They left the clearing and the barn behind as Miss Latimer followed the path that would take her home. He deliberately slowed his pace, in no hurry to reach Woodside. "Do you ever attend any entertainments in town?"

If Miss Latimer was surprised by his question she did not show it. "No, Papa does not care for London. We occasionally visit St. Albans. Mrs Latimer has a brother who resides there."

"Your uncle?"

"Well, he is rightly my step-uncle." She continued walking, her focus on the track ahead. After a brief silence she added, "My mother died when Diana was born."

Fielding heard the change in her voice. Gone was the light-hearted banter they had shared by the barn, replaced with a more sombre note. Although it was common enough to lose a wife or mother to childbirth, the pain for those left behind was not made easier by its prevalence.

"Papa was heartbroken, of course, but he was left with three young daughters on his hands and no choice but to marry again." Miss Latimer's face was partially hidden behind her bonnet, but he heard her sigh. "I am the only one amongst my sisters old enough to remember our mother."

"And you have taken on the responsibility of holding onto that memory, to keep it alive for your sisters' sakes."

Her steps faltered as she turned to him. "Yes! That is exactly how I feel. Mrs Latimer has always been kind, but she can never replace my own mama."

Fielding understood all too well, and felt a tug of sympathy for her situation. "Do you retain any contact with your mother's family? Do they reside in the area?"

Once more the bonnet dropped, hiding her expressions from him, but when she spoke her voice was again subdued. "No, they live somewhere close to Oxford, I believe. My maternal grandfather was a clergyman, but I cannot recall which parish. All contact with them ceased when my father remarried.

"I hope I do not appear ungrateful, though. Mrs Latimer has tried her best, and her own family welcomed us unreservedly. Her father was an attorney at Haltford; he owned the business that now belongs to Mr Orton. She also has a sister who is married to a silk merchant. They live somewhere in London, although I have never met them, and their brother in St. Albans deals in provisions."

Fielding began to wonder whether she was hinting him away. If so, she could not have chosen a better method than to introduce an unsuitable pack of relations to his notice. A gentleman like Mr. Latimer had done his daughter no favours by connecting himself to a family of lawyers and shopkeepers. However, his initial contempt for Mrs Latimer's connections was soon diverted by the revelation that, rather than being embarrassed by her provisions dealer uncle, Anabelle instead chose to describe the family with a great deal of affection. She spoke at length about her cousins and the entertainments she had attended with her aunt. Indeed, he became so caught up in her enthusiastic descriptions of her visits there that he found himself laughing at the stories she shared about her youngest cousin Henry, before he remembered that they would be wholly ineligible to become in any way connected with the Fieldings of Meltham.

"And soon Papa has promised to take me to one of the spa towns, which will be a new experience for me."

Fielding wondered why she would want to spend time in a place full of arthritic dowagers and gouty old men. "Does Mr. Latimer believe the waters will aid his recuperation?"

The light in her eyes faded, and she looked away. "No, our visit will be social rather than medicinal. He wishes to help me find a husband. Mrs Latimer thinks that it is past time my sister and I were married. She worries that we will become financial burdens upon Woodside and poor little Edmund if we remain unwed."

He had once accompanied his aunt and uncle to Buxton; a visit made more startling by the characters he had seen there. Would Anabelle Latimer be happy married to some bluff country squire, with a square jaw and ruddy complexion? Just the thought of it made him shiver. Men of style and fortune rarely ventured near those fusty places. "Would you not prefer a season in town?"

"I fear even a fortnight in London would be beyond my father's means. No, the spa town it will have to be, unless Sir Henry is generous enough to sacrifice himself on the matrimonial altar. Even then the poor man can only be married once, and there are at least ten young ladies in the district who aspire to be Lady Mountford."

He guessed it was not only Mountford who formed a target for their matrimonial ambitions, but understood that even Anabelle might balk at admitting how much an object of keen attention Anthony Fielding was among the hopeful mamas. "Do you count yourself as one of those ladies?"

"That is a difficult question to answer when I have never met Sir Henry. Would you describe him as a good man?"

Mountford excelled at many things, although the lack of any sort of responsibility had allowed him to develop a somewhat frivolous character. "He is an excellent man, in his own way."

She stepped closer, her arm brushing against his sleeve as she said, "Then perhaps you might be so kind as to whisper a few words in his ear on my behalf."

Fielding recalled his friend's preferences for pretty widows and bawdy actresses. Mountford's attentions were as fickle as a butterfly, flitting from one flower to another and never resting for long in one place. No, he could not in all conscience recommend Henry as a suitable husband for Anabelle Latimer. Indeed, the idea of bringing Miss Latimer to the notice of any man was falling lower on his list of priorities by the minute. "I once heard Sir Henry say that he would not marry until he was at least forty, although he had consumed more than three bottles of Burgundy before making his pronouncement."

She laughed. "I think he will find such stipulation proves no impediment to the more determined mothers of the parish. Does he plan to return to Blackwood soon?"

"He should be back this week."

"Poor Sir Henry! I do feel for his situation, yet he has no right to claim any of my sympathy considering how much stronger his position is than mine."

"In what way?"

"Gentlemen have the freedom to bestow their favour wherever they wish. I, on the other hand, feel like a child's doll; to be placed on a shelf in a toyshop and admired or ignored until someone decides to purchase me. The doll is no more able to choose its owner than I can choose a husband."

