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She looked again at the window. “He’d rather not sell at all. He’d prefer to convince his sons to take over the business.”

“Will they?”

“When marmosets go to Mars.” Fritz peeped on her shoulder, and she scratched his belly with an absent-minded fingertip. “They’re too busy drinking and gaming.” Her brow creased. Before Alan could touch her hand, she drew away from him. “This way.” She put her back to the bakery, and to him, with deliberate forcefulness. “We’ll cut across the green.”

The green buzzed with conversation and pollinating insects. Villagers filled the acre, loosely bunched into laughing cliques that followed no logic discernable to the London eye.

Several hailed Nina as she passed, including a square-jawed young man whose salutation conveyed so much bashful enthusiasm his friends hooted and clapped his shoulder.

Wholesome fellow. Truehearted, maybe.

Not a match for Nina Finch.

She wanted someone who’d see all of her. Someone from whom she wouldn’t have to hide her past, or her glorious carnal greed, or her talent, or her irreverence, or her adorable, impudent smile. Someone for whom she wouldn’t have to sacrifice her dreams.

And that was him, dammit.

Alan speared the ground with his cane.

She was leery of marriage, understandably. Her mother had been abandoned. She idolized her spinster aunts.

Ask her anyway. The edict struck like a bolt from the blue. He kept covering ground, eyes fixed on Nina, who looked as beautiful in the afternoon light as he’d ever seen her.

Ask her. He could attribute it to exterior forces. He’d despoiled the woman, and the voice of convention commanded him. Act honorably. Do your duty. But no, it was his heart commanding. They’d reached a rutted, unpaved lane. Nina stopped in front of a lovely two-story cottage climbed all over by wisteria. She turned to face him, and the world reduced. Shining brown eyes, purple blossoms. Warm sun.

He stepped forward, a molten wire corkscrewing from his hip to his knee. The resultant gasp dispersed in his diaphragm, a warning. It almost silenced his heart’s command. Almost.

Ask her.

But if the pain meant the worst? If he was losing his mind?

He’d handle it, somehow. He’d never let his own burdens weigh her down.

“Birdie.” The masculine voice rupturing the silence wasn’t his. Nina spun. To the left of the cottage, a man was leaning on the fence, a cigarette between his lips. He had Nina’s mouth.

“I knew you’d turn up,” he said. “I didn’t figure you’d bring a friend.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Jack Reeve lifted the latch and opened the gate, scooting a chicken to the side with his boot. Alan couldn’t read the look he exchanged with Nina. She stalked into the garden. Alan strolled after and Reeve pulled the gate shut behind him.

Fritz went leaping up into the boughs of a fruit tree, which showered white blossoms onto the table beneath. Nina circled around the table and turned, arms crossed tightly, expression bleak. She’d positioned herself defensively, an iron barrier between herself and the volatile males. That she felt a need to guard herself made Alan’s nostrils flare, for what it proved about her life to date.

“Your sister didn’t bring me here.” He rounded on Reeve. “She supports you to the point of reckless self-endangerment. I can’t convince her that you aren’t worth it.”

“Blood is thicker than water.” Reeve smiled and blew a stream of smoke into the air. He was a short man, bulked with muscle. Armed, if Alan gauged the bulge in his jacket pocket correctly.

“Our blood anyway,” he continued. “Maybe water does run through the veins of nobs such as yourself. That’s why they call it blue.” He shrugged, then gave a mock start, flourishing his cigarette at a chair. “Where are my manners? Have a seat. You’re in time for dinner. We eat early on Sundays.” He glanced at Nina. “My dear sister and Aunt Sylvia’s roast are the only two reasons I’m still in England.”

“I’ll be the first to wish you bon voyage.” Alan ignored the chair, over the protest of his hip. “After you stand trial and serve whatever sentence is meted out to you.”

“And why would I do that?” Reeve flicked away his cigarette, shifting his stance, squaring off with him.

“Jack.” Nina interjected, her voice low and furious. “You’ll make things worse. We need to talk.”

“Sure we do.” Reeve didn’t take his eyes from Alan. “But first my fists will have their say.”

“Sporting of you.” Alan lifted his brows. “You could just shoot me.”