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She glanced at Pembroke, who cut an impressive figure in riding attire. He was broad shouldered and lean in a sharply tailored jacket and buckskin leather breeches that fit his powerful thighs almost indecently well. How beautifully the man sat a horse, his back straight but relaxed, his weight perfectly centered at every moment. He’d learned to ride at the age of six, and it showed.

“The Row is too busy at this hour,” Reina said. “Let’s go to the northern side of the lake—there are views of the water, and far less chance of being seen.”

“Rotten Row” was the park’s main equestrian thoroughfare, where the fashionable went to see and be seen. Dressed in their most elegant attire, they rode blooded Thoroughbreds in a display of pageantry masquerading as daily exercise. Some visitors took the air in elegant carriages that proceeded on a parallel road, while others strolled along the Row’s pedestrian walks.

Reina and Pembroke rode northwest across sweeping lawns and winding paths until they reached the drive that followed the north bank of the river. Their horses, Sol and Cielo, were a matched pair of dapple greys—a cross of elegant Thoroughbred and powerful Andalusian. Although the upper class preferred to ride pure-blooded Thoroughbreds, Reina had chosen the Andalusian crosses for their versatility. They were beautiful and intelligent horses with stamina for both riding and light carriage work.

Seeing the drive was unoccupied, Reina grinned and urged Cielo into a canter, the horses’ hooves striking a smooth three-beat gait. Pembroke kept pace with her, riding with such superb economy of movement that he and Sol seemed to glide across the terrain.

Eventually they eased the horses into a trot and slowed to a walk.

They reached a serene vantage where the path was close to the lake’s bank. Pembroke stopped, his attention riveted by movement among the reeds. Reina stopped as well, following his gaze to a mound of reeds and twigs.

A pair of wild black swans piled a nest together, their sinuous necks arching and extending. The male set a twig near the female, who took it up and arranged it precisely where she wanted it.

“Have you seen black swans before?” Reina asked.

Pembroke shook his head, watching the birds in fascination.

“They’re native to Australia,” Reina said, “but long ago a local landowner brought them to his estate for ornamental purposes. The swans multiplied, and eventually some escaped. Perhaps someone forgot to clip their wings.”

“There was a pair of white swans at a pond in the Galwad-y-Môr gardens,” Pembroke said, his gaze turning distant. “The gamekeeper told me they never flew because the pond was too small. They need a long stretch of water to take off.”

“Poor things. If I were a swan in a little pond, I would start walking until I reached the nearest river.”

He laughed softly. “Aye, I expect you would.”

They continued walking, the horses moving in sync. Now and then Sol or Cielo would nicker to each other in relaxed companionship.

“Shall I follow you, ma’am?” Pembroke asked. At her puzzled glance, he said, “The manservant usually rides behind the lady.”

“I’d prefer companionship.”

Reluctantly, as if to ensure she understood, he said, “Riding side by side is too familiar for a servant.”

“No one knows who you are. And I don’t care. I know the rules—I know when I go out walking with June, she should stay behind me at a respectful distance. But I would never want that. And I’d hate to imagine what she’d say if I suggested it.”

Pembroke grinned. In a moment, however, he asked in a serious tone, “Why were you concerned about being seen?”

Reina shook her head slightly, perplexed.

“When we entered the park,” he said, “you suggested the northern side of the lake because there was less chance of being seen.”

“Did I actually say that?” Embarrassed and amused, she caught her lower lip with her teeth. “I beg your pardon—an old habit of mine. One I’ll probably never be rid of.”

Pembroke was quiet, patient, while Reina painstakingly groped for words. It was something she’d never talked about with anyone before.

“When I was a child, my father would take me on outings in his brougham. Usually once a fortnight. I think it was all he knew to do with me. I was wild to leave the house, and Mamaíta wanted him to have some interaction with me, so . . .” She paused to rearrange the folds of her riding skirts, and smoothed Cielo’s silvery mane. “It wasn’t an ideal carriage for sightseeing,” she finally continued. “One small, high window on each side. We went to Hyde Park, but never the carriage way next to the Row. Instead, we went to the farthest northern edge, to a secluded grove where the carriage could stop. We would step out, and I would play among the oaks and elms, while Papa stood there watching. Sometimes I could hear other children laughing and shouting. They were floating toy boats, I imagined, and feeding ducks. Now and then I saw a kite dancing in the air. I asked Papa once if I could go to meet them, but that annoyed him so terribly, I never asked again.” A brittle laugh escaped her. “They were ghastly outings, really, but I still looked forward to them. Silly of me.”

Pembroke’s gaze was warm, almost caressing. The firm lines of his mouth had gentled. “And now you still don’t want to be seen.”

“I’m caught between opposite urges . . . like a biscuit being fought over by two pigeons. One half of me wants to sneak furtively through the park, while the other half wants to stand in the middle of Rotten Row and shout that I’m the chance-born daughter of Bernard Prescott and a Spanish dancer.” She began to laugh, this time in genuine amusement. “I’m terrified I actually might do it someday. Is that a mad thought? Am I mad?”

Pembroke shook his head, smiling now. “As a boy, I worried I might someday shout in church.”

“Shout what?”

“No words. Just a scream.”