“As opposed to women,” Leo retorted, “who have the remarkable ability to make decisions without doing any thinking at all.”

Christopher came to Ramsay House in the morning, looking very . . . well, soldierly, despite the fact that he was dressed in informal walking attire. He was quiet and impeccably polite as he asked to accompany Beatrix on a walk. Although Beatrix was thrilled to see him, she was also uneasy. He looked guarded and severe, a man with a possibly unpleasant duty to perform.

This was not at all auspicious.

Still, Beatrix maintained a cheerful façade, leading Christopher to one of her favorite walks in the forest, an outward leg with farmland to the right and woodland to the left. It continued in a loop that cut directly into the forest, crossed over ancient paths, and finished along a creek. Albert crossed back and forth, sniffing industriously as they progressed.

“. . . whenever you find a clearing like this,” Beatrix said, leading Christopher to a small, sun-dappled meadow, “it’s most likely an ancient field enclosure from the Bronze Age. They knew nothing about fertilizing, so when a patch of land became unproductive, they simply cleared a new area. And the old areas became covered with gorse and bracken and heather. And here”—she showed him the cavity of an oak tree near the clearing—“is where I watched a hobby chick hatch in early summer. Hobbies don’t build their own nests, they use ones made by other birds. They’re so fast when they fly, they look like sickles cutting through the air.”

Christopher listened attentively. With the breeze playing lightly in his dark gold hair, and a slight smile on his lips, he was so handsome that it was difficult not to gape at him. “You know all the secrets of this forest, don’t you?” he asked gently.

“There’s so much to learn, I’ve only scratched the surface. I’ve filled books with sketches of animals and plants, and I keep finding new ones to study.” A wistful sigh escaped her. “There is talk of a natural history society to be established in London. I wish I could be part of it.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I’m sure they won’t admit ladies,” Beatrix said. “None of those groups do. It will be a room full of whiskered old men smoking pipes and sharing entomological notes. Which is a pity, because I daresay I could talk about insects as well as any of them.”

A slow smile crossed his face. “I for one am glad you have neither pipe nor whiskers,” he said. “However, it seems a pity that anyone who likes animals and insects as well as you shouldn’t be allowed to discuss them. Perhaps we could persuade them to make an exception for you.”

Beatrix glanced at him in surprise. “You would do that? You wouldn’t mind the idea of a woman pursuing such unorthodox interests?”

“Of course I wouldn’t. There would be no point in marrying a woman with unorthodox interests and then trying to make her ordinary, would there?”

Her eyes turned round. “Are you going to propose to me now?”

Christopher turned her to face him, his fingers stroking the underside of her chin, coaxing her face upward. “There are some things I want to discuss first.”

Beatrix looked at him expectantly.

His expression sobered. Taking her hand in his, he began to walk with her along a grassy path. “First . . . we won’t be able to share a bed.”

She blinked. Hesitantly she asked, “We’re going to be platonic?”

He stumbled a little. “No. God, no. What I meant was, we will have relations, but we will not sleep together.”

“But . . . I think I would like sleeping with you.”

His hand tightened on hers. “My nightmares would keep you awake.”

“I wouldn’t mind that.”

“I might accidently strangle you in my sleep.”

“Oh. Well, I would mind that.” Beatrix frowned in concentration as they walked slowly. “May I make a request in turn?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Could you leave off drinking strong liquor, and only have wine from now on? I know that you use spirits as a medicine to treat your other problems, but it’s possible that it actually makes them worse, and—”

“There’s no need to talk me into it, love. I’ve already resolved to do that.”

“Oh.” She smiled at him, pleased.

“There’s only one other thing I’ll ask of you,” Christopher said. “No more dangerous activities, such as climbing trees or training half-wild horses, or removing feral animals from traps, and so forth.”

Beatrix glanced at him in mute protest, resisting the prospect of any curtailment on her freedom.

Christopher understood. “I won’t be unreasonable,” he said quietly. “But I’d rather not have to worry about you being injured.”

“People are injured all the time. Women’s skirts catch fire, or people are thrown down by vehicles thundering along the road, or they trip and fall—”

“Precisely my point. Life is dangerous enough without your tempting fate.”

It occurred to Beatrix that her family had placed far fewer restrictions on her than a husband would. She had to remind herself that marriage would have compensations as well.

“. . . I have to go to Riverton soon,” Christopher was saying. “I have much to learn about running an estate, not to mention the timber market. According to the estate manager, the production of Riverton timber is inconsistent. And a new railway station is being built in the region, which is to our benefit only if good roads are laid out. I have to take part in the planning, or I’ll have no right to complain later.” He stopped and turned Beatrix to face him. “I know how close you are to your family. Could you bear to live away from them? We’ll keep Phelan House, but our main residence would be at Riverton.”