“I’m so very glad to hear you say that.”

Christopher gave her a speculative glance. “What are you leading to?”

“Nothing. Except . . . I want to ask you something. If another woman—say, Beatrix Hathaway—and Prudence Mercer were to exchange appearances, and all that you esteemed in Prudence was transferred to Beatrix . . . would you want Beatrix?”

“Good God, no.”

“Why not?” she asked indignantly.

“Because I know Beatrix Hathaway, and she’s nothing like Pru.”

“You do not know Beatrix. You haven’t spent nearly enough time with her.”

“I know that she’s unruly, opinionated, and far more cheerful than any reasoning person should be. She wears breeches, climbs trees, and roams wherever she pleases without a chaperone. I also know that she has overrun Ramsay House with squirrels, hedgehogs, and goats, and the man unlucky enough to marry her will be driven to financial ruin from the veterinary bills. Would you care to contradict any of those points?”

Audrey folded her arms and gave him a sour look. “Yes. She doesn’t have a squirrel.”

Reaching inside his coat, Christopher pulled out the letter from Pru, the one he carried with him always. It had become a talisman, a symbol of what he had fought for. A reason for living. He looked down at the bit of folded paper, not even needing to open it. The words had been seared into his heart.

“Please come home and find me . . .”

In the past he had wondered if he were incapable of love. None of his love affairs had ever lasted more than a matter of months, and although they had blazed on a physical level, they had never transcended that. Ultimately no particular woman had ever seemed all that different from the rest.

Until those letters. The sentences had looped around him with a spirit so artless and adorable, he had loved it, loved her, immediately.

His thumb moved over the parchment as if it were sensitive living skin. “Mark my words, Audrey—I’m going to marry the woman who wrote this letter.”

“I am marking your words,” she assured him. “We’ll see if you live up to them.”

The London season would last until August, when Parliament ended and the aristocracy would retire to their country estates. There they would hunt, shoot, and indulge in Friday-to-Monday amusements. While in town, Christopher would sell his army commission and meet with his grandfather to discuss his new responsibilities as the heir of Riverton. He would also renew acquaintances with old friends and spend time with some men from his regiment.

And most importantly, he would find Prudence.

Christopher was uncertain how to approach her, after the way she had broken off their correspondence.

It was his fault. He had declared himself too early. He had been too impetuous.

No doubt Prudence had been wise to break off their communications. She was a gently bred young woman. Serious courtship had to be approached with patience and moderation.

If that was what Prudence wanted of him, she would have it.

He arranged for a suite of rooms at the Rutledge, an elegant hotel favored by European royalty, American entrepreneurs, and British aristocrats who did not maintain town residences. The Rutledge was unparalleled in comfort and luxury, and was arguably worth the exorbitant price of lodging there. As Christopher checked into the hotel and conversed with the concierge, he remarked on a portrait that hung over the marble mantel in the lobby. The subject was a singularly beautiful woman with mahogany-colored hair and striking blue eyes.

“That is a portrait of Mrs. Rutledge, sir,” the concierge said with a touch of fond pride. “A beauty, is she not? A better, kinder lady could not be found anywhere.”

Christopher regarded the portrait with casual interest. He recalled that Amelia Hathaway had said one of her sisters had married Harry Rutledge, the owner of the hotel. “Then Mrs. Rutledge is one of the Hathaway sisters of Hampshire?”

“Just so, sir.”

That had brought a quizzical smile to Christopher’s lips. Harry Rutledge, being a wealthy and well-connected man, could have had any woman he wanted. What madness had inspired him to marry into such a family? It was the eyes, Christopher decided, looking closer, unwillingly fascinated. Hathaway blue, heavily lashed. Exactly like Beatrix’s.

The day after Christopher took up residence in the Rutledge, invitations flooded in. Balls, soirees, dinners, musical evenings . . . even a summons to dine at Buckingham Palace, where the composer Johann Strauss and his orchestra would play.

After a few inquiries, Christopher accepted an invitation to a private ball that, it was confirmed, Miss Prudence Mercer and her mother had consented to attend. The ball was held at a Mayfair mansion, built on a grand scale in the Italianate style, with an extensive outer forecourt and a central balconied hall that rose three full stories. Populated by aristocrats, foreign diplomats, and celebrated artists in various fields, the ball was a glittering display of wealth and social prominence.

The crowded atmosphere engendered a feeling of vague panic in Christopher’s chest. Battening down the anxiety, he went to exchange pleasantries with the hosts. Although he would have preferred to wear civilian attire, he was obliged to wear his dress uniform of rifle green and black, with epaulettes of worsted crescents at the shoulders. As his commission had not yet been sold, it would have caused much comment and disapproval had he not worn the uniform. Worse, he was also obliged to wear all the medals that had been bestowed on him—to leave one off would have been in bad form. The medals had been intended as badges of honor. To Christopher, they represented events he longed to forget.