Beatrix was staring at Christopher, a slight smile on her lips. “It puts our situation in perspective, doesn’t it?” she murmured.

Which was exactly what he had been thinking.

Merripen’s alert gaze went to Christopher’s face. “You’re to inherit Riverton, now that your brother is dead.”

“Yes.” Christopher’s lips twisted in a self-mocking smile. “And while John was thoroughly prepared for the responsibility, the inverse is true for me. I know little more than how to shoot someone or dig trenches.”

“You know how to organize men,” Merripen pointed out. “How to form a plan and carry it out. How to assess risk, and adapt when necessary.” He threw a swift grin in Cam’s direction. “When we started to restore the Ramsay estates, we told ourselves the best thing we could do was make a mistake. It meant we would learn something.”

It was then that Christopher fully grasped how much he had in common with the men in this family, even though they couldn’t have come from more different environments and upbringings. They were all grappling with a rapidly changing world, facing challenges that none of them had been prepared for. All of society was being tumbled and sifted, the old hierarchy crumbling, power shifting to unfamiliar hands. A man could either let himself sink into irrelevance, or step forward to shape the new age that was upon them. The possibilities were both intriguing and exhausting—he saw that in Merripen’s face, and in the faces of the others as well. But none of them would shrink from what had to be done.

Christopher contemplated Beatrix, who was sitting a few places away from him. Those eyes . . . midnight-blue, innocent and wise, alarmingly perceptive. What a curious mixture of qualities she possessed. She was capable of extraordinary composure and yet she was willing to play like a child. She was intellectual, instinctive, droll. Talking with her was like opening a treasure box to sort through unexpected delights.

As a man not yet thirty, Christopher was only six years older than Beatrix, and yet he felt the difference between them as a hundred. He wanted, needed, to be close to her, while at the same time he had to close away the worst of what he had seen and done, so that it would never touch her.

He had not made love to her since that afternoon two weeks earlier, having resolved not to take advantage of her until after they were married. But the erotic memory tantalized him constantly. Beatrix was an experience for which he had no reference point or comparison. The women he had known from the prior time in his life had offered easy and sophisticated pleasures. Nothing remotely similar to Beatrix’s headlong passion.

She was too innocent, too fine, to be what fate had intended for him. But he wanted her too badly to care. He would take her, and whatever calamity fate might choose to inflict in return, he would keep Beatrix safe from it.

Or from himself, if necessary.

A shriek came from the drawing room, disrupting all conversation at the Ramsay House soiree.

“What the devil was that?” Christopher’s grandfather, Lord Annandale, asked with a scowl. He was holding court in the family parlor, occupying a settee while various guests came to offer their homage. The long journey to Hampshire had made him querulous and exhausted. As a result, Annandale had demanded that Audrey, who had accompanied him from London, stay at his side.

Christopher suppressed a grin as he saw his sister-in-law staring at the doorway of the drawing room with patent longing. Although she had always gotten on fairly well with Annandale, she had spent the entire previous day shut away with the old codger in a private carriage.

“Why would someone scream at a soiree?” Annandale persisted, scowling.

Christopher maintained a bland expression. Since it most likely involved one of the Hathaways, it could have been anything.

“Shall I go and find out?” Audrey asked, clearly desperate to escape her grandfather-in-law.

“No, you may stay here, in case I need something.”

Audrey suppressed a sigh. “Yes, my lord.”

Beatrix entered the parlor and made her way through the clustered guests. Reaching Christopher, she said in a low tone, “Your mother just met Medusa.”

“My mother was the one who screamed?” Christopher asked.

“What was that?” Annandale demanded, remaining seated on the settee. “My daughter screamed?”

“I’m afraid so, my lord,” Beatrix said apologetically. “She encountered my pet hedgehog, who had escaped from her pen.” She glanced at Christopher, adding brightly, “Medusa’s always been too plump to climb the walls of her box before. I think her new exercise must be working!”

“Were any quills involved, love?” Christopher asked, repressing a grin.

“Oh, no, your mother wasn’t stuck. But Amelia is taking her to one of the upstairs rooms to rest. Unfortunately Medusa gave her a headache.”

Audrey glanced heavenward. “Her head always aches.”

“Why do you keep a hedgehog as a pet?” Annandale demanded of Beatrix.

“She can’t fend for herself, my lord. My brother rescued her from a fencepost hole when she was still a hoglet, and we couldn’t find her mother. So I’ve taken care of her ever since. Hedgehogs make delightful pets, as long as they’re handled properly.” She paused and regarded Annandale with frank interest. “My goodness, you are an eagle, aren’t you?”

“A what?” the elderly man asked, his eyes narrowing.

“An eagle.” Beatrix stared at him closely. “You have such striking features, and you exude power even while sitting still. And you like to watch people. You can assess them instantly, can’t you? No doubt you’re always right.”