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shiver ran through her. She could not help but feel a tiny pang of regret that she was not riding back the same way, and the thought shocked her a little.
    She was not the sort of woman to swoon over a man. She had never joined her friends in giggling and whispering about this man’s broad shoulders or that one’s fine eyes. There were men she acknowledged as being very handsome and others who were charming or intelligent—though rarely did she find all three. But though she might be aware of their good looks, they roused little excitement in her breast. She had realized long ago that she was simply not the sort of woman to be swept away by any man.
    Her friends had long told her that she was entirely too prone to thinking and not enough to feeling, and the epithet given her by the eligible bachelors of London society—The Goddess—reflected not only her classic beauty but also her faintly aloof air. That shehad gone for years without falling in love with any of the eligible men who sought her hand had cost her an ache or two. She would have liked to know the sort of love her parents obviously enjoyed. But, she reminded herself, it was just as well. Aside from a few notable exceptions, husbands were, in her estimation, dictatorial and overprotective, and marriage was a very unequal proposition. In her opinion a woman gave up her freedom, as well as her name, when she married. She had long ago resolved never to marry, and the years she had spent in society since her coming out had only confirmed that decision.
    She cast another glance at Rafe, who was ambling alongside their ponies, his head bent to listen to the twins’ chatter. He was, she thought with some irritation, precisely the sort of man over whom most women swooned. Kyria had little doubt that when she introduced him to the other guests at their house, all the women would be jockeying to talk to him. The carelessly tousled hair…the broad shoulders…the sky-blue eyes…the devastating smile…Kyria could well imagine how the ladies would be all atwitter about him.
    He was a charmer, the sort of man who was interested in conquest. He would smile and flatter and woo one, hoping to add another lady to his collection. Kyria had been out for nine years now, and she was well acquainted with his type. She was also quite practiced at eluding such a man’s advances. She set her mouth firmly. Mr. McIntyre would soon find out that she was one woman who would not fall into his clutches—well, figuratively speaking, she reminded herself, her lips twitching as her irrepressible humor rose, reminding her that literally speaking, that was precisely what she had already done.
    The journey back to the house was slower than the ride out had been, and as they rode, the twins chattered away, demanding a recounting in detail of their parrot’s flight, pondering the possible punishments that would be meted out to them for their escapade and pausing to pepper Rafe with questions about his horse, his gun, his accent and whatever else came to their agile minds.
    Kyria would have stepped in to hush their questioning, but she quickly saw that Rafe was more than able to hold his own with the twins, answering some of their questions, deflecting others and turning the tables on them with questions of his own.
    She was a little surprised, for she had found over the years as one of the reigning beauties of London society that most of her suitors were apt to wilt under an interrogation from the twins. Despite her father’s high rank, hers was not a family given to formalities. Unlike other families of the nobility, where children were sequestered in a nursery and rarely ate with the family, interacting with their parents only at prescribed hours, in the Moreland household, the younger siblings were apt to be in and out of their elders’ company at all hours during the day and usually took their meals with them, unless the duke and duchess were having one of their rare formal