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Cassie glanced at the sullen gray sky and adjusted the basket on her arm. The day had grown dark, and the clouds would open any minute. She took hold of her skirts and climbed the last stile between the village and Verwood. She did not want to be caught in a downpour, but she could not pass the stile without pausing to think of her first meeting with Jay Kydd. Since that day so much had changed. Verwood, which had seemed a dead place, was now alive again.

It was all owing to Raven. Gaining him as a tenant had had unexpected benefits. The ladies of Verwood had enlarged their little family, which now included Jay and the three boys, who were great favorites with Dick Crockett and Honoria. Grandmama might appear to be keeping aloof, but Cassie was not fooled. The stable was a happier place. Jay and Snell claimed that Hermes was making great progress and planned to put a jockey on him in the next week. Jay was quickly learning Dick Crockett’s hand language, and the boys, when not with the horses, had evidently made friends in both kitchens. Even Raven, who was seldom at Verwood, was fond of the boys. In the mornings, he was teaching them to swim. Cassie had some concern that their confidence might outstrip their actual ability. She should talk with Raven about it, but she had not seen him since he’d begun his daily visits to Ramsbury Park. It was sad, she thought, that he had brought Verwood to life, and no longer wished to be there, but she understood.

His courting must be going well. Cassie would not have guessed that pretty Amabel would suit him. His character seemed made of sterner stuff, but she admitted that he did like perfection, and Amabel was that. The work he had done on the hall and the gardens showed his care with detail. Cassie had forgotten how truly lovely Verwood’s gardens could be. Now if she could get home before the rain, she could sip her tea and enjoy her overflowing cup of happiness.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and she started for the dower house, but stopped at once. From Verwood, Raven bore down on her with rapid, angry strides, dressed for riding, but hatless and plainly in a mad hurry. Instinctively, she braced herself. “Oh, I did not expect to see you. Are you not going to Ramsbury Park today?”

He stopped directly in her path, and regarded her coldly. “My plans have changed.”

“I’m sorry.” She was at a loss meeting him in this out of the way spot. “I suppose the weather…”

“The change has nothing to do with the weather, and everything to do with you.”

“Me?”

“I trusted you,” he bit out the words, closing the distance between them.

“And now you don’t?” It was a shocking thing to suggest.

“Your deceit—”

“My what? I beg your pardon. How have I been deceitful?” She tried to control her temper. His glare was withering, his mouth set in a harsh line. He was angry with her, and she could not think why. An intemperate reply from her could not help the conversation.

“You knew Hugh, Horrible Hugh, as your aunt calls him, was Lord Ramsbury’s son, Lady Amabel’s brother, and you didn’t tell me.”

Cassie did not know how to defend herself. It was true. “Has Hugh returned to Ramsbury Park? I should warn the Crocketts?”

“Warn the Crocketts?” The words burst from him. “Help them, but not me! I told you my plans. You. No one else. By all means help Dick Crockett, save him, but let me ride off day after day blissfully unaware of my offense against Lady Amabel’s family, an offense which could sink me in their estimation and ruin everything I’ve worked for. I deserved better from you.”

Cassie was confused. If Hugh had not returned, how had Raven’s hopes been dashed? “How did you discover Hugh’s connection to Amabel?”

Contempt curled his fine mouth, as if he were about to say something utterly distasteful. “Your aunt,” he said, “is making Hugh the Horrible the villain of her next novel. Did you know that, too?”

Cassie shook her head. Her heart sank. Somehow Raven had discovered that Honoria wrote novels. “Has she put Hugh in her Portugal story? How do you know that?”

“So you did know.”

“I did not.” The first drops of rain hit her shoulders, heavy and cold. The storm, like his anger, was going to break over them. She wore a short summer cloak and a straw bonnet. He stood bare-headed. With a sudden rush, the rain came down, a thick, leaden river of wet. It ran down Raven’s face, flattened his hair against his head, and caught in his lashes. In seconds it drenched him. The mingled scents of warm, damp earth and grass rose around them. He stood immobile as stone.

“Honoria’s got Joe, Ben, and Tim playing characters from the book, waving swords about on the lawn.” His voice rose over the hiss and splatter of the rain. “I recognized the scene at once. Hugh is a particularly nasty French officer who demands sixty gold pieces from the hero. Honoria assured me that the real Hugh would never see himself in her literary efforts because he was not a reader, but a sporting man, like his father, Lord Ramsbury.”

Cassie winced. It was an awkward way for Raven to learn the truth, but surely learning it from Honoria was not the disaster he seemed to think. “Oh dear. I am sorry. I will speak to her.”

“By all means. Dissuade Honoria from her folly. Give her the chance to avoid what—ridicule, humiliation, a lawsuit? And leave me open to the loss of all my hopes.”

Rain dripped from the brim of Cassie’s bonnet. The icy, contemptuous voice stirred her own anger, the heat of it blocking out the chill of her wet cloak. She tried to compose herself. “You surprised me that day with your plan to court Amabel. It was an unexpected confidence, and it would have been presumptuous of me to advise you in any way.”

“You are not dull-witted or dithery like your aunt. The moment I told you Amabel was my object, you knew Hugh would be a problem for me.”

“Dithery?” Cassie stiffened at the insult. “Go. We are done now. You’ve said quite enough. I understand you.”

He blocked her path. The rain washed over his person in blowing curtains of water. His burning gaze settled on her mouth. He seemed on the verge of speaking, yet said nothing. Cassie’s thin cloak grew heavy. Her soggy bonnet no longer protected her. If he would only move, she could get home before the pain took over.

At last, he spoke. “I can’t leave you in this rain.” He tore off his coat and draped it over her shoulders.

“Of course, you can. I am quite capable of making my way home on my own.” She tried to shrug his coat off.

He gripped her shoulders, looking down into her face, the rain molding the thin lawn of his shirt to his arms. “Yes, the dead duke’s damaged daughter needs no one’s help.”