“Yes?”

She watched him approach without recognition, and just a touch of wariness. Gyles remembered that he’d insisted his offer be made in his titular name; she clearly did not connect him with the gentleman she was considering marrying. “Gyles Rawlings.” He bowed, smiling as he straightened. Someone else must have seen him watching her yesterday and reported it to Charles-the woman who had called her, perhaps? “I’m a distant cousin. I wonder if I might walk a little way with you?”

She blinked, then smiled back, as mild as he’d imagined her to be. “If you’re a relative, then I suppose that’s all right.” With a wave, she indicated the path by the lake. “I’m taking the dogs for their constitutional. I do that every day.”

“There seem to be quite a number of them.” All snuffling at his boots. They weren’t gun dogs, but the smaller version-house dog, almost lapdog. He had a sudden thought. “Are they yours?”

“Oh, no. They just live here.”

He glanced at her to see if she’d meant that as a joke. Her expression stated she hadn’t. Falling into step beside her, he swiftly assessed her figure. She was of average height, her head just lower than his chin; she was slightly built, somewhat lacking in curves, but passable. Passable.

“That dog there”-she pointed to one with a ragged ear-“she’s the oldest. Her name is Bess.”

As they continued around the lake, she continued naming dogs-for the life of him he couldn’t think of any suitable conversational distraction. Every opening his normally agile mind supplied seemed inappropriate in light of her naivete and undisguised innocence. It had been, he reflected, a long time since he’d last conversed with an innocent.