Charles rose and they shook hands. “I understand,” Charles said as he walked Gyles to the door, “that you saw Francesca yesterday.”

Gyles halted and looked at his host. “Yes, but only briefly.” She must have seen him watching her and been artful enough to give no sign.

“Nevertheless. Even a glimpse would be enough. She’s a captivating young lady, don’t you think?”

Gyles considered Charles. He was a softer, gentler man than himself; mild-mannered ladies were doubtless more his style. Gyles returned Charles’s smile. “I believe Miss Rawlings will fill my countess’s shoes admirably.”

He turned to the door; Charles opened it. Bulwer was waiting to show him out. With a nod, Gyles left.

He elected to stroll to the stables as he had the day before. Ambling down the paths of the parterre, he scanned his surroundings.

He’d told Charles he had no wish to meet his bride-to-be formally. There was nothing to be gained from such an exercise as far as he could see. However, now that she’d stipulated a three-day wait…

It might be wise to meet the young lady who had calmly requested three days in which to consider him. Him and his exceedingly generous offer. That smacked of a resolution he found odd in a woman of Francesca Rawlings’s character. No matter that he’d only glimpsed her, he was an expert at judging women. Yet he’d clearly misjudged his intended in one respect; it seemed prudent to check that she harbored no further surprises.

Fate was smiling on him-she was walking beside the lake, alone but for a bevy of spaniels. Head up, spine straight, she was striding away from him, the dogs gamboling about her feet. He set out in pursuit.

He drew near as she rounded the end of the lake. “Miss Rawlings!”

She stopped and turned. The shawl she clutched about her shoulders fluttered, its blue highlighting her pale blond hair, fine, straight, and drawn back in a loose chignon. Wafting wisps framed a sweet face, pretty rather than beautiful. Her most memorable feature was her eyes, very pale blue edged by blond lashes.