where once she’d had a girlish, angular jaw. A jaw that signaled her stubbornness, of which she hadn’t lost one whit.

But she looked…weary. As if she’d been worn smooth over time, some of her stubbornness rubbed away.

Some of that might be life. Rowden had certainly had some of his youthful vigor—one might say impetuousness—ground out of him. But some of the more subdued Sophronia might be due to Henry Hinton.

Rowden hated the man even more. He swung himself atop Hercules and tucked his toes into the stirrups.

“I don’t know what you mean.” She watched him settle himself, and Rowden straightened his back. He knew he looked well in a saddle. “A wife’s aims become her husband’s ease and comfort. That is what marriage means.”

“Bollocks for the wife,” Rowden said, steering the head of his mount toward Piccadilly. “But bully for the husband. I should have thought of marriage long before.”

Sophronia’s tone turned freezing, but she brought Dulcinea into step beside him. “I shall be sure to choose the most subservient female I can find for your mate. Someone who will have no desires outside fulfilling your wishes.”

“You assume you will win our wager.”

“Of course I will.”

“I shall win the bet, Ro. And when I do, I shall choose you a husband who devotes his life to pleasing you.”

The look on her face, the small oval gape of her soft mouth, the expression in her eyes that flashed a wounded longing, was as good as a lance to the chest. Rowden wanted to dig up Henry Hinton and stab his rotten, worthless corpse. How could a man win a woman like Sophronia and not dedicate his entire life to making her happy?

Yet she had chosen Henry Hinton. Not Rowden. He must not forget that.

He nudged the gelding with his heels and dodged the traffic of Piccadilly as he led her to the iron railing that hemmed the park. He would take Sophronia riding, something her husband had not done, and he would show her she’d chosen wrong. She’d been wrong about Rowden, all this time.

Green Park was not open to the public, but certain fashionable people who wished to promenade there could always find a key to one of the iron gates. They passed the elegant lodge, home to the ranger who supervised the park, and Rowden found the gate that yielded to his key, then escorted Sophronia inside.

The green expanse was nearly empty of people, and Rowden drew a deep breath of air into his lungs. The fog in his head was beginning to clear. It felt like a fog that had enveloped his brain for years, but it showed the first faint hints of lifting and parting, rolling back like the morning mist over the Thames.

Matching wits with Sophronia was an exercise he’d not known he longed for. Walking beside Sophronia made it seem as if something long missing in his internal makeup had been reinstated, like the lost gear of a mechanism, and now he was fully functioning again.

No. No. He would not have it. He would not grow fanciful or wistful or soft-headed about being with Ro. He would not give this woman the knife to carve out his heart, not again.

She turned her mount, not toward the Queen’s Basin, which formed the more fashionable promenade, but toward the muddy pool in the center of the park, clustered with plane trees and silver limes. The thought was so near his own inclination that Rowden gritted his teeth.

She looked around, then drew a long breath, as if the open air calmed and settled her. A look flashed across her face, one of pained joy, as if she too were enjoying a sensation she had long missed.

Rowden deliberately steeled his heart. He’d manufactured this stupid wager as the only means he had to best her, to keep her from coming back into his life and having her way with him as if she’d never torn out his heart to begin with. His one and last line of defense.

“You must tell me what attributes you admire in a husband,” Rowden said, “since I will be choosing your next.”

She urged her horse to a faster pace than their leisurely amble. “I wonder there are no flowers in the park,” she said. “Other than the narcissus.”

“Have you not heard the tale? Catherine of Braganza, the wife of King Charles II, who built the park, once found him here picking flowers for his many mistresses. So she had them all torn up by the roots. The lengths a jealous wife will go to,” he could not help adding. “Souring the ground for everyone.”

“Little other recourse she would have as a wife,” Sophronia murmured, “even if she was the Queen. But the narcissus came back.”

“That was the only flower that refused to be eradicated. Self-centered things will turn up and plant themselves where they are not invited.”

She refused to take the bait, merely nudged her mount into a gentle trot, trying her paces. The mare was steady, and Sophronia had a fine seat. Hercules lengthened his stride, enjoying the stretch.

“I asked what you will look for in your next husband.”

“You presume I wish to marry again.”