Anthony Fielding's experiences had given him a contrary view on the subject. In a fit of exasperation he had once compared himself to a prize bull to be bought for mating, while the young females and their mothers played the role of eager purchasers. Even without a title, his name, fortune and noble connections would be a welcome improvement to many bloodlines of the ton. "Unlike a doll, young ladies have the power to accept or refuse."

"A scant consolation if the shop has no customers."

The lack of gentlemen in the locality was a definite disadvantage, and if Miss Latimer was granted the chance to expand her social circle then she would be foolish not to grasp the opportunity. Yet the moment he imagined her marrying another man his stomach twisted into knots.

"Sometimes I wish I had been born a boy. Men are never put under such pressure to wed."

"That is not entirely true. Their mothers are often just as eager to acquire grandchildren, and secure the family line."

"Do you speak from experience? Is your mother keen to see you set up your nursery?"

A long-cherished image passed before his eyes. He shook his head. "Sadly, no. My mother died when I was about Joe's age."

Her hands flew to her mouth and her eyes widened. "Oh! I do beg your pardon, Mr. Fielding. I had no idea..."

"It is of no matter. You could not have known."

"Did your father also marry again?"

"No, he remained a widower until his death. I do not think the idea of remarriage ever crossed his mind."

She reached out, laying a sympathetic hand on his arm. "You must have other family members? Please say you are not entirely alone."

He would have smiled at her solicitousness had her instinctive, comforting touch not sent his senses reeling. Taking a breath to clear his head, he said, "Pray, do not think me without connections. I have two sisters, the youngest residing with my aunt and uncle, and I could produce a handful of cousins without difficulty if I had the need."

Realising the location of her fingers she withdrew them quickly, clasping both hands behind her back. "I am glad to hear it. I was beginning to think you without a soul in the world."

"Oh, I could name a number of close acquaintances. Despite the differences between us Sir Henry and I have been friends since university."

"I thought that might be the case," she said, her bonnet bobbing like an ear of wheat in the wind.

"What do you mean?"

"Only that sometimes you have to call on the goodwill of your friends to get on in the world."

"That is very true. As Sir Henry has little experience with land management I volunteered to help him put the estate into order. Once he has appointed someone as the new steward my work will be done and I can return to my own responsibilities."

"Your own? Oh, I thought..." Miss Latimer stumbled over a rock protruding from the path and he offered the support of his arm. She shook her head, refusing his assistance. "I...I had not realised you would be leaving us quite so soon."

"You sound disappointed."

She smiled weakly. "With the exception of my father and perhaps my sister, I rarely have the opportunity to converse with someone who has both sense and education."

"I am pleased you do not think me wanting for sense. Indeed you pander to my vanity for I have always prided myself on the improvement of my mind."

She turned her head, revealing eyes glinting with suppressed humour. "Mr. Fielding, that statement smells strongly of conceit. I had not thought you so vainglorious."

Had anyone else challenged him thus he might have considered it an insult, but her light, playful manner made it impossible for him to take offence. "Where there is a genuine quickness of mind there can be no conceit. There must be some facet of your character of which you are excessively proud."

Miss Latimer returned her attention to the path, leaving a hint of colour just visible on her cheek. "There may well be, but it would be immodest of me to own it."

Her reluctance surprised him, as he rarely met a woman who did not scruple to broadcast her virtues or offer her accomplishments as a recommendation. Not wishing to make her uncomfortable, he cast about for another subject. His eyes lit upon the stubble in the fields that would soon be tilled ready for sowing. Had he been in company with any other female he would never have considered agriculture a suitable topic for discussion, but Anabelle Latimer was unlike other women. "Has your father decided what crops he will grow next year?"

"I believe wheat and rye, along with the turnips already in the south field."

"Does Mr. Latimer think rye a profitable crop?"

"I assumed you would know about such things."

"It is not generally grown in my part of the country."

Her eyes, peeking from beneath the brim of her bonnet, mirrored her curiosity. "And where would that be?"

"Yorkshire."

She made no comment, and they walked in companionable silence until they reached the next stile. He offered his assistance. As she laid her hand upon his palm she said, "Yorkshire is reputed to be beautiful in its wildness. I have heard much about the picturesque dales and windswept moors. I imagine you must miss it terribly."

His fingers wrapped around hers, supporting her until she stepped down on the other side. As she withdrew her hand he clenched his fist, capturing the fleeting warmth of their contact. "Yorkshire will always be close to my heart, although there is much in Hertfordshire to admire."

The smile she offered in return seemed bright yet brittle, like new ice on a pond in winter, and he wondered whether it would break as easily. Fielding sensed a constraint between them that had not existed earlier, and for some minutes the only sound was the rustling of the wind through the boughs of the trees. Had he offended her with his admiration of her neighbourhood? In truth, he cared little for Hertfordshire as a whole and more for the small part brightened by her presence.

As they reached a pair of sturdy gates that marked the entrance to Woodside's small park, he began to wonder whether she bore any tender feelings for him at all. Apart from the glance they had shared across the clearing, and the brief moment when he had felt the warmth of her hand resting on his arm, Anabelle Latimer had not shown any marked preference for him, or attempted to catch his notice with any of the usual feminine artfulness he so abhorred. Indeed, with the exception of their meetings on estate business, it had been he who had gone to some lengths to spend time in her company.

While she was refreshingly honest when it came to her thoughts on matrimony, he never felt that she saw him as a likely husband. Fielding had to smile at the irony—that the only unmarried female in England not clamouring for his attention was the one woman he feared he was falling in love with.