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Two days ago the earl, with the countess, his widowed mother, had taken afternoon tea with the Greenfields, by appointment. Before they left, Stratton had arranged with Mr. Greenfield to return three days hence—tomorrow—to discuss a matter of some significance to them both. His mother, meanwhile, had had a private word with Mrs. Greenfield, and the two ladies had agreed that a connection between their families, specifically a marital connection, was greatly to be desired.

Stratton was coming tomorrow, then, to have a word with Richard Greenfield, and it was no secret what that word was to be. In all probability it would be followed immediately by a marriage proposal to Clarissa herself.

She intended to accept, even though she was only seventeen years old. If she asked to postpone her decision for a year or two until she was eighteen or nineteen, she had explained earlier, she might very well lose her chance altogether. The Earl of Stratton would marry someone else, and his choices would be limitless. His mother had apparently explained to Mrs. Greenfield that she would far prefer to see him married to the daughter of a respected near neighbor than to someone of possibly higher rank about whom she would know very little. It was time Caleb settled down. He had the succession to ensure, besides which he had been restless lately and clearly needed a bride who would have a settling influence on him. He would almost certainly not wait, then, nor would his mother, if Clarissa asked for more time.

Richard and Ellen Greenfield, though surely somewhat uneasy about the tender age of their daughter, nevertheless must be very conscious of the great honor being bestowed upon her and the dazzling prospects such a marriage would bring her. She would be the Countess of Stratton, with all the prestige and security of position and untold wealth the marriage would bring her. And she would remain relatively close by at Ravenswood. It would have been strange indeed if they had not encouraged the match.

They had not pressed it upon Clarissa, however. Indeed, they had been careful to point out to her that she was very young, that it would be perfectly understandable if she wished to have a few more years to enjoy all the pleasures of a presentation at court and a social Season in London, where she could hope to capture the attention of numerous eligible young gentlemen. If that was her wish, then her father would inform Stratton of her decision before he could embarrass himself by making her a formal offer.

Their caution and consideration for the feelings of their daughter were typical of them. They had raised her to be a lady with high expectations, but they would never force her to do anything about which she had any doubt.

Clarissa was hugely flattered, however. And excited. The prospect of an early marriage and of a title and new home at Ravenswood of all places would not perhaps have been enough in themselves to sway her, but...well, there was the Earl of Stratton himself. She had seen him only a few times in the past and mostly from afar until he came for tea with his mother, but... Well.

"He is so gorgeous," she had told Matthew. And he had understood that she was quite in love with the man, though she did not know him at all.

She had known him, Matthew Taylor, almost all her life. They had been close friends for years, but only friends, Matthew reminded himself as he stood, feet slightly apart, hands clasped loosely behind his back, watching her gaze off into the distance.

He wished he could capture this moment for all time. But he had never been much good with paint and brushes. Somewhere between the picture he saw in his head and the image that came through his hand onto paper or canvas, there was a gap in communication. It was very frustrating, because the images were always vivid and insistent. His fingers itched at his back at the thought and he flexed them. He would love to carve her out of wood. Not that he had any great skill at whittling either, but it was wood carving he yearned to do almost more than anything else. He saw life and shape in wood. He saw soul there and longed to reveal it with the aid of his knife.

But he had never been encouraged to discover any real talent he might have. Quite the opposite, in fact. So he had never been able to develop his meager skills. One day, perhaps...Oh, one day he would carve this scene.

Or would he simply forget? 

No. He would never forget.

She had no idea that he loved her not just as a friend but as a lover. He was in love with her and had been for some time. For the last year or so anyway. It was not a love he would ever reveal to anyone, of course, least of all to her. For he was the younger son of a landed gentleman of only modest means, while she was the daughter of Richard Greenfield, who was untitled but nevertheless of the upper gentry, with an impeccable lineage on both his side and his wife's. He had a home and park at least twice the size of the Taylors', a correspondingly profitable farm, and a sizable fortune. The Greenfields had always been kind to Matthew, but there could never be any question of his marrying their only daughter. Everyone understood that. It had never had to be put into words. Matthew had understood it, even as he was falling in love with his childhood friend. He had known that in doing so he was dooming himself to heartache, even heartbreak. For the time would come when she would

inevitably marry.

Someone else, that was.