Author's note: you are going to meet a lot of local people from Bakewell in this chapter, most of whom I suspect we will hardly or never see again. A bit like the Longs and the Gouldings in P&P. So don't feel too stressed about keeping them straight in your mind.

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It took several days for Philip to settle down again, and more than a week before he was able to face the world again without his bear in his arms. By then, Hartwell and Miss Kenway had unanimously agreed that this type of punishment was not suitable for Philip. Only time would tell if indeed he had learned the intended lesson from it, but even if he had, the price was simply too high.

And if Ginny was rather miffed about her brother getting off easy – so be it.

But time marches on, as the arrival of his birthday testified. At the children's annual insistence, it was celebrated with a decorated cake after dinner, and with self-made gifts of which by now he had quite a collection in his rooms.

And two days later loomed the soiree at Sir Reginald's.

Unusual as it was, the children had quite a few things to say about their father leaving them for the evening to go to a party. But although he was getting rather apprehensive again, he had a mission to accomplish, so he would not be persuaded to stay home with them instead.

So on the night in question, he found himself in his dressing-room, getting an extra shave from Barrett.

"If I may say so, sir, you seem a trifle tense," his valet observed when the task was done. "Are you not looking forward to an evening of more… grown-up entertainment?"

Hartwell barked a mirthless laugh. "Not really, no. But I have to. I have to get used to it again in order to accompany the children once they come out in society." Well, that was true, even if it was not the whole truth.

But Barrett had a knowing smile. "And you fear the ladies will be throwing themselves at you again, am I right?"

"Yes." A sigh. "I was advised to start with small local parties where I know everyone. And yes, I think I have a fair idea of who will be attending tonight, but I can't say I really know these people. Of course I know them, but not really. You know what I mean?"

"I believe I do, sir."

"And then to go there without anyone guarding my back…" He pulled his shirt over his head. "At least in Lambton last month I had my brother with me. But here…"

"Then again," Barrett pointed out, "That was a dance. Quite a crush, I imagine."

Hartwell nodded.

"This is a select gathering in a private setting. From what I have heard of Sir Reginald's soirees, maybe twenty people or so. And just talking, a game of cards, a little performing, and a buffet of some sort. Which makes it far more surveyable than a dance."

Hartwell blew out a breath. There was no arguing with that.

"You will be alright, sir."

"I hope so."

He finished dressing in silence.

But Barrett apparently was not finished with the topic yet. "Have you decided on a strategy for the evening, sir?"

"A strategy? Oh. Yes." Another sigh. "Well, the usual. Try to be among the first to arrive, so I can see people coming in one by one instead of being faced with a crowd. Gauge their reaction upon seeing me there. Be extra on my guard whenever there are prowling ladies within tripping distance. Keep a clear head. Keep my ears wide open. And keep to the walls as much as I can."

"Sounds sensible. And do you have a good excuse for when you need to leave?"

"How about the good old headache?"

"Rather trite, don't you think? Why not something a little more imaginative, like... How about Walker coming to get you because you are needed at the farm. A cow having trouble calving or something."

"In January?! Who would believe that?"

"Well, babies are born in January. You yourself were obviously born in January. So why not cows?"

Hartwell smirked. "I can tell you are no farmer. I will stick with the headache if I need it, thank you very much."

His banter with Barrett had actually helped him to relax a little, and it was with credible equanimity that he said goodnight to the children and Miss Kenway.

The ride was but half an hour; Sir Reginald lived in the largest house in the centre of Bakewell.

And he was indeed one of the first to arrive.

"Lord Hartwell!" Sir Reginald gushed as he pumped his hand. "I cannot tell you how delighted I was when I learned you were finally going to grace us with your presence! You are very very welcome, sir!"

Hartwell merely smiled and nodded in return; he knew the old knight to be a tad exuberant.

So he bowed to Lady Stevenson, their son Clarence and his wife, and the daughter of the house Miss Harriet – a rather pretty young lady, whom he guessed to be well in her twenties. He would have to check her out later.

But first his host took him by the arm. "Allow me to introduce you around a little. I believe you are acquainted with Mrs Streatfeild?"

"Indeed." He bowed to her. "How do you do, ma'am?"

"Very well, milord." The elderly lady curtseyed, and Hartwell bit back a grimace. He hated being called 'milord'; to him, that term referred to his father. He had long trained it out of the people who lived and worked with him on the estate, but the local gentry was another matter entirely.

