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anywhere near as mercenary. It was the man himself who compelled her: the sinewy strength of his body that moved with such loose-limbed grace, those strong, angular features, framed by thick dark-brown hair and enlivened by those intense blue eyes. And that element of mystery, of hidden depths below the surface of his rather infrequent smile. But however attractive she found him, Mr. Pendarvis was a friend and a neighbor, nothing more—certainly not someone to encourage the idle fancies of a girl barely out of the schoolroom. She stepped back, summoning what she hoped was a bright, friendly smile.
    “Why don’t,” her voice husked slightly, so she cleared her throat and tried again, “why don’t we sit down on those rocks over there until we’re recovered our breath? The horses could probably use the rest as well.”
    He agreed, and they made their way up the beach to where a cluster of large rocks stood, gathering warmth in the sun. Sophie sat down on one with an obligingly flat top, twitching the skirts of her habit into place. Mr. Pendarvis leaned against the rock beside hers, and they watched the sea in companionable silence while their horses stood nearby, nosing at heaps of beached kelp and other sea-borne flotsam.
    The sea was a clear blue today, laced with green—like a piece of shot silk Sophie