Dear Annabelle,

I am sorry to hear about your illness, unless it was a ploy all along to stay on behind enemy lines, in which case, I salute you for your dedication to our cause.

I have little hope of us converting M.—I recently learned through my more secret sources that the queen promised him his family seat back in case he helps win the election. I think he’ll move heaven and earth to keep Disraeli in power. So we have to move fast on other fronts. I heard the suffragist chapter in Manchester is planning a large demonstration on Parliament Square during the Tories’ pre-election meeting in January. I am presently coordinating with Millicent Fawcett’s chapter in London to join them. I strongly believe we should pull together and mobilize all the scattered suffrage chapters throughout England. Strength is to be had in numbers. It is still a secret, though, so I must ask you to treat this confidentially. As for—

Hoofbeats sounded on the cobblestones below. She lowered the letter into her lap. Gathering up her robe, she leaned forward and peered down into the courtyard. Her heart gave an appalling leap when she saw the white horse prancing past the fountain. Her first instinct was to shrink back, but then again, she couldn’t.

The duke’s head turned toward her window.

Her heart began to beat like a drum.

Montgomery raised his hand and touched the rim of his hat. Slowly and deliberately enough that it could not be mistaken for anything other than an acknowledgment.

She sank back into her chair.

She hadn’t yet thanked him for the latest book. She had begun to give too much thought to the wording, hopelessly gauche. And the deeper truth was, she liked being the one owing the answer. Much more so than waiting for letters from a man who made her heart beat faster.

The next morning, her fever was gone. Annabelle padded to the windows and pushed the heavy curtains aside. The morning sky was bright blue and spotless as if freshly rinsed. Below in the quad, smatterings of snow sparkled like carelessly scattered diamonds.

Ah, she could almost taste the fresh air.

A quick glance at the mirror said that she looked presentable. Soaking in the tub the night before had washed away much of her exhaustion, and indulging in rolls and custard for three days had restored a long-lost softness to her face. She secured her hair in a simple bun, brushed her teeth, and splashed herself with the rose-scented water from the washbasin. Chemise, corset—loosely laced—Lady Mabel’s gray walking dress, hat. She shrugged into her coat and slipped out the door.

She managed to find her way through the labyrinth of stairs and hallways to the ground floor. There was a vast stone terrace, curving like the prow of a ship, at the back of the house, and one of the glass doors leading outside was already ajar.

She glided into the open, drinking in the clear air as she closed her eyes against the warm glare of the sun. When she opened her eyes, her next breath lodged in her throat.

His back turned, Montgomery stood at the balustrade.

She was still holding her breath.

Even from behind, the duke did not look welcoming, his coat stretched taut across his shoulders, his stance as rigid as the weathered stone statues to his left and right.

It stirred an emotion in her, the way he held himself so still and looked so . . . alone. Perhaps that was why she did not tiptoe back into the house.

And of course, he had sensed that she was there. He did not as much turn as rotate toward her.

Her mouth went dry. When had she begun thinking of him as handsome? Because he was; indeed, he looked as attractively crisp and cool as the winter morning.

His brow promptly creased with disapproval. “Should you be out yet, miss?”

“I’m much improved, Your Grace.” She strolled closer. “The fever was gone yesterday.”

The view from the balustrade was magnificent, a vast rectangular expanse of symmetrically swirling evergreen hedges, as favored by the old French kings. One would hear the gurgle of fountains from here in summer.

Montgomery was still scrutinizing her.

She met his gaze furtively, the well-mannered way. “I couldn’t bear another minute in my room.”

His frown deepened. “Is there anything you need?”

“No. You have provided everything and more, thank you. I just cannot stay confined for long.”

His lips quirked at that. “No,” he said, “I did not think you could.”

It was remarkable that he should have formed an opinion about her. Then again, it might not be a flattering opinion. Perhaps he considered an urge for the outdoors a defect in a woman.

“May I ask what brings you to that conclusion, Your Grace?”

“It’s the second time I’ve seen you walk away from a warm place in the space of a few days. That’s not a woman who is amenable to confinement.”

“I wasn’t aware there were women who are amenable to confinement.”

That seemed to amuse him. “Most are. Confinement is but the other side of safety. Take the rule of law, or a warm room. Or a husband. Most women desire the safety that comes with this, and accept the confinement.”

Safety.

She wanted to be safe. But apparently, not at all costs. She had of course known that about herself already—what rattled her was that he, apparently, knew this about her, too.

“It doesn’t mean that women wouldn’t prefer freedom,” she said.

“Freedom,” Montgomery said, testing the word. “Is that what you prefer?”

His face revealed no clue as to why he was asking about her. She had to glance away, because looking into his clever eyes made her feel strange. Strangely overheated, strangely queasy low in her belly. Mundane gestures became infused with meaning; her senses opened and sharpened, and there was an unnerving awareness of the rapid beat of her heart against her ribs.

She focused on their hands, side by side on the granite banister. Her gloves looked shoddy next to pristine kid leather, and she dropped her hands and folded them in front of her.

“Yes, I prefer freedom,” she said. “John Stuart Mill says it is better to have choices even if it complicates matters, that it is better to be a dissatisfied human than a satisfied pig.”

Montgomery made a sound that resembled a laugh, choked back just in time. “Compelling,” he said. “Are you implying that most of your fellow women aren’t fully human?”

“I’m not implying that at all,” she said quickly. “I’m well aware that with how things are, the price women pay for independence is often too high.”

“Everything always has a price,” Montgomery said.

Still not a trace of resentment in his voice over her philosophical foray, no attempt to lecture her on John Stuart Mill. An unexpected thrill of elation licked through her, much as when they had been sparring over voting rights at the breakfast table. There was something to be said about debating with a learned man who had nothing to prove. It took more than an educated woman with opinions to threaten him. And that allowed for an easy, absurdly pleasing intimacy. He is still the enemy to your cause, you goose.

Montgomery turned toward the stairs leading down to the French garden. “Come, if you will.”

She took a step before it dawned on her that she was about to walk with him. Alone. Instinctively, she cast a look around the terrace for a chaperone. She saw the precise moment when the duke understood her predicament. His face assumed a mildly derisive expression. Do you think anyone here could stop me or hold me accountable? said that expression, and there was an annoying, challenging glint in his eyes. Blast her inability to resist a good challenge. To his credit, he didn’t gloat when she wordlessly took the arm he offered. He led her down the stairs in silence, then steered her left onto a gravel path.