"I hope your family are all in good health?" the lady inquired.

"Indeed they are, ma'am. Thank you. May I hope the same goes for you?" Polite conversation was so dreadfully bland and predictable. And boring.

But his host was already guiding him over to a group of unknown people standing together; apparently a couple with two daughters. He recalled seeing the man's fiery curls about town, but they had not been previously introduced.

Sir Reginald proudly did the honours. "And these are the Webbs from Manchester: Mr Webb, Mrs Webb, Miss Webb, and the youngest tonight: Miss Polly Webb. Mr and Mrs Webb, young ladies, allow me to present Lord Hartwell of Matlock. Although not quite an earl yet, he has been the master of the Matlock estate for the past fifteen years or so. Is that not so, milord?"

Hartwell nodded, and everyone bowed or curtseyed as required.

"The Webbs have recently bought the great house at Cressbrook," Sir Reginald informed him. "It is currently being refurbished, but they are eager to acquaint themselves with the neighbourhood already. Oh!" he glanced back at the double doors. "More guests to greet. May I leave you in the company of the Webbs, milord? And please, feel free to help yourself to a drink and a bite to eat; the refreshment table is right over there."

He hurried back to join his family, and Mr Webb chuckled appreciatively. "A very hospitable man."

Hartwell nodded. "Indeed." He turned slightly, to be able to see who was coming in. The Livingstons. Accompanied by a young lady he did not recognize. Did they have such a young daughter? Or was this someone from outside – a niece or so?

"Have you known him long?" Mr Webb inquired in the meantime.

He turned back to the Webbs. "Sir Reginald, you mean? Yes. All my life pretty much."

"Ah, of course. You would have grown up here. A truly stunning part of England, I must say!"

Hartwell inclined his head while keeping a furtive eye on the newly arrived young lady.

"We are from Manchester ourselves. But the smokey city air does not agree with my youngest daughter here, so we decided to pull up our roots and settle in the country instead. Did we not, Louisa?"

His wife agreed. "The country here is everything charming, and the views! Oh! Truly breathtaking!"

"I wholeheartedly agree, madam." He sidled away a little; the eldest daughter seemed to devour him with her eyes. He kept a wary eye on her as her father inquired after his family and his estate.

But when the girl learned he was a widower, she seemed to move even closer. And closer. And closer, looking up at him with those bright and hungry eyes… It made his flesh creep, and he took another unobtrusive step aside. And another. And…

"Lucy!" her mother reprimanded her quietly, and immediately, the girl flushed a dark red, and drew back.

He shared a brief unspoken exchange of thanks and apologies with Mrs Webb. Although they were obviously new money, Mr and Mrs Webb carried themselves gently enough. Their daughter however…

But in the sudden awkward silence, the younger one addressed him full of youthful reverence. "Sir, are you really an earl?"

He smiled indulgently at her. She was even younger than Georgiana, he guessed. Fair young to be out, but… "Not yet," he told her. "Once my father dies, I will inherit the title."

"Does he live here, too? I've never seen a real earl."

"No, my father lives in London. But he comes to visit us occasionally. Perhaps I might introduce you to him one day." This one seemed nice enough. She might make a nice friend for Ginny perhaps.

But that was for later. First their talk was interrupted by more and more greetings and introductions. He was indeed fairly familiar with the older generations, but just like in Lambton, there was a vast surplus of young ladies present whom he might or might not have met before around town.

The only exception was Francis Bellamy, Lady Babington's younger brother. He recalled that Lady Babington had been widowed some time last year; she was still wearing half mourning. Bellamy explained that – since the late Babington's son and heir was only three years old – he had moved in with them to help his sister and mother-in-law with the estate.

He was a pleasant enough chap in his mid-twenties, and handsome enough to have all the young ladies in the room eyeing him appreciatively. But he seemed to handle their interest with flair, much like Richard always did.

He got talking with Lady Babington for a while. He had met her before, but he barely knew her. She turned out to be as pleasant company as her brother, and they got along quite well. They shared some anecdotes of their children's antics (Lady Babington had two young daughters as well), and commiserated about the trials of being a single parent.

Yes, he liked her very well indeed. She was easy to talk to, not too young, and rather pretty: sandy blond hair, a friendly face and blue eyes. To apply Mrs Gardiner's parameters: he estimated her to be but a few years his junior, she was obviously a gentlewoman, and a widow. Albeit a widow with three children who were all younger than Philip. Hm. Not ideal, but he could put her on his list for now.

