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While Grandmama prattles away with an old woman about gardens and rheumatism and the sorts of subjects that might very well be found printed in a primer under the heading What Old Women Must Talk About, I stand along Rotten Row, watching the horses and feeling sorry for myself.

“Happy Easter to you, Miss Doyle. You’re looking well.” Simon Middleton stands beside me. He is strong and shining and dimpled—and alone.

“Thank you. How lovely to see you,” I say.

“And you.”

I clear my throat. Say something witty, Gemma. Something beyond the obvious, for heaven’s sake. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

Simon smirks. “Quite. Let’s see…you look lovely. It’s lovely to see one another. And, of course, the weather is quite lovely. I do believe we have encompassed the loveliness of all things lovely.”

He has made me laugh. It is a talent of his. “How beastly a conversationalist I am.”

“Not at all. In fact, I daresay you are…a lovely conversationalist.”

Several horses streak past, and Simon greets them with a cheer.

“I hear congratulations may soon be in order.” It is bold of me to say it.

Simon arches an eyebrow. His lips press into a wicked smile that makes him ever so attractive. “For what, pray tell?”

“They say your suit of Miss Fairchild is quite serious,” I reply, looking down the dirt path to where Lucy Fairchild mounts her horse.

“It occurs to me that cricket is not the true sport in London,” Simon says. “Gossip is.”

“I shouldn’t have repeated it. I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. Not on my account. I rather adore rudeness.” The wicked smile is back. It works its magic, and I find I am lighter. “Actually, I do have my heart set on a new girl.”

My stomach tightens. “Oh?”

“Yes. Her name is Bonnie. She’s right over there.” He points to a gleaming chestnut mare being led to the starting line. “Some say her teeth are too strong for her face, but I disagree.”

“And think of what you shall save on a groundskeeper, for your grass shall be kept quite tidy by Bonnie,” I say.

“Yes. Ours will be a happy union. Quite stable,” he says, drawing a laugh from me.

“There is a matter I wanted to discuss with you, if I may,” I say haltingly. “It concerns your mother.”

“Indeed.” He looks disappointed. “What has she done now?”

“It is about Miss Worthington.”

“Ah, Felicity. What has she done now?”

“Lady Markham is to present her at court,” I say, ignoring his jibe. “But your mother seems to object.”

“My mother is not an admirer of Mrs. Worthington’s, and their feud wasn’t helped by your prank at Christmas with Miss Bradshaw. My mother felt her own reputation was injured by that.”

“I am sorry. But Felicity must make her debut. Is there anything I can do to help her?”

Simon turns his wicked gaze to me, and a blush rises on my neck. “Leave well enough alone.”

“I can’t,” I plead.

Simon nods, considering. “Then you shall have to secure Lady Markham’s affections. Tell Felicity to charm the old bat and her son, Horace, as well. That should win the day—and her inheritance. Yes,” he says, seeing my expression, “I know she must make her debut in order to claim her fortune. Everyone does. And there are plenty in London who’d rather see the brash Felicity Worthington under her father’s control.”

Down at the far end of Ladies’ Mile, the horsewomen are at the line. They sit tall in their saddles, the picture of restraint and elegance, while their blindered horses snort and prance. They are ready to run, to show what they can do.

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