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“Yours and Estelle’s?” she said.

“No, we were not quite inseparable,” he said. “We had our own friends and interests and a few private areas of our lives. This was one of mine. Probably no one else knows of this large stone and this particular stretch of the brook except me.”

“And now me,” she said softly.

“And now you,” he said.

She sat, drew up her knees, and set her arms around them with her feet flat on the stone.

“Why?” she asked.

For a while she did not think he was going to reply. But he did eventually.

“Because I want you in my private world,” he said. “You are acquainted almost exclusively with the public part of it. Those two men, the public me and the private me, are the same person, of course, and there is no real conflict between the two. Neither is artificial or forced. But seeing them out of balance with each other is not really to see me. I want you to see me, Stephanie. It is why I asked my father and Viola to invite you here.”

He sat down on the stone beside her, his shoulder not quite touching hers, his booted feet drawn up before him, his forearms draped over his spread knees.

She did not continue the conversation immediately. She had seen the public side of him during the past few days as he mingled with his father’s houseguests and helped entertain those who came from outside. She had seen him relaxed and sociable and enjoying himself and making sure everyone else was enjoying themselves too. She had seen how well liked he was by everyone. She had liked him too. But there was nothing really new in that. She had always admitted to herself, except in her crossest, meanest moments, that he was a thoroughly likable man. Perfect in every way, in fact.

She had had a glimpse into what he called his private self, perhaps, on Christmas Day, when he had talked about his education as a boy and about his love of classical literature.

And now this.

Because I want you in my private world.

I want you to see me, Stephanie. It is why I asked my father and Viola to invite you here.

But why? Her original question remained unanswered. Why her, when he had been courted for years, often aggressively, by many of England’s most beautiful, most eligible women? There were even some here who were keenly interested in him. Was it just because she was the only one who had shown reluctance? Could she continue to cling to that theory?

But she was not beautiful.

Ah. Everything always came back to that, did it not? She had told and retold herself that she was beautiful, that she was lovable, that she was worthy, that she was the equal of anyone. She had quite passionately believed it.

Until, that was, she was confronted with the seeming impossibility of Bertrand Lamarr, Viscount Watley, finding her beautiful and lovable and all those other positive, life-affirming things.

Yet he had brought her here to Redcliffe to prove to her that there was no impossibility. And he had brought her specifically here, where he had never brought anyone else. Even his twin.

“I do not know what to say,” she said.

“You do not need to say anything,” he said. “The only commitment I asked of you is that you allow me the chance to convince you that behind the exterior that has intimidated you for close to a decade is an ordinary man who is not dazzling at all. He is not your superior and not your inferior. Just your equal. You granted me that chance by coming here. I want you to keep an open mind and an open heart. But all I ask at the moment is that you give this place a chance. I always found it relaxing during the years I lived here. Actually, more than just that. I always found it soothing to my soul, if you will pardon the extravagance of the language. But I had to give myself a chance to watch and listen and feel myself a part of it. I have missed coming here.” He turned his head briefly to smile at her. “I learned from coming here that I am not superior to anything in nature, even the tiniest ant. Or inferior. Just equal. You need not say anything. Let us just sit for a while, shall we?”

“Yes,” she said.

And they did just that. At first, her mind was teeming with conflicting thoughts, and she was very aware of him beside her, silent and close. But then she became more fully aware of the wild, unspoiled nature that surrounded her. There was the sound of the brook. The babbling sound. What a wonderfully descriptive word that was—babbling. There were birds chirping and singing among the branches of the trees and some insects whirring in the undergrowth. A line of ants was making its steady way over some stones beside the water. A couple of butterflies fluttered by. An invisible sheep in the distant field bleated. There were the mingled aromas of greenery and earth and water. There was the blue sky above and the warmth of a summer day, even here in the shade of the trees.

And she felt herself relax, first her body and then her mind as she allowed thoughts and impressions to flow through it without trying to engage with any of them. It was not a trance. She was fully aware of everything around her, perhaps more than usually aware. Many minutes passed, though she had no idea just how many, before a thought finally arrested her. She had never in her life felt more relaxed, more comfortable, more totally in accord, with anyone. She turned her head to look curiously at Bertrand. He was gazing in the direction of the brook, his eyes half closed, utterly still.

He must have felt her eyes upon him.

“A couple of deer came to the brook one day while I was here,” he said without turning to look at her. “They were almost close enough to touch—or to attack. They must surely have seen me. But they stopped to drink before vaulting over the water and going on their way. I felt honored.”

“I wish I had seen that,” she said. “They must have sensed that you were no threat to them, that you were one with them. I suppose there are hunters hereabouts.” But she was suddenly self-conscious after their shared interval of silence. “I should let you have your coat back. I hope it is not badly creased.” Or stained, though it surely must be from all the moss underneath it.

“I suppose it is time to return to the house,” he said as she got to her feet, shook out his coat, and then did not know what to do with it. He looked impossibly gorgeous, and something else too, in his shirtsleeves.

He came around the stone and took his coat from her hands. He shrugged it back on. “The water from the brook flows into the lake,” he said. “You have not seen it yet, have you?”

“No,” she said. “But Mama says it is beautiful and very different from the lake at Ravenswood.”