After a brief chat with Mrs Streatfeild who also was inquiring after his children, he moved on to his next candidate: his host's daughter Miss Stevenson. She was a prettyish kind of lady, with dark hair, naturally pale skin and blue eyes. It turned out that at twenty-eight, she was pretty much considered to be on the shelf.

Well, those were the kind of ladies he was primarily interested in, so this was his chance.

But a ten minute attempt to engage her in conversation made it clear why she was still a spinster: she talked in nothing but clichés and platitudes, and was not to be coaxed into uttering even the slightest whiff of a statement that might disagree with his, not even when he baited her.

No. That would never do. He was glad to escort her to the refreshment table, where he could innocuously seek out other company.

But first he treated himself to a glass of wine and a pastry, and moved back to a safe position against the wall to be able to take proper stock of the goings-on around him.

Barrett had been right: although there was no spot from where he could oversee the large en-suite rooms in their entirety, the company itself was surveyable. Maybe two dozen people or so. It was manageable. And even if he had made sure to keep up his (for others) odd habit of keeping his back to the walls whenever he was talking with someone, he was actually quite proud of how he was handling himself in this setting. A bit tense perhaps, a little skittish, but at least he was capable of having a regular conversation with people!

But just when he was congratulating himself, he became aware that he was the topic of conversation among the gaggle of young ladies to his right.

"And what do you think of that Lord Hartwell?"

A scoff. "He is quite old, isn't he. Did you not notice he is already greying at the temples?"

Hartwell smirked a little. Well, he was a solid forty now, wasn't he.

"I think it makes him look rather distinguished," one of the other young ladies was saying. "I quite like him actually. He is really good-looking."

"You must be joking! He's ancient!"

Ouch.

"Well, at least he is single. And eligible. That is more than most men around Bakewell can say."

"And filthy rich," another one cut in.

"Exactly. I could put up with an old husband if it meant being a lavishly rich countess."

He cringed, and turned away – but unfortunately, not in time to miss the next outburst.

"You can't be serious! Surely you know that his first wife ran away from him! Now why would she do that when she had caught one of the richest men in England, and was in line to become the next Countess of Matlock? No one would give that up for a trifle! There is but one explanation: the man is a brute!"

He froze.

"He doesn't look like a brute," one of the other ladies observed sceptically.

"They never do. But mark my word: there is something very wrong at Matlock, or else his poor wife would never have run away like that. My aunt says, that she has heard that…"

He slammed down his glass on a conveniently placed table and all but ran from the room.

Heads turned in astonishment, but he ignored them.

Space was what he needed.

Space to breathe.

The entrance hall.

Or even outside.

He barely refrained from slamming the double doors behind him, but at least in the entrance hall it was considerably cooler.

And quieter.

He leaned his head back against the wall, struggling to take some deep breaths.

The sound of voices behind the door picked up with a vengeance after its sudden shocked silence; no doubt they were all talking about him now.

The rude viscount.

The brute.

He closed his eyes and took another deep, shuddering breath. And buried his head in his hands. It had been a mistake to come here tonight. It all seemed so civilized, but obviously, even after all these years, the talk about him and Agnes was still very much alive. And what talk it was – this was worse than even he had imagined. Oh, how he hated Agnes… Was he never going to be free from her?! And now people were taking her side, too!

He groaned. He wanted to go home. Now. He wanted nothing more than to entrench himself at Matlock and never face these people again. Maybe even leave Matlock to Richard and move to the other side of the country. Scotland or so. Or even to the Colonies, where he could start over without anyone knowing anything about him. He would…

A sudden rise in the hubbub of voices behind the doors made him look up.

It was Lady Babington, looking compassionate and rather worried.

Immediately, his hackles went up. What was she doing here? Alone with him in the hall?!

She left the door slightly ajar behind her. "Are you quite alright, milord?"

"Sure," he snapped, already backing off from her.

But unfortunately, she was not to be intimidated. "You seem upset though. Can I get you something? A glass of wine perhaps?"

"No." My God, she sounded just like Agnes that first night. His hands clenched into fists. The urge to slap her in the face was overwhelming, but he could not do that. He knew he could not do that. It was paramount that he keep his wits about him – this was not Agnes standing before him.

This was Lady Babington.

Lady Babington.

LADY BABINGTON.

Yes, she was inadvertently pushing all the wrong buttons, but she was not Agnes.

Not Agnes!

