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at Northam. "What do you mean?"
    "I was not Northam at Hambrick," he said.
    She expected more in the way of explanation, but Northam fell silent. He was not looking at her, but staring out across the stream to the bank, the field, and the wood beyond. She followed the direction of his gaze and could see nothing remarkable to capture his attention. Birds fluttered in and out of the boughs, making them dip and sway. A rabbit stilled in the grassy bank, his senses made wary by the slow, halting progress of a snapping turtle up from the water.
    In profile Northam appeared unapproachable. The lines of his face were drawn with sharp, bold strokes. There was nothing forgiving about the set of his mouth, no weakness in the hard cast of his jaw. He did not seem to be thinking so much as steeling himself. Even his nose, with that slight bump on the bridge, was thrust forward aggressively. Only his long dark lashes, in perfect contrast to his thatch of sun-colored hair, made him seem in the least vulnerable.
    Then he turned on her, and every impression of a granitelike countenance faded from Elizabeth's mind. He smiled easily, a trifle sheepishly, and offered an apology for woolgathering. Elizabeth accepted him at his word and did not challenge his explanation. She did not believe for a moment that his mind had been anywhere but in the present. He had not been collecting his thoughts. He had been collecting himself. Perhaps it had something to do with his business with Mr. Marchman, but she did not think so.
    "Had you many invitations for this time?" she asked. In honor of Wellington's victory at Waterloo three years past, invitations to celebrate barraged the ton like cannon shot. This was a battle from which Wellington himself would have run. Every hostess threw herself into the fray. A reputation for sponsoring the premiere event could be set for a lifetime or positively ruined by those who did not arrive at her gala. Thus far, the baroness had done very well for herself. The fortnight affair at her country home gave people time to come and go at their leisure. Over the course of the occupation—this was war, after all—the very best of society would collect at Battenburn.
    "Many invitations?" Northam mused. "It was impossible to remove oneself from the line of fire. But it was not difficult to decide among them. I very much wanted to be here."
    Elizabeth smiled warmly, accepting this on behalf of their hostess. "The baroness will be so gratified to know. To choose her party among all the others... well, you can imagine that she would take this as a high compliment indeed. You don't mind if I tell her, do you?"
    "Not at all, though perhaps you should not tell her the reason I wanted to be here."
    Elizabeth's smile faltered, then faded completely. A small vertical crease appeared between her brows. "I don't understand."
    "Don't you?"
    "I just said so, didn't I?"
    One of his brows lifted at the impatience communicated in her tone."Then I have overestimated your perceptiveness or been sadly lacking in my attention toward you."
    "I believe I am perceptive, my lord."
    He nodded. "I believe so, too. That means I have not made my interest clear."
    Elizabeth wished herself anywhere but where she was. The sun no longer seemed so warm, and beneath her fingertips the stone was cool. Her desire to leave was clearly communicated in her face.
    "Now I have made you uncomfortable," Northam said calmly.
    "No, it's just that—"
    "Please. Do not prevaricate. I can see plainly that you wish I had not spoken so openly. Perhaps I can ease your mind, since my interest has caused some offense."
    Elizabeth did not know where to look. She was mortified that he had so easily discerned her thoughts. She was not an artless ingenue. At six and twenty years she had learned something about schooling her features and presenting a public face. She had an urge to turn away, much as he had done earlier, until she was all of a piece again. Instead, she regarded him