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By Zeus, she was delightful and utterly unpretentious.

Even though he was the third son, more women than he could count had attempted to catch his eye and win his favor, simply to associate themselves with the Morrisette name. More aptly, the Rockford marquessate. It didn’t seem to matter that he was presently fifth in queue for the title. If his brothers sired more sons, he’d move farther down that line. That truth didn’t matter to him one whit.

At the salon’s entrance, Brandon touched Joy’s arm. “I am sincere about my offer to take the air with you. I would truly consider it a privilege. I’ll wait until your half-day if I must.”

Had four days ever seemed so far away?

“You may ask her, but I fully expect she’ll refuse.” Joy searched his face, her eyes a warm, visual caress. Resignation cast a slight shadow over her features.

She fully expected Mrs. Thackpenny to object to her taking the air with him.

Joy isn’t a bloody prisoner here.

He clamped his teeth, straining to prevent the harsh words from exploding from his mouth. In truth, Joy was little more than a prisoner of her circumstances.

Though it was none of his business, Brandon meant to change that.

A faint constellation of cinnamon-colored freckles dusted Joy’s nose and cheeks, and feminine interest sparked in the depths of her eyes as she observed him. If Brandon weren’t mistaken—and he was quite certain he wasn’t—something more lingered in the captivating blue pools as well.

Something she was afraid to express.

One way or another, he’d wriggle permission from her impossible employer to take Miss Joy Winterborne for a stroll.

Grinning, Brandon took Joy’s elbow, noting once more that she was too thin. He also meant to remedy that, intrusive or not. He lowered his head conspiratorially. The aroma of soap, lemon, and Joy’s essence met his nostrils.

Clean and warm and womanly. As fresh, appealing, and unpretentious as the lady herself.

“Not if I prescribe a daily constitutional for her health and insist I accompany her to ensure she obeys my directives.” He slanted her a sideways, sheepish glance. “I believe she may have developed a tendre for me, and I mean to exploit it for hers and your benefit. I could also agree to come for tea again if that would persuade her to cooperate.”

He’d agree to nearly anything to see Joy.

From the first time he’d laid eyes on her, he’d admired her self-possession and kindness. But she’d also sparked a fire in him few women—no women—had for a very long while.

“Is that fair to her?” She caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth. Her uncertainty was as adorable as was her sincere concern for her undeserving mistress. “That is, to intentionally encourage her…ah…feelings, even if they are out of place?”

He touched her satiny cheek with his bent forefinger, and a tiny gasp escaped her petal-pink parted lips.

“My dear Miss Winterborne, it’s your feelings that intrigue me.”

The Vines Gardens

Rochester, England

18 December 1817-Mid-morning

Joy darted a surreptitious glance to the strikingly tall man strolling at her side. She couldn’t seem to help herself. Brandon Morrisette was a masculine magnet, and she was but a hapless female unable to withstand his irresistible draw.

A moth to the flame and all of that cliché twaddle.

Cutting him what she hoped were unnoticed sidelong glances from beneath her lashes, she furtively studied him as they walked along.

Brandon’s midnight blue caped greatcoat hugged his broad shoulders, the high collar brushing his slightly too long walnut blond hair. The fine wool slapped against his glossy Hessians as he tempered his stride to match that of the elderly woman clutching his arm.

Joy considered his aristocratic features.

They weren’t all harsh angles and planes, but the strong slope of his square chin— marred by a small white scar—gave way to chiseled cheeks and a high brow.

Was the scar the result of a boyhood injury?