NOT Agnes!

NOT AGNES!

THIS WAS LADY BABINGTON!

"Are you sure you are alright?" she pressed gently, stepping closer.

He stepped back, and screwed his eyes shut; his fists trembled. Get away from me, before…

"Milord?"

"Just leave me alone," he forced out between clenched teeth. "I beg you: just leave me alone."

"If you wish." An odd, pitying look, and then she went back inside to join the company again.

He pulled the door shut behind her and staggered over to a lonely chair by the wall. He needed to come down from this before he faced anyone; before he could even make his excuses and call for his carriage.

Breathing hard, he rested his head in his hands, making a conscious effort to calm down.

But once his heartrate began to slow down, there was one thing he knew for sure: Lady Babington was definitely off his list. Whatever relationship they might develop in the future, this little scene just now would haunt him forever. And he could not tie himself to someone who reminded him of Agnes. He just could not. Ever.

He was just about composed enough to seek out his host and make his excuses, when the double doors opened again, immediately causing him to stiffen.

It was Bellamy.

Who carefully closed the doors behind him before facing him. He regarded him in silence for a moment. "Bad, huh?"

Hartwell sighed, but made no reply.

"I heard some of the talk," Bellamy confessed after a long pause.

Hartwell glanced up, but immediately lowered his eyes again in shame. "It's all lies," he muttered, his barely relaxed fingers clenching into fists again. "I did not… She did not…" He huffed. "Dammit, why are they even still talking about it, after all these years?!"

"Frankly, sir, it's none of my business. None of anyone's business other than your own and your late wife's."

He snorted. "Tell that to the Bakewell busybodies." He pushed himself to his feet. "I am not staying here; I am going home. Please convey my apologies to your sister. I suppose she meant well, but I fear my behaviour just now left a lot to be desired."

In three long strides, Bellamy stood in front of him, blocking his way. "That would be a mistake, sir," he warned in a low voice.

"I beg your pardon?!"

"Fleeing for the rumours will only confirm them in the eyes of the rumour mongers. Believe me, my family has had ample experience." He laughed bitterly, but did not explain. "The best thing to do is to go back in there with your head held high. Brave it out. Show them you don't care about their filthy gossip, because you know it to be nonsense."

Hartwell wavered. He wanted nothing more than to go home to the safety of solitude, but…

"Just for an hour," Bellamy argued.

Then again, hiding out at the estate clearly had done nothing to quell the rumours. Maybe Bellamy was right. Maybe it was time he tested another strategy.

"And I will stay right by your side," Bellamy promised.

He looked up in surprised relief. "Will you? Watch my back, I mean?"

"If that is what you wish?"

"Yes," came it heartfelt from Hartwell, making his new acquaintance raise a surprised eyebrow.

He grimaced. "Bad history of being hunted for sport."

"Ah." He nodded in understanding. "Well, shall we then? Though you might want to fix your hair and your cravat first. You look a mess."

It took a large dose of courage to face the gathered company again at Bellamy's side. And he was immediately accosted by Sir Reginald.

"Lord Hartwell, sir! Are you alright? When you ran from the room like that, we all thought…!"

"No, no, I am alright," he assured his host. "Just a sip of wine that went down the wrong way."

"Ah." For a moment, Sir Reginald's eyes flitted between him and Bellamy, but then he simply accepted the barefaced lie. "Yes. That can be dreadfully uncomfortable indeed. I am glad to see you recovered. Will you not join us?"

So with Bellamy at his side, he spoke for a while with his hosts and the Livingstons, was persuaded to a game of whist with Mr and Mrs Webb, and listened to the performances of some of the young ladies. (It may be a father's bias, but he thought Philip played better.) All in all, the required one hour was long past, but although he remained on edge, it did make a difference knowing that Bellamy was guarding his back.

So why not complete his actual goal for the evening?

That Miss Webb was still batting her eyelashes at him, too, whenever her parents were not looking.

But he ignored her; she was too young anyway.

No, he had one serious candidate left: Birtwistle's sister.

Birtwistle and he had never really gotten along, even if they were of a similar age. But it did not necessarily follow that his younger sister was of a similar temperament.

He recalled that she was about the same age as Richard, so that would fit the parameters nicely. On top of that, she was a gentlewoman, and he had already gathered that she was as yet unmarried. And she did not look anything like Agnes. (Maybe he should make that his fourth parameter.) In short, she was worth checking out.

