Without making a conscious decision to do so, Annabelle found herself drifting nearer to him. Coming to stand a few feet away from him, she leaned both her elbows on the balcony, gazing out at the mistshrouded morning. Hunt rested his back against it, facing the manor wall.

Feeling the need to jab at his irritating self-confidence, Annabelle murmured, “Lord Kendall and Lord Westcliff aren’t the only bachelors at Stony Cross, Mr. Hunt. One wonders why you are not pursued to the degree that they are.”

“That’s obvious,” he said pleasantly, lifting the cup to his lips and draining its contents. “I’m not a peer, and I would make a devil of a husband.” He gave her a shrewd sideways glance. “As for you…despite my sympathy for your cause, I wouldn’t advise making a play for Kendall.”

“My cause?” Annabelle repeated, taking immediate offense to the word. “What do you define as my cause, Mr. Hunt?”

“Why, yourself, of course,” he said softly. “You want what is best for Annabelle Peyton. But Kendall doesn’t fall in that category. A match between you and him would be a disaster.”

She turned her head to stare at him with slitted eyes. “Why?”

“Because he’s much too nice for you.” Hunt grinned at her expression. “That wasn’t meant as an insult. I wouldn’t like you half so much if you were a nice woman. All the same, you’re no good for Kendall—nor would he be of much use to you, ultimately. You’d run roughshod over him until his gentlemanly soul was left in a battered pile at your feet.”

Annabelle itched to knock the superior smile from his face—she, who had never before contemplated inflicting physical harm to anyone. Her anger was hardly mitigated by the fact that he was right. She knew quite well that she was far too spirited for a man as docile and civilized as Kendall. But that was none of Simon Hunt’s business…and it wasn’t as if Hunt or any other man was going to offer her a better alternative!

“Mr. Hunt,” she said sweetly, her gaze poisonous, “why don’t you go and—”

“Miss Peyton!” A faint exclamation came from several yards away, and Annabelle saw Lord Kendall’s slight form emerging from the mass of females. He looked disheveled and vaguely harassed as he pushed his way over to her. “Good morning, Miss Peyton.” He paused to straighten the knot of his cravat and adjust his skewed spectacles. “It seems that we were not the only ones who had taken it in our heads to walk this morning.” Giving Annabelle a sheepish glance, he asked, “Shall we make an attempt nonetheless?”

Annabelle hesitated, inwardly groaning. There was little she could accomplish on a walk with Kendall when they would be accompanied by at least two dozen women. One might as well try to have a quiet conversation in the midst of a flock of screaming magpies. On the other hand, she could not very well refuse Kendall’s invitation…even a minor rejection could be off-putting to him, and as a result he might never ask again.

She gave him a bright smile. “I would be delighted, my lord.”

“Excellent. There are some fascinating species of flora and fauna that I would like to show you. Being an amateur horticulturist, I have made a careful study of the vegetation that is native to Hampshire…”

His following words were drowned out as enthusiastic girls surrounded him.

“How I love plants,” one of them gushed. “There isn’t a single plant that I don’t find absolutely charming.”

“And the outdoors would be so unattractive without them,” another girl enthused.

“Oh, Lord Kendall,” yet another beseeched, “you simply must explain what the difference is between a flora and a fauna…”

The crowd of girls carried Kendall away as if he was being swept out to sea by an irresistible current. Philippa went with them gamely, determined to look out for Annabelle’s interests. “My daughter was probably too modest to tell you about her keen affinity for nature…” she was saying to Kendall.

Kendall threw a helpless glance over his shoulder as he was nudged strongly toward the terrace steps. “Miss Peyton?”

“I’m coming,” Annabelle called back, cupping her fingers on either side of her mouth to make herself heard.

His reply, if he made one, was impossible to hear.

Lazily, Simon Hunt set his empty cup on the nearest table, and murmured something to a servant who was holding his fishing gear. The servant nodded and retreated, while Hunt fell into step beside Annabelle. She stiffened as she noticed him walking side by side with her.

“What are you doing?”

Hunt shoved his hands comfortably into the pockets of his tweed fishing coat. “I’m going with you. Whatever happens at the trout stream won’t be half so interesting as watching you compete for Kendall’s attention. Besides, my horticultural knowledge is sadly lacking. I may learn something.”

Suppressing an ill-tempered reply, Annabelle resolutely followed Kendall and his entourage. They all walked down the terrace steps and took a path that led into the forest, where towering beeches and oaks presided over thick quilts of moss, fern, and lichen. At first Annabelle ignored Simon Hunt’s presence beside her, trudging stonily behind Kendall’s admiring throng. Kendall was being put to great exertion, obliged to help one girl after another to step over what seemed to be minor obstacles. A fallen tree, its circumference no bigger than Annabelle’s arm, became such an overwhelming impediment that they all required Kendall’s assistance to step over it. Each girl became progressively more helpless until the poor fellow was practically obliged to carry the last one over the log while she squealed in pretend-dismay and locked her arms around his neck.