“I’m not in love.”

“You’re in something,” Westcliff insisted. “In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you look so mawkish as you did outside her bedroom door.”

“I was displaying simple compassion for a fellow human being.”

The earl snorted. “Whose drawers you’re itching to get into.”

The blunt accuracy of the observation caused Simon to smile reluctantly. “It was an itch two years ago,” he admitted. “Now it’s a full-scale pandemic.”

Letting out a sighing groan, Westcliff rubbed the narrow bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “There is nothing I hate worse than watching a friend charge blindly into disaster. Your weakness, Hunt, is your inability to resist a challenge. Even when the challenge is unworthy of you.”

“I like a challenge.” Simon swirled the brandy in his snifter. “But that has nothing to do with my interest in her.”

“Good God,” the earl muttered, “either drink the brandy or stop playing with it. You’ll bruise the liquor by swishing it around like that.”

Simon sent him a darkly amused glance. “How, exactly, does one ‘bruise’ a glass of brandy? No, don’t tell me—my provincial brain couldn’t begin to grasp the concept.” Obediently, he took a swallow and set the glass aside. “Now, what were we talking about…? Oh yes, my weakness. Before we discuss that any more, I want you to admit that, at one time in your life or another, you’ve given greater shrift to desire than to common sense. Because if you haven’t, there’s no use in talking to you any further about this.”

“Of course I have. Every man over the age of twelve has. But the purpose of the higher intellect is to prevent us from repeatedly making such mistakes—”

“Well, there’s my problem,” Simon said reasonably. “I don’t bother with a higher intellect. I’ve done quite well with just my lower one.”

The earl’s jaw hardened. “There’s a reason that Miss Peyton and her carnivorous friends are all unwed, Hunt. They’re trouble. If the events of today haven’t made that clear, then there’s no hope for you.”

As Simon Hunt had predicted, Annabelle was in considerable discomfort for the next few days. She had become wretchedly familiar with the flavor of clivers tea, which the doctor had prescribed to be taken every four hours for the first day, and every six hours for the next. Although she could tell that the medicine was helping to reduce the symptoms of the adder venom, it set her stomach in constant revolt. She was exhausted, and yet she couldn’t seem to sleep well, and although she longed for something to alleviate her boredom, she couldn’t seem to focus on anything for more than a few minutes at a time.

Her friends did their best to cheer and entertain her, for which Annabelle was acutely grateful. Evie sat at her bedside and read aloud from a lurid novel purloined from the estate library. Daisy and Lillian came to deliver the latest gossip, and made her laugh with their mischievous imitations of various guests. At her insistence, they dutifully reported who seemed to be winning the race for Kendall’s attentions. One in particular, a tall, slender, fair-haired girl named Lady Constance Darrowby, had captured his interest.

“She looks to be a very cold sort, if you ask me,” Daisy said frankly. “She has a mouth that reminds one of a drawstring purse, and a terribly annoying habit of giggling behind her palm, as if it’s unladylike to be caught laughing in public.”

“She must have bad teeth,” Lillian said hopefully.

“I think she’s quite dull,” Daisy continued. “I can’t imagine what she has to say that Kendall would find of such interest.”

“Daisy,” Lillian said, “we’re talking about a man whose idea of high entertainment is to look at plants. His threshold of boredom is obviously limitless.”

“At the picnic after the water party today,” Daisy told Annabelle, “I thought for a supremely satisfying moment that I had caught Lady Constance in a compromising position with one of the guests. She disappeared for a few minutes with a gentleman who was not Lord Kendall.”

“Who was it?” Annabelle asked.

“Mr. Benjamin Muxlow—a local gentleman farmer. You know, the salt-of-the-earth sort who’s got some decent acreage and a handful of servants and is looking for a wife who will bear him eight or nine children and mend his shirt cuffs and make him pig’s-blood-pudding at slaughtertime—”

“Daisy,” Lillian interrupted, noticing that Annabelle had suddenly turned green, “try to be a bit less revolting, will you?” She smiled at Annabelle apologetically. “Sorry, dear. But you must admit that the English are willing to eat things that make Americans flee the table with screams of horror.”

“Anyway,” Daisy continued with exaggerated patience, “Lady Constance vanished after having been seen in the company of Mr. Muxlow, and naturally I went looking for them in the hopes of seeing something that would discredit her, thereby causing Lord Kendall to lose all interest. You can imagine my pleasure at discovering the two of them behind a tree with their heads close together.”

“Were they kissing?” Annabelle asked.

“No, drat it. Muxlow was helping Lady Constance to replace a baby robin that had fallen from its nest.”

“Oh.” Annabelle felt her shoulders slump as she added grumpily, “How sweet of her.” She knew that part of her despondency was caused by the effects of the snake venom, not to mention its unpalatable antidote. However, knowing the cause of her low spirits did nothing to improve them.