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entirely unhappy to be at Ivy Cottage. That tendency in her to prickle up, the very character trait her father had often warned her against, came to the surface once more. With a hint of cheek, she added, “Though I am afraid he did so by means of a most desperate lie. Having uttered such a glaring falsehood on the hallowed ground of the churchyard, I am quite certain Mr. Jonquil has compromised his salvation and has condemned himself to an eternity of torment and suffering. There is, I fear, no hope for him.”
    Clara glanced at Mr. Jonquil out of the corner of her eye, wondering what his reaction might be. His eyes continued wandering about the room, but he was smiling. It was a handsome smile and might have been far more pleasant if he didn’t still appear so disapproving.
    “Was it worth it, sir?” Clara asked. “Trading your eternal reward for our momentary comfort?”
    “My father always said—insisted—that a good deed can make up for—No. Atone for . . .” The sentence dangled unfinished as Mr. Jonquil’s mouth set in a stern line.
    “‘Absolve sin,’” Mr. Whittle finished for Mr. Jonquil. “The words of Peter, I believe.”
    “And Mr. Jonquil’s father, apparently,” Clara replied. “Is your father a man of the cloth as well?”
    “Mr. Jonquil’s father was the Earl of Lampton,” Mr. Whittle answered for Mr. Jonquil, a look of near amazement on the vicar’s face. “Mr. Jonquil’s oldest brother now holds the title.”
    He hails from the aristocracy? It was little wonder, then, the man was so decidedly unimpressed with Clara’s very humble dwelling.
    “Forgive me for speaking so lightly of your father,” Clara said, regretting her moment of cheek. “Especially in light of your loss.”
    Mr. Jonquil only nodded, his mouth drawn more tightly, a sure sign of discomfort and disapproval.
    A moment of awkward silence passed while Clara chided herself. “Won’t you please come in, Mr. Jonquil,” Clara invited. A man’s temper could be cooled by a satisfied stomach. “You must take your tea before it becomes cold.”
    He quite obviously hesitated.
    “Do come sit with us, Mr. Jonquil,” Mrs. Whittle added her weight to the invitation.
    After another moment of apparent mental debate, Mr. Jonquil moved farther inside the room. He could have at least affected a look of approval. Perhaps he wished to make his displeasure clear.
    Clara sat beside the tea tray and began pouring out for her guests. Mr. Jonquil chose a seat a little removed from the others, at Clara’s small writing desk.
    Not very sociable , Clara thought to herself. The observation proved prophetic. Despite the efforts of the Whittles and herself, Mr. Jonquil said very little and occupied himself, after rather quickly consuming a cup of tea, with sharpening the quills lying on the writing desk. He appeared to constantly mutter silently to himself.
    Clara no longer worried about Mr. Jonquil’s intentions. He obviously felt her far enough beneath his touch as to be completely unworthy of notice. It was both a stinging setdown and a tremendous relief. She far preferred a gentleman who disregarded her to a gentleman who was in relentless pursuit.

Chapter Three
    Corbin rode back to Havenworth, his mind whirling. Mrs. Bentford had been a pleasant surprise. Her manners were impeccable; that much he had anticipated. He hadn’t expected her obvious wit and intelligence. Mr. Whittle had casually mentioned the renewed war on the Continent, and Mrs. Bentford, unlike many in England, had a grasp of the intricacies of the situation with Napoleon and the implications of continued conflict after two decades of war.
    He’d discovered she had a sense of humor. And after speaking lightly of Corbin’s late father, Mrs. Bentford had immediately offered her apologies and sympathies, which seemed to indicate she was also compassionate.
    It was, of course, a great deal to assume after a single call lasting less than thirty minutes, one in which he