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Mary, who had dressed her hair since she was fourteen, said nothing throughout the process, which was itself a comment. Lydia rejected three bonnets. She wore the pale green walking dress because it was practical, and the straw hat with the blue ribbon because it did not need to be redone if there was wind, and she took the small reticule that she had not carried since the ball because it had a pocket for a handkerchief. This last decision she did not examine. She simply set the folded square of white linen in its place. It had been laundered by one of the housemaids and pressed twice, and it bore no trace of anything that had happened in a library in Hampshire.

The clock in the hall struck the half hour, and beneath it came the sound of the front door.

He was standing in the morning room when she came down, hat in hand. His coat fitted closely across the shoulders; there was a little white dust on one cuff, where he must have brushed against the newly plastered entrance. He turned at her step. Lydia had imagined seeing him often enough to expect the quickening of her pulse. She had not expected the relief. For a moment she wanted to cross the room and speak to him as she had in the greenhouse, before leaving had made her doubt every kindness. Then she saw her mother watching from beside the door and remembered whose idea this visit had been.

“Lady Lydia.”

“Your Grace.” She curtsied, grateful for the moment in which she need not meet his eyes. When she straightened, he was still looking at her. She wanted to believe he had missed her too, but knew how little encouragement it would take to convince her. “I understand you have been given instructions.”

He looked past her at Lady Pembroke, then back. “You have been given the same, I believe.”

“Mine involved three suggestions about my bonnet and no agreement about which was best.”

“I was told to be civil and, if it could be contrived, a little charming.” He offered his arm. “I should tell you at once that I have never been able to contrive it on demand.”

“Then we are agreed we shall both fall short,” said Lydia, and laid her hand on his sleeve. The warmth beneath the cloth was familiar. She had remembered it correctly; that small certainty undid some of the composure she had recovered. He waited for her before turning toward the hall, and she went with him, trying not to make a promise out of his attention.

The Park at five o’clock was crowded. Wheels ground slowly over the gravel, and a groom leaned from a carriage to quiet a horse fretting at the crush. Lydia’s parents followed a few paces behind. At first, she and Tristan confined themselves to the weather. When he remarked for the second time that they had been fortunate in it, she turned toward the water to hide a smile.

“It is very strange,” she said, when the urge had passed.

“What is?”

“To see the Duke of Ashcombe following orders. I had understood you did not.”

“My mother will be gratified to hear it described so.” He did not quite smile. “I generally require more instruction.”

“Has this occasion been exceptionally thorough?”

“She began yesterday and had not finished when I left the house.” He glanced toward the water. “She proposed the walk. I should prefer that you knew it from me.”

“I would have been more insulted,” Lydia said, “if you had pretended.”

“Then I shall not. But I wrote the note.” He adjusted his pace as a pair of riders passed beyond the railing. “I should have been disappointed if you had refused.”

She looked at him. He had spoken plainly, without a smile that might have allowed either of them to dismiss his words as a joke. For days she had wanted one sign that she had not imagined their closeness at Ashcombe. Now he had given her one, and she did not know how to receive it without showing him how much she had wanted it.

She opened her reticule. The linen caught on its clasp, and she had to ease it free before holding it out. “I believe this is yours.”

He looked at it. He stopped, and the couple behind them adjusted their course with a disapproving rustle. He took it slowly and unfolded one corner warily, and then he laughed, a short, surprised sound that made a woman in a barouche turn her head.

“You have laundered it.”

“The stain was mine,” Lydia said. “The laundering was our housemaid’s. I am not at all sure she has forgiven me.”

“You kept it all this time.”

“I was waiting for an occasion.” She lifted her chin. “One does not simply post a gentleman his handkerchief.”

“It would have been perfectly safe in a parcel.” He turned the linen over in his hands. “It was the only handkerchief I ever ruined that I did not mind losing.” He seemed to realize what he had said only after the words were out. He folded the square, put it in his breast pocket, and resumed walking.

She took his arm again, letting him put away the handkerchief without making light of what he had said. Beside the path, a gardener was tying a young tree to its stake. The sight reminded her of how often Tristan had used estate business to escape conversations at Ashcombe. “Have your accounts survived our visit?” she asked.

“They are in excellent order.”

“That sounds suspiciously like an accusation.”

“Collins believes I have developed a passion for drainage.”