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She took another step there.

Then another.

Oh.

Her feet sank just enough to hold her, not enough to trap. The give caught her, steadied her. She tried a longer stride, her skirts swishing about her ankles.

It held.

On a sudden reckless impulse, she went faster.

One, two, three quickened steps—left sure, right sure enough—and she did not stumble. The familiar hitch in her gait loosened; the old fear that the ground would slide away simply…didn’t answer.

Behind her, Chester said something—the wind stole the words—but when she glanced back, she realized she’d left him ten paces behind. Then more.

He stopped, looked down at his own feet, and shook his head as if at a private joke. In one fluid movement he tugged off his boots and stockings, tucked the stockings inside, and darted sideways to wedge both boots behind another rock, out of sight of any respectable promenade eyes.

Then he rolled his breeches to mid-calf and broke into a run.

“Lady Barbara!” he called, laughing.

Pepper’s heart leapt. She had never truly run in London. Floors were too slick, rugs too treacherous, expectations too tight. Every attempt as a child had ended with a fall, a scold, or a doctor. Leather soles of boots were her friends and foes alike, slippery and yet hard to protect her feet.

Here, the sand took her.

She ran.

The wind caught her skirts and shoved; she let it. Her feet flew—left sure, right astonishingly willing. The cool sand pressed up against her legs, cushioning each impact. Something hot and tight in her chest broke under the force of movement and blew away like spindrift.

A sound tore out of her—half laugh, half shout. Wild, unladylike, utterly alive.

Relief combined with joy and freedom like a unity of perfect ingredients. All three tumbled together until she couldn’t tell one from the other. But there wasn’t anyone around besides Chester and the wonderful sand.

Plus, if I were causing a scandal, let it be this much fun.

The salt breeze snatched at her bonnet ribbons. A pin slipped; she felt a lock of hair tumble against her cheek. Her bonnet lurched sideways, threatening to sail clear off her head—

A hand shot past her shoulder and caught it by the brim.

Chester.

He came alongside her, breath quick but not ragged, the basket still hooked carelessly in his other hand. His hair, freed from its careful brushing by wind and speed, had gone delightfully disordered. His rolled breeches showed strong calves dusted with damp sand; his shirt and waistcoat sat a little uneven now without the disciplining weight of his coat.

Muscular, manly legs. Bare feet.

And a sincere smile that Pepper could feel in her bones.

He looked…ruined. Gloriously so.

And somehow, it filled Pepper with an odd sense of pride.

I did that.

She dug her heels into the sand to stop; it sprayed lightly around her ankles. He checked his stride in the same instant, turning to face her in one smooth motion, bonnet in one hand and the basket in the other, as though catching runaway ladies and hats on a beach were the sort of thing he did every afternoon.

She was breathless. The kind of breathless that felt rich rather than frightening. Her chest rose and fell; a stray curl stuck to her temple. She pushed it back with shaking fingers and found him watching her as if he’d never seen anything quite so extraordinary.

“That,” he said, voice low and threaded with wonder, “was the most beautiful rebellion I have ever witnessed.”