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“But,” he murmured. “But what? A man can’t have had a girlhood?” A corner of his mouth tilted up. “I live as a man, and…” He leaned toward her. “Can we start there?”

The moment stretched. His gaze heated the air between them. She detected his alluring scent mixed with the heather and gardenia. A small sound dragged from her. Something flared in his eyes, and he lowered his head, infinitesimally. She stared at his transfixing lips. They still wore the hint of a crooked smile.

God, she wanted to taste him.

A new wave of mortification crashed over her.

She scrambled back. Heat lingered in her limbs, but cold chased after. Oh, hell. She wasn’t only surprised, she was humiliated. She’d imagined herself far worldlier than those sighing farm girls, when, in fact, she was hopelessly naive. A dupe in a game to which she hadn’t received adequate instructions.

This was why she didn’t play at love.

She felt a perfect fool.

She rose, unsteady, white spots blotting the corners of her vision.

Griffith was on his feet in an instant. He stilled her as she teetered, his strong hand closing on her elbow, as it had when they’d first met, when they’d stood together for the first time, in the field by the cliffs.

She drew a shuddering breath. He was staring down at her, with wary expectation.

She had to say something. Something adequate to the situation, to his revelation, to her bafflement. To this all-consuming desire.

Yes, she could answer him. Yes, let’s start there.

“We should get back,” she murmured, breaking his grasp. As she turned, she could feel his gaze between her shoulder blades.

Her hat was caught again in the heather. Her bicycle was a few paces off, on its side in the grass, looking like the skeleton of some alien creature. She retrieved both with clumsy haste.

She and Griffith cycled along the path, toward the cliffs, gulls floating overhead, seemingly motionless, suspended like her thoughts.

—

It was nearly the dinner hour when they reached St. Ives, turning on the road that curved up to the Towans. The moment the hotel came into view, Muriel dismounted her bicycle. A light thud told her that Griffith had done the same. She couldn’t risk glancing over. She didn’t know what she’d say, or what she’d do. Instead, she pushed the bicycle up the hill, focusing on the hotel’s massive stone terrace. Guests milled about, or occupied the wicker chairs, waiting for the dining room to open.

She spied Lady Chiswick seated beside a slender young woman with a shining knot of golden hair. Her stomach flipped as Lady Chiswick’s head turned. Other heads were swiveling. A portion of the bored assembly had noticed her, and Griffith, and seemed to be tracking their slow progress over the grass with considerable interest.

She kept walking, her too-short dress swinging about her calves. She didn’t want to stop at the gazebo, to make a tableau there with Griffith, for the world to see. Neither did she want to roll up to the terrace itself, sweaty and disheveled, whatever words she uttered to Griffith audible to anyone who chose to listen. She felt trapped, exposed in the spacious English garden as though on a great green stage.

Then she saw James. He stood near a potted palm at the corner of the terrace, with Mr. Ponsonby. Thank the Lord. He waved in greeting and started toward her. Mr. Ponsonby fell into step beside him.

She slowed, awaiting their arrival with bated breath.

“Muriel.” Griffith’s voice sounded low by her ear.

“I adore cabbage palms,” she said, eyes fixed on the potted palm’s profusion of swordlike leaves. “Their flowers have the most wonderful scent. I adore all trees, really. The other time I was in Cornwall, I botanized on Bodmin Moor and saw the Darley Oak. It’s ancient, with an enormous hollow. Someone could live in it.”

She’d like to climb into a tree hollow now.

“There was a ginkgo tree, in a valley in China,” she continued, pulse racing along with her words. “The biggest I’ve ever seen. It had a similarly marvelous hollow.”

“Muriel,” he repeated.

“What cheer!” called James, drawing up to them. He was dressed for dinner, in a black evening jacket. “I was afraid you two had ridden off a cliff! Everyone’s abuzz tonight.” He lifted his hands, making a frame for his words. “Battle of the bicycles.” He dropped his arms. “Bets are being taken. I expect a throng tomorrow morning at Titcombe Hall, to see you off.”

“I’ll be there.” Mr. Ponsonby rocked on his heels. “Although how I’ll hold my head up, I don’t know. We played a four today. Took on Deighton and Butterfield.”

“The elder,” cut in James. “Turns out there are two Butterfields.”

“More’s the pity. One’s bad enough.” Mr. Ponsonby shook his head. “To make a long story short, they put us to rout. I feel positively wilted. I let the match point go by.”