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One of them was Mr. Courtney, a gentleman of comfortable fortune, who lived in Gloucestershire with his widowed mother, though he spent several weeks of each year at the picturesque cottage he owned close to the sea a mile or so from Penallen. Being near the sea relaxed him and soothed his soul, he had explained once when a neighbor had asked. Stephanie could identify with that. He owned a boat and frequently went fishing with neighbors. He was a sociable man and a frequent guest at nearby homes, as was she. He also liked to host small gatherings at his own house.

And he seemed to like Stephanie, though she determinedly did not read too much into his gallantries. They were never so pointed that they caused her embarrassment or aroused open speculation in the neighborhood. He did, however, often sit beside her at meals when places at the table were not assigned and chose her as a partner when anyone suggested a game of charades or a hand or two of cards. He tended to join groups with which she was conversing, and to walk beside her when she joined a group of villagers to take the air. It was a perfect part of the world for walking. There was no end to the picturesque vistas and wide sea views and long stretches of beach or cliff paths or country lanes. There was always the bracing air and salty smell of the sea.

He was a few years older than Stephanie, she estimated, probably in his early thirties. He was not a particularly handsome man. He had a ruddy, good-humored face and sandy hair showing signs of thinning on top. He was of medium height and build. He dressed neatly but without any flair of elegance. Stephanie was comfortable with him. He was easy to talk with and was always respectful of her opinions.

She had met him during a previous visit. He had told her this time that he had hoped when he decided to come before winter set in that his stay would coincide with one of hers.

“I always feel at ease with you, Lady Stephanie,” he had said.

It was not by any means a declaration of undying love, but it seemed to her to express a definite interest. If it was courtship he had in mind, however, he was taking it very cautiously, one slow step at a time, and that suited her very well indeed. She was not sure she wished for a courtship with him—or that she did not want it. But she was perfectly happy to explore the possibility.

She was not in love with him. She did not consider romantic love a criterion by which to choose a husband. A few years ago, it might have been at the top of her list. But she had matured since then. She would certainly wish to love her husband and be loved in return. But love ought to be a natural extension of respect and affection and shared interests.

Mr. Courtney was not her only prospect. There was a gentleman near Greystone Court in Worcestershire, her brother-in-law’s home, which Stephanie visited, usually for a few weeks at a time. He was a family friend and called frequently at the house. There had been no open sign of any attachment to Stephanie, but she had sensed that he was interested in her. With just a little encouragement, she felt, his attentions to her might become more marked. She had not yet given that encouragement, and perhaps never would. But…

Well, but it felt good to have prospects. It felt good to be liked, perhaps even admired, by single gentlemen. She had endured too many years of deeming herself unattractive and unworthy. Good heavens, who would be worthy if perfection was a prerequisite? The world would be full of funny-looking spinsters and bachelors, and there would be no babies being born. The human race would die out. She chuckled at the absurd thought.

There was one thing she was adamant about, however. She did not want anyone who reminded her of that low esteem in which she had used to hold herself, or anyone who made her feel inferior even when she knew she was not. Self-confidence could be an annoyingly fragile thing—as she had discovered this past summer—and had to be constantly guarded and bolstered. She did it sometimes by reminding herself of what her father had told her when she was nine years old, just before the incident that had changed all their lives forever. She had been at the ball that always ended the summer fete at Ravenswood, as children were allowed to be in attendance until ten o’clock, and Devlin had just commended her on her hair, which had been braided and coiled at the back of her head. He had told her how grown-up it made her look, always the best of compliments to a nine-year-old.

“The loveliest hair of anyone in my whole family,” Papa had said, beaming at her and making her feel as though she was his whole world. “Your crowning glory, Steph. Promise me that you will never have it cut.”

“I promise, Papa,” she had said.

She had never forgotten—perhaps because of what had happened later that very evening. She had never stopped loving her father even when everything had changed. And she had kept the promise. To him she had been beautiful, even though his actual words had referred only to her hair.

She did not want any man who would make her feel less than beautiful again, less than whole, less than herself, even if he had no such intention. She did not want anyone who was perfect.

Bertrand Lamarr, Viscount Watley, was perfection personified.

His name inevitably leapt to mind even as she tried to stifle it. She had been painfully in love—or in worship—with him for eight years, almost one third of her life, and was still in danger of being haunted by him when her guard was down.

