Her thought spoke aloud. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. ’ The lashes fluttered demurely. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. Lost from all protection, all her family dead—as are mine. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. Again silence. I think over all sorts of things.
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