Kit paused, slender and elegant, before the mantelpiece Spencer’s loving gaze roamed her fair skin, creamy rather than white, unmarred by any blemish despite her predilection for outdoor pursuits. The burnished curls were the same shade he remembered, the same shade he’d once possessed. The long tresses, confined in plaits at sixteen, had given way to cropped curls, large and lustrous. The fashion suited her, highlighting the delicate features of her small heart-shaped face.

From age six, Kit had lived at Cranmer, after her parents, Spencer’s son Christopher and his French emigrée wife, had died in a carriage accident. Spencer’s gaze dwelled on the long lines of Kit’s figure, outlined by her green traveling dress. She carried herself gracefully even now as she resumed her angry pacing. He stirred. “God, Kit. Do you realize we’ve lost six years?”

Kit’s smile was dazzling, resurrecting memories of the tomboy, the hoyden, the devil in her blood. “I’m back now, Gran’pa, and I mean to stay.”

Spencer leaned back, well pleased with her declaration. He waved at her. “Well, miss-let me see how you’ve turned out.”

With a chuckle, Kit curtsied. “Not too deep, for after all, you are just a baron.” The twinkle in her eye suggested he was the prince of her heart. Spencer snorted. Kit rose and dutifully pirouetted, arms gracefully extended as if she were dancing.

Spencer slapped his knee. “Not bad, even if I say so myself.”

Kit laughed and returned to the chaise.“You’re prejudiced, Gran’pa. Now, tell me what’s happened here.”

To her relief, Spencer obliged. While he rattled on about fields and tenants, Kit listened with half an ear. Inside, she was still reeling. Six years of purgatory she’d spent in London, for no reason at all. The months of misery she’d endured, during which she’d had to come to grips with the loss of not only a beloved grandmother, but effectively of her grandfather as well, were burned into her soul.