It was still early morning. Stephanie doubted anyone was up yet unless Ben was already busy outside. The harvest was still being gathered, after all, and she knew her brother did not choose to leave all the work to his hired laborers while he played lord of the manor in his large house. She hurried into her dressing room, got dressed without summoning her maid, and plaited her hair about her head with practiced hands before grabbing a woolen shawl at the last moment. She let herself out of the house, and just a few minutes later she was down on the beach, which stretched empty on either side of her and wide in front of her. The tide was out. The air was chilly, the wind brisk, and she was glad of her shawl.

Viscount Watley.

Drat it all, she had hoped to leave him behind at the house, but here he still was in her head. Why did one sometimes have so little control over one’s thoughts?

He had been Owen’s friend at university and had come to Ravenswood for a visit the summer she was seventeen. She had never lived through such an uncomfortable, miserable summer, for she had been at the age when even normal girls could be self-conscious about their looks and could feel inadequate and unsure of themselves when confronted with a personable young man. But she was not a normal girl. And Owen’s friend was not just a personable young man. He was—well, he was perfection. She had been fat, despite all assurances when she was younger that it was baby fat and would soon disappear and despite all her efforts to get rid of the unwanted pounds. To make matters worse, she had had a shiny round moon face, which had made her look twelve instead of seventeen. Viscount Watley had been tall, dark, slender, perfectly tailored, not a single imperfection in sight. And if all that was not enough, he had been amiable and kind and charming. Everyone had adored him—elderly grandmothers, middle-aged matrons, young matrons, girls of all ages, men of all ages. He did not have a single detractor. Not one.

Except her.

She had hated the perfection of him. It had terrified her and made her feel ten times worse than she already had. Not that he ever did or said anything to provoke her reaction. On the contrary, he was charming to her too whenever he had a chance, which was not many times—she saw to that. He tried to befriend her. She could have died. Since she could not literally do that, she had shriveled up inside and hated the body she was trapped in and the cringing, abject creature who cowered behind her plain child’s face. She had hated the fact that he could see her. Why could one not turn oneself invisible when the occasion warranted it?

She walked down the beach until she was on the hard, damp sand almost at the water’s edge. She considered taking off her shoes and stockings and wading in the water, but it would doubtless chill her to the bone. Besides, she had not brought a towel, and damp sand clinging to feet was not easy to brush off with the hands alone. She turned to walk sedately along the beach instead. Overhead a couple of gulls—the same ones she had seen earlier from her window?—wheeled and rode the wind and called to each other.

One would have thought that by the time she was nineteen and in London to make her official come-out into society, she would have acquired more poise. But she had gone under protest, and when she was there, she had dug in her heels and insisted, when her mother and Gwyneth had taken her to a fashionable modiste, upon plain styles loosely fashioned to disguise her plumpness. The modiste had not been pleased with her. And she had flatly refused either to cut her hair or to have it styled more becomingly for social occasions. Oh, she had been a severe trial to her family and had looked grotesque as a result. She had made her curtsy to the queen but had refused Devlin’s offer to host a come-out ball in her honor. She had realized at the first ton ball she attended that instead of rendering herself invisible, she had actually done just the opposite. She had already been experiencing agonies of self-consciousness and was looking for some hole in the floor or some curtained nook or somewhere to hide. Then she had spotted none other than Viscount Watley, looking more perfect than ever, though it was impossible to be more perfect than perfect, was it not? He had been in company, fittingly, with surely the most beautiful woman in the world.

He had seen her family and was smiling in warm recognition and was coming toward them, the beautiful woman on his arm. And then he was greeting them with genuine pleasure and introducing his companion as Lady Estelle Lamarr, his twin sister, who was behaving with a warmth and charm to match his own.

Stephanie could have died again.

Oh, it was easy to be charming when one looked like them, she had found herself thinking. But the spiteful thought had not made her feel any better about herself. It had made her feel mean and small-minded, and she had hated the two of them as a result. She had hated herself more.

She had fled London less than a week later when a blessed excuse had offered itself in the form of Pippa and Lucas’s abrupt decision to return home early to the country because the bustle and smoky air of London were threatening Pippa’s delicate health. Stephanie had gone with them.

She had endured a few other brief visits of Viscount Watley to Ravenswood after that, but she had always managed to stay out of his way. Fortunately, she had numerous friends and activities that gave her endless excuses to be away from home for hours at a time. This past summer, however, he had come to spend a few weeks, including the day of the summer fete. Stephanie had not worried unduly about his coming, however. She had already changed the way she looked upon herself and considered herself adequately fortified against the power of his charm. She had even been able to look fully at him and exchange a few remarks with him without having her newfound confidence crumble.

She had been really rather proud of herself.