‘How could you be so unkind—Miss Chaceley? Visiting the place—and then leaving before I could so much as catch a glimpse of you!’ Verena found her own breath catching in her throat, as if she had been running as hard as he. Her pulses were flurried, and it was all she could do to maintain the outward cool reserve that must distance him. ‘Good morning, Mr Hawkeridge,’ she managed, refusing to be drawn into responding to his provocative speech. He grinned, bowing, as he flung aside the folds of a greatcoat that hung open. He had obviously seized it and thrown it on all anyhow in his haste to follow her, and taking no time at all to find his hat, for his head was uncovered. ‘Good morning, Miss Chaceley. May I escort you home?’ She blinked, saying stupidly, ‘Thank you, I know my way.’ ‘No, do you?’ he countered, on a spurious note of surprise. ‘Why, then you must have come this way before.’ The spurt of laughter could not be contained. She controlled it. ‘You are absurd, sir.’ ‘I know,’ said Denzell, and the grin vanished.
