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Would it work? She tested the sheer, finely woven fabric against her palm, then held it up to the late afternoon sunlight coming through the window.

Yes, this would do nicely. There wasn’t much left, but it was enough.

A snip here and there, a few passes with her sewing needle, and she was finished. She stuffed the netting into her pocket and flew back down the stairs. By the time she’d finished tidying Phillippa’s bedchamber her stepmother and sisters had returned from their walk.

She only had to get them dressed for dinner, that was all, and then her time would be her own.

It didn’t go smoothly, of course. It never did, not with Phillippa complaining and nitpicking every detail, and Cornelia disintegrating into angry tears at every turn.

But the weight of the folded length of netting in her pocket was like a talisman against the despair that usually plagued her at such times.

Which was silly of her, really.

It was a small enough thing, that length of net, and hardly worth all the importance she was attaching to it, but it was a rare moment when she had the chance to offer anything to anyone.

When was the last time she’d given a gift to someone? It was so long ago, she couldn’t recall it, but it felt as if she were the one being given a precious gift, instead of giving one to someone else.

It was this castle. There was something special about it. She couldn’t put into words what it was, but she’d felt it the instant her foot touched the drive, as if the castle had gathered her close against it and wrapped its arms around her.

The warmth of it, the comfort was like magic flowing through her veins.

At last, Phillippa, Cornelia and Beatrice were outfitted in their finery, and there was no denying they looked very well, especially Cornelia. She was dressed in a very pale pink silk that fit her to perfection, and the walk earlier had put lovely color in her cheeks.

Perhaps the duke would marry her. It would be an easy way to be rid of her.

The ladies sallied forth, and just as the door closed behind them, the mantel clock struck the eight o’ clock hour.

Dinner had begun.

She eased the bedchamber door open a crack and peeked outside, just in case Phillippa was lying in wait, but the corridor was deserted.

The ground floor was less peaceful, with servants scurrying about with silver platters and chafing dishes in their hands, but they were far too busy to pay any attention to her as she descended the staircase. She ducked into the corridor that led to the conservatory without anyone sparing her so much as a glance.

My, how thrilling this was! She’d never had a clandestine meeting with a handsome gentleman before.

By the time she reached the conservatory she was a bit late, but Mr. Ambrose was there, waiting for her, pacing from one end of the conservatory to the other, his brow furrowed. He looked almost grim, but when he saw her hovering uncertainly in the doorway the furrow vanished, and his face lit up with pleasure.

“There you are, Miss Harley! I was afraid you’d changed your mind.”

“Good evening, Mr. Ambrose. I beg your pardon for my tardiness. Miss Cornelia’s curls weren’t cooperating.”

“Far be it for me to naysay Miss Cornelia’s curls. You’re here now, and I am content.”

He smiled at her, his green eyes twinkling, and goodness, what a smile he had! Surely there wasn’t a lady alive who failed to blush when he turned the warmth of that smile on them.

She hurried toward him, the beekeeping veil she’d made for him in her pocket, her heart strangely aflutter. Which was ridiculous, of course. There was no reason she should be nervous. It was just a bit of netting, not a pocketful of gold coins.

Mr. Ambrose likely wouldn’t spare it a second glance.

Yet she wanted him to have it, all the same. It had been ages since anyone outside of Phillippa’s household had spoken to her, but he had, and he’d been kind to her. It only seemed right to return his goodwill.

She fingered the folded net in her pocket, her cheeks heating.

Oh, dear. It had seemed a harmless enough gesture this afternoon, but perhaps she shouldn’t give him a gift, after all. Why, she hardly knew this man! A proper young lady didn’t offer a gift to a man she’d met only once.

She may not be a proper young lady any longer, but she had been one, once upon a time. Had she already forgotten the manners her father had taken such pains to teach her?

The gift aside, it was highly improper for her to be here alone with him. Surely, he must know it, too?