Bellamy grimaced when he suggested they join the Birtwistles; apparently, he did not care much for Birtwistle either. But he followed obediently along.

"Birtwistle. Mrs Birtwistle. Miss Birtwistle."

"Hartwell. Bellamy," came the stiff bow in return.

"How are your children doing?" One's children were usually a safe topic.

Birtwistle beamed. "Very well indeed! Have you heard that my Gilbert has made captain of the junior cricket team at Eton?"

"Congratulations," Hartwell offered, and was promptly echoed by Bellamy.

"Do your sons play?"

"Henry, yes, but just for fun. Thanks to Robin Hood, he is more into archery. Philip so far has not shown much interest in sports."

"You should send them to school," was Mrs Birtwistle's opinion. "That is where children belong. Why, your Henry is older than our Gilbert, and you still coddle him at home."

"I prefer to raise my children myself, ma'am." Hartwell kept his voice level.

"Nothing wrong with that," Bellamy chipped in.

But Birtwistle shook his head. "You know you are doing them a great disservice, don't you. School is what turns boys into men."

"Boys grow up into men even without the help of a boarding school," Hartwell countered.

"But they will miss out on so much!" Miss Birtwistle cried. "The friendships, the fun, the connections they can make! Really, I loved my school years! They were the best time of my life!"

Hartwell inclined his head toward her. "I am happy for you, Miss Birtwistle. But unfortunately, my own experience was not quite as positive. I am not forcing that on my children."

"Oh, pishposh," Mrs Birtwistle sneered. "Life is no walk in the park, and the sooner children learn that, the better. They need to toughen up to be able to cope with the ton, otherwise they will be eaten alive. And school is the first place where they can forge those lifelong connections that will help them make their way in the world. Why, our Alexandra is best friends with the daughter of the Duke of Leicester!"

Well, there was one creep if ever he heard of one.

"But do you not have a daughter, too, milord?" Miss Birtwistle inquired.

"I do."

"How old is she now, if I may be so bold to ask?"

"She will be thirteen this summer."

"And she still remains at home, too?"

"Indeed she does."

Miss Birtwistle was appalled. "And without a mother? Just her father and her brothers?! How shocking! How abominable!"

"I assure you she is doing fine."

"But milord, surely you must see that your daughter needs other girls, other women in her life? How will she ever learn to comport herself as a lady, when she has no role model to follow? The poor, poor girl!"

"She has a governess. A very competent lady."

"A governess? The granddaughter of an earl has to learn how to comport herself according to her station from a simple governess?!"

That was it: she was definitely not on his list.

"To each their own, Miss Birtwistle." He bowed curtly, Bellamy followed suit, and together, they stalked away to the refreshment table.

"The gall of that woman," Bellamy muttered. "Let every family decide for themselves how they want to raise their children."

Hartwell sighed, and popped one of the last remaining pieces of vanilla fudge in his mouth. "I suppose she has a point – of sorts," he granted once he had swallowed the treat. "Most of my daughter's friends are servants' children. But especially now that she is getting older, she would indeed benefit from some easily accessible friends from her own circles. But I am not sending her off to school just for that. Besides, her governess is a wonderful lady: intelligent, well-mannered… A true gentlewoman. She has been with us for years, and I have no doubt she loves the children as much as they love her. Failing a mother, what better role model could she possibly want?"

"A real treasure, eh?"

"Yes. I suppose you could say that."

It was not much later that the first guests began to take their leave, which Hartwell considered his cue that it was acceptable for him to go home as well.

He took his leave from the Stevensons, finally remembered to apologize to Lady Babington ("Do not make yourself uneasy, milord; you were obviously upset. I understand. You are quite forgiven."), and invited Bellamy to come and fence with him some time, which the latter eagerly accepted.

And then he was in his cold carriage, covering himself in cold plaids trying to stave off the freezing cold outside.

He shivered as they drove off towards home. The change from the slightly overheated room full of people to a carriage that had been standing outside for hours in semi-arctic temperatures was not a pleasant one. Lucky for him, it was only half an hour's ride to Matlock.

Eldridge quickly let him into the house and took his outerwear. And replaced it with a warm blanket over his shoulders.

"Thank you," Hartwell shivered. "Everything alright here?"

"Yes, sir. Did you enjoy your evening out?"

"I suppose so. Yes, it was quite alright."

"Would you perhaps care for some hot cocoa? Cook has left some on the stove."

"Oh, yes," was Hartwell's grateful reply. "That would be wonderful. Is the fire lit in my room?"

"Yes, sir. About an hour ago. It should be nice and warm there now."

"Thank you. I will take my cocoa there then."

His room was indeed warm enough that he could ditch his cold coat and stifling cravat, and just keep the blanket over his back as he sat by the fire. And once Eldridge had brought up his hot cocoa, he leaned back and pensively stared into the flames.

In the quiet solitude of his room, he suddenly became aware how exhausted he was. Evenings like this were impossibly draining. Still, his mind was too full to go to bed yet. And a little reflection on the evening would not go amiss.

First of all, overall he thought he had managed quite well, but his reaction to the girls' gossip showed it was but a thin layer of veneer. He would definitely need more practice before he could adequately accompany the children's coming out in society.

And then preferably with someone watching his back, because that really made a huge difference. Perhaps he could ask Bellamy when attending local gatherings? He did not seem to be looking for a wife yet, so he might have some attention to spare. Yes. That was an idea.

Secondly, the young girls here were no different from those in town. Malicious gossip, bold avances and blatant evaluations of his marriageability were just as rife here as they were in town – though perhaps a little less subtle. But clumsy attempts at compromise were just as deadly as subtle ones, so he really had better stay clear of the younger female population here.

And thirdly…

He sighed. His quest in search of possible local candidates for marriage had not gone too well.

Miss Birtwistle would insist on sending his children to school. Never. Besides, he really did not care for the wiseacre snobism the entire Birtwistle clan displayed.

Miss Webb clearly had designs on him, and if there was one thing he despised… Besides, she was too young.

Miss Stevenson was pretty, but utterly boring. He could not imagine spending a full hour in her sole company – let alone the rest of his life. Did she even have a brain?

And Lady Babington…

He heaved a sigh. Lady Babington had looked so promising at first. She fit all the parameters perfectly (well, plus the children), and having Bellamy for a close-at-hand brother would not be half bad either. He reminded him a little of Richard.

And the lady… She had been pleasant company, intelligent, easy to talk to; besides, they were pretty much in the same boat, which automatically created a bond. And he honestly liked her.

And then that episode in the hall happened.

In hindsight, he realized that chances were considerable that her worry had actually been completely genuine. It seemed to suit her apparent disposition to care about others' well-being.

But he would never be able to 'unsee' how her opening gambit there resembled Agnes's from all those years ago. He might be able to be friends with her, but as a partner – no, that would never do. The association would forever haunt him, and there was no guarantee that he would be able to hold on to his temper every time she happened to remind him of Agnes. He could not risk that.

Which meant he was still stuck with only Miss Kenway on his list.

He threw back the last of his cocoa and savoured its bittersweet taste in his mouth.

Then again, was that so bad?

Unlike any of the other ladies he had encountered tonight, he had known Miss Kenway for years. And known her quite well at that.

She had no hidden agenda in trying to entrap him – if she had, surely she would have acted on it years ago. Instead, he did not recall a single occasion when she had tried to capture his attention the 'wrong' way. Around her, there was no need to guard his back; in fact, if it did not sound so corny, he would say he felt safe with her.

And governess or not, she was a gentlewoman through and through, unmarried, and about the right age to fit his basic parameters.

And in all those years, she had never in the slightest reminded him of Agnes.

What was more, he had no doubt that she loved the children and the children loved her. Not in a million years would she pressure him to send them off to school.

She was intelligent, well-mannered, pleasant company… Spending the evenings with her would probably be no hardship.

And on top of that, she was practical, down-to-earth, well-organized and kindhearted. She would not do so bad as mistress of the estate either.

Pensively, he tapped his fingers on the mug he still held. Looking at it rationally, Miss Kenway was everything he could possibly wish for. So why was he even looking for greener pastures in the first place?

And the fact that the children already loved her was a major advantage.

As was the fact that he himself already liked her a great deal.

The question was: how did she like him in turn? Would she be able to countenance being courted by him? Marrying him? Being his wife? The mother of his children?

And would they be able to find the kind of love the Darcys had? And the Gardiners?

Love is a choice, Mrs Gardiner had said. A commitment that both parties consciously need to decide to make to the other.

Would she be able and willing to make that choice?

Would he?

He heaved a sigh and climbed to his feet. This definitely required some more contemplation, but focusing on Miss Kenway for now seemed like a good idea.

Suddenly he chuckled. At least he would not have to go to soirees and dances and dinner parties in order to court her.