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“Ruby!” he said at the same moment. “It really is you. All grown up and every bit as beautiful as I knew you would be.”

“I cannot believe this,” she said. “I thought you were in America with your regiment.”

“I am at Whitehall now,” he said. “At the Horse Guards. Do you know Lady Stephanie Ware? Miss Ruby Easton, Lady Stephanie. And…?” He looked questioningly at Bertrand.

Bertrand held out a hand to shake his. “Bertrand Lamarr, Viscount Watley,” he said.

“Captain Leonard Paulson,” the man said as they shook hands. “Ruby’s family and mine are neighbors in the country. But, Ruby, I want to hear everything that has happened to you since I left to join my regiment.”

“And I want to hear everything you have done in the years since you left,” she said. “According to your mama, you are not the most frequent of letter writers, and when they do come, your letters are no more than a few lines long.”

She was glowing with delight, Bertrand could see. Paulson was beaming with an answering pleasure.

Stephanie, apart from nodding at Miss Easton when they were introduced, had not moved.

“I simply must have some further conversation with you before I lose you again, Ruby,” Captain Paulson said.

“Oh, and I with you, Leonard,” she said fervently.

“Would you mind terribly if we walked with you and perhaps switched partners for a short distance?” Paulson said, glancing apologetically at Bertrand. “That way we can avoid boring you and Lady Stephanie with talk of people and events that can be of no interest to you. Would you mind terribly, Lady Stephanie?”

He took their answer as a given, released Stephanie’s hand, which had been drawn through his arm, and drew Miss Easton’s through it instead after Bertrand released her.

They had eyes only for each other, those two.

“You go on ahead,” Bertrand said to them. “Lady Stephanie and I are acquainted. Her brother is married to my niece.”

It seemed they did not need his assurance or his permission. They were already walking back in the direction of the rotunda, talking animatedly as they went.

Bertrand and Stephanie were left staring at each other.

—

What on earth had just happened? One moment Stephanie had been strolling along the avenue at the suggestion of Captain Paulson while Nicholas and Winifred had chosen to remain at the table Nicholas had reserved for the evening until it came time for the fireworks later. The captain was pleasant company, and Stephanie had been relaxed and thoroughly enjoying herself while feasting her senses upon the sights and sounds of Vauxhall Gardens. And the next moment…

“What were the odds?” Viscount Watley said while Captain Paulson walked off with Miss Easton.

And suddenly the whole bizarre situation seemed to strike them both as irresistibly funny. He chuckled and then laughed outright, and Stephanie found herself laughing helplessly with him. For a few moments neither of them could seem to stop.

And then she did, abruptly and totally, and her eyes slid from his.

Oh dear. What she had feared happening and persuaded herself was next to impossible had happened anyway. Here he was at Vauxhall, and they were face to face and alone together.

“You must go after them,” she said. “I will go back to—”

“No!” She stopped abruptly when he raised one forefinger before her face. “No. Let us not deny this moment.”

She froze.

“There is something terribly memorable about it,” he said, his voice and his eyes intense. “The shared recognition of coincidence and absurdity. The laughter. Shared laughter. For a moment we felt something. Together.”

What on earth was he talking about? “I must go back to Winifred and Nicholas,” she said. “I came here with them. And Captain Paulson. He works under my brother’s command and ultimately General Haviland’s. Please excuse me.”

He grasped her wrist before releasing it almost immediately.

“There have been other such moments,” he said. “When we raced each other up the hill outside the house on Christmas Day. We laughed then too with the sheer joy of it, and for a few moments were in total accord with each other. It happened when we practiced together in the music room and you read the music from behind me as I sat on the pianoforte bench. You set one hand on my shoulder as you leaned forward to point out some detail. It was a moment. Not laughter filled, it is true. But we were absorbed in the music together and intent upon making something beautiful of it together. There was last summer at Ravenswood when we danced with a dozen others about the maypole, following the instructions of the professional dancers, and I tried to dip below your arm with my ribbon instead of reaching over it. You pushed me back into position and we both laughed as the disaster of tangled ribbons was averted.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “They were meaningless moments,” she said.