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satisfaction?—curled at his lips. Cords of vein and sinew stood out against the bare skin of his neck. Something about it—his neck—made Caroline feel warm, suddenly, like the sun had regained its noontime strength.
    Her heart stumbled inside her chest.
    The figure was moving quickly—not walking, not a run, it was more of a limp—down one of Hyde Park’s well-groomed pathways. His eyes were narrowed in concentration; one of his hands was tucked into the soft folds of his plain, if well-cut, kerseymere coat.
    He moved confidently, discreetly through the crush (as discreetly as could a ginger-haired giant, anyway). He ducked behind a thick-trunked tree, only to reappear halfway across a verdant lawn. He ducked again; Caroline frantically searched the crowd for his face.
    The last time she’d seen that broad-shouldered figure was twelve years ago in the garden at her family’s house. It couldn’t be him , he’d disappeared and for all she knew he was dead, or living out his days as a pirate in Damascus.
    Besides, who hurried about Hyde Park with his hand shoved in his pocket, and during the fashionable hour at that? It was so farfetched it bordered on the ridiculous.
    Which meant, of course, that it had to be him.
    Him, her husband.
    “Caroline,” William was saying. “Caroline, wait, where are you going? Is it a bee? Wait, you know I’m afraid of them, the last time I was stung my toe swelled to the size of an apricot . . .”
    She was charging across the park, legs moving in time to the wild echo of her pulse. The ribbons of her bonnet flutteredin her face, tickling her nose; she pushed them away. Her slippers squished in the damp grass. She kept moving.
    Like a shadow dissolved into night, he disappeared into Hyde Park’s hedgerows, into the tinkling bustle of the crush. He would vanish, only to reappear moments later; she could see the muscles in his jaw were drawn tight.
    She dipped and trudged and changed course as best she could in time to his movements; people began to stare but she stumbled over them, breathing a hurried thanks to a gentleman who caught her by the arm before she launched heels over head into the Serpentine.
    Her legs ached and her lips burned, strangely, a prickle of sensation she felt in the center of her chest.
    At last she saw him. He was drawn up behind a copse of trees, sheltered from the prying eyes of passersby.
    He turned his head, and through the dappled green of newborn leaves Caroline and Henry Lake met eyes.
    A swell of pain, a tingling rush that was hot and cold and hard and soft all at once, moved through her. The ground tugged at her feet as if it might swallow her; she felt dizzy.
    His eye—his one eye , the other was gone, masked by a black leather patch—was as green as she remembered, translucent, probing. A searing flash of memory blinded her as she saw him as she had for the first time: vexingly handsome, alluringly mysterious. Although this time the skin at the edge of his eye did not crinkle quite so pleasantly; deep lines were etched there, creases that crept downward as if born of glowers and grimaces.
    Her stomach clenched. He was the same. He was different. Who was this man, this stranger—?
    “Heavens, Caroline,” William panted, bending over to rest his hands on his knees, “since when were you so light on your feet? Did you spot a particularly delicious child?”
    Caroline blinked, turning to look at her brother. “No. No, I thought . . . well, I thought I saw . . .”
    She turned back to the copse. It was empty; the half-naked trees groaned as a breeze rustled their branches.
    She shook her head. “It was nothing.”
    “Are you quite sure?” William asked, drawing upright. “It didn’t look like nothing. You were running like the devil.”
    Looping her arm through his, Caroline tugged him onto the path. “Shall we make for home? I do believe the hour for libation draws near.”
    “But what about Gunter’s? I was looking forward to