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“We had an agreement, and it was quite mutual, I assure you,” Esme said, stumbling over the words. “If anyone, he was the offended party. I left him, not the other way around.”

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But she wasn’t certain that he even heard her. “Rawlings used to call you over to join him when he was sitting with his mistress, as if you had no feelings at all.”

Esme swallowed, remembering. “It hurt only because Lady Childe had children and I didn’t,” she whispered. “I was simply being a foolish, jealous—”

“I don’t care. I could have killed him for wounding you in such a way. For not treasuring you as he should.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Esme smiled, a crooked little smile. “I’m glad you didn’t kill him.”

He nodded. “So am I. But I cannot pretend to an immaculate conscience either.”

“Darby—Darby told me that Miles knew he would be dead by fall,” Esme said. Her face crumpled. “He never told me, Sebastian. He never told me!”

“Ah don’t, love, don’t.” He was there, and she was in his arms and against his chest again, crying as if her heart would break and groping toward the pocket of her pelisse for a handkerchief. But he pressed one into her hand, a large linen one with a crest that didn’t look at all like the possession of a gardener.

“Don’t mind me,” she finally said, in a crumpled kind of way. “It’s just the way I am these days, that’s all.”

He didn’t answer, and she finally wiped her eyes and hiccupped once more and looked up. He had the oddest expression on his face. And—she realized a second later—he had a hand on her stomach.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

Esme tried to think of something light to say, but failed.

“You’re pregnant!”

< 14 =

Speed Is a Glorious Addiction

Henrietta regretted allowing Darby to accompany her the moment they left the house. How could she have forgotten that she had driven her racing curricle? No one liked to ride with her in the curricle, not even Imogen.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, turning to Darby. “I drove quite the wrong vehicle this morning.”

His eyes widened as a groom brought out Henrietta’s prancing grays, hitched to a gorgeous little racing curricle, complete with high wheels and a small seat that would just barely accommodate two persons. It had a little perch for her groom, but otherwise made no concession to its female driver whatsoever.

“What do you think of my grays?” Henrietta asked, caressing the nose of her right leader, who was tossing his head and stamping his feet and generally indicating that he was full of spice and vinegar. “This is Parsnip, and the other is Parsley.” Parsley snorted when he heard his name, and danced just enough to make his harness chime. “Aren’t they lovely? Unfortunately, I have had to cure them of a lamenta-Fool for Love 119

ble tendency to bolt, which is why everyone in my family declines to accompany me.”

“Are they brothers?”

“Yes, from China Blue by way of Miracle, if you are interested in that sort of thing.”

“I’m not, particularly.” But a smile curled the edge of Darby’s mouth. The wheels on Henrietta’s curricle were painted scarlet and picked out in dark blue. The body was scarlet with silver accents. “Did you buy your curricle from Birch?”

“I did.”

“As it happens, I acquired precisely the same vehicle last summer. If I recall, you could have chosen scarlet cloth with a fringe.” Instead, the seat was lined in a serviceable brown.

“I thought the effect was overly grand.” Her eyes were twinkling. “Did you choose the scarlet, Mr. Darby?”

“With gold lace and a fringe.” He grinned at her.

“Are you fond of curricles?”