He wanted it to look like a romantic afternoon ride. He wanted it to be a romantic afternoon ride. The problem was his curricle. Never mind that it was old. He’d bought it long before he’d joined the army and had spent a solid year testing its limits and its speed. Never mind that it was cold. An open carriage was quite possibly the most ridiculous conveyance for February weather, but it was paramount that he and Daphne be seen together. That he and Daphne appear positively smitten. The curricle was wrong because Bartholomew was wrong. He’d been at sixes and sevens since leaving the house. Scratch that. He’d been at sixes and sevens since almost kissing Daphne in the middle of a musicale. Or perhaps since the moment Crabtree had saved her letter from the fire and her plea had sent his solitary existence down a whirlwind path. A month ago, his biggest adventure was deciding whether to do his afternoon exercises before or after a spot of tea. This month, he had a beautiful faux fiancée.
