He was nearly to Danbury House-practically on the front steps, actually-when the front door flew open and a petite blond woman came tearing out, head down, eyes to the ground, and moving just a fraction slower than a filly at full gallop. James didn't even have a chance to call out before she'd run right into him.

Their bodies connected with a dull thump, and the girl let out a feminine squeak of surprise as she bounced off of him and landed inelegantly on the ground. A clip or ribbon or whatever it was females called those things flew from her hair, causing a thick lock of white-gold hair to slip out of her coiffure and settle awkwardly on her shoulder.

"I beg your pardon," James said, holding out his hand to help her up.

"No, no," she replied, brushing off her skirts, "it was my fault entirely. I wasn't looking where I was going."

She didn't bother to take his hand, and James found himself oddly disappointed. She wasn't wearing gloves, and neither was he, and he felt a strange compulsion to feel the touch of her hand in his.

But he could not say such things out loud, and so he instead bent down to help her retrieve her things. Her reticule had flown open when it hit the ground, and her belongings were now strewn around their feet. He handed her her gloves, which caused her to blush.

"It's so hot," she explained, looking at the gloves with resignation.

"Don't don them on my account," he said with an easy smile. "As you can see, I have also chosen to use the fine weather as an excuse to leave mine off."

She stared at his hands for a moment before shaking her head and murmuring, "This is the oddest conversation."

She knelt to gather the rest of her things, and James followed suit. He picked up a handkerchief and was reaching for a book when she suddenly made the strangest noise-nothing so much as a strangled cry-and snatched it out from beneath his fingers.