He studied her for several seconds, then reached out to clasp her hand. His hand was large and strong, and she felt the warmth of his palm even through her gloves.

“A truce,” he agreed softly. His lips twitched as his fingers gently squeezed hers. “Although I suspect you’re really angling for my unconditional surrender, in which case, I must warn you”-he leaned forward and flashed a smile-“I don’t surrender easily.”

Was it the deep, soft timbre of his voice, or the compelling yet somehow mischievous glitter in his dark eyes, or the warmth radiating up her arm from where his palm pressed against hers-or perhaps a combination of all three-that suddenly made it seem as if there was a dearth of oxygen in the carriage? She slowly extricated her hand from his. Was it just fancy that he seemed reluctant to let go?

“Your warning is duly noted.” Heavens, she sounded positively… breathless.

“It was not my intention to argue with you-not now, or last evening, Lady Catherine.”

“Indeed? What was your intention?”

“I’d intended to ask you to dance.”

An image instantly filled her mind, of swirling across the dance floor to the lilting sounds of a waltz, her hand once again clasped in his, his strong arm around her waist.

“I haven’t danced in over a year,” she murmured. “I very much miss it.”

“Perhaps we shall have the opportunity to enjoy a waltz in Little Longstone.”

“I’m afraid not. Elaborate soirees are not usual there.” Determined to erase the disturbing image of them dancing together from her mind, she asked, “Tell me more about how things are progressing at the museum.”

“We’ve fallen a bit behind schedule with Philip’s recent absence, but the building should be completed by year’s end.”