she wanted him. Presumably forever.
God help them.
Forgetting the threat of prison, overlooking the differences in their rank, how could he possibly arrange the logistics of a wedding? In a matter of days? Could a Catholic priest be convinced to do it?
Not thinking of it should have been far easier than the mental contortion of sorting it out, but his mind locked on to the notion and would not let go. Now that he’d professed his love, marrying her felt as natural as putting one foot in front of the next.
And perhaps that’s how she’d achieved the daily evasion of her parents and her future with Lusk all this time. One foot in front of the other. One heartbeat after the next.
A quarter hour later, they came upon Miss Tasmin Lansing and Declan was forced to concentrate. The young woman stood alone in a clearing, taking refreshment from a saddlebag while her own liveried groom stood guard.
As they grew closer, Helena observed, “But she’s very pretty. Don’t you think she’s very pretty?”
Declan squinted at Tasmin Lansing. Even from a short distance, he thought she projected a very pretty sort of “difficultness.” She had an I require soothing pout. Her mahogany hair was tucked beneath a sleek green hat; penetrating eyes looked out coolly against alabaster skin. Her expression seemed to dare the world to amuse her.
“She looks guarded,” he said. “Pretty enough, I suppose. Maybe a bit sour?”
“That’s quite an assessment from two yards away,” Helena said.
Declan glanced at her. He’d given the wrong answer. He cleared his throat. “I gave up assessing women when I met you,” he amended.
“Clever man,” she said, trotting away.
Helena sidled up to Miss Lansing and made an eager, chatty introduction. Five minutes later, she was asking if the young woman would ride for a stretch to become better acquainted. Miss Lansing agreed, and Declan exhaled in relief.
One step closer. Another foot in front of the other.
When the women were gone, Declan struck up conversation with Miss Lansing’s groom.
“Your mistress sits a pretty horse,” he said, nodding at the path down which they disappeared.
“Third one this month,” said the groom. “Miss Tasmin can be finicky, like. She misses her horse from Chadwick Hall in Devon, but her father doesn’t want the country livestock in London. She’s demanding, that one.”
“The horse?” asked Declan.
“No, the girl. I’ve learned to stay out of her way, but there’s no pleasing her when things don’t go as she imagines. Temperamental, I’d call it?” A weary sigh.
“Unmarried, is she?” Declan asked. “Maybe a husband will settle her.”
“Maybe,” considered the groom. “I’m not privy to her aspirations, but it’s plain to the staff that she’s in search of a brilliant match. Her sister married an earl and moved to a castle in Wales. She is determined to outdo her. They never got on, the two sisters. Only a chosen few get on with Miss Tasmin.”
“Perhaps my lady will befriend her.”
“Not likely,” sighed the groom.
Splendid, thought Declan, and he said no more. They sat in silence until the women cantered back.
When Helena reined her mare abreast, she gave Declan a quick, knowing nod.
To the young woman, she called, “It was lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss Lansing! I’ll look forward to your very best effort at Titus Girdleston’s birthday party Monday afternoon.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” replied Miss Lansing, examining her gloves.
Helena studied her for a moment longer, nodded to her groom, and galloped away. Declan followed, and when they were out of view, Helena described Miss Lansing’s cool unpleasantness but also her incredible motivation to marry a duke. She was even more beautiful at close range, a circumstance of which Miss Lansing was wholly aware, and Helena believed she knew how to flaunt it. Best of all, Miss Lansing wanted to give Helena’s plan a go, and she admittedly loved to win.
Their third potential duchess had fallen into place.
“Helena, there you are,” said Camille Lark, joining them at the edge of the park. “We’ve just seen the oddest thing. There is a very strange person in a dark velvet cloak, lurking in the trees, watching you.” Camille shaded her eyes with one hand and pointed to the tree line with another. “It was just . . . there. The person saw every turn you made as you rode out with your friend.”
“You’re joking,” Helena said, reining around. She was already looking to Declan. Her face had gone white. “Shaw, the cloaked figure again.”
Declan gathered his reins, scanning the tree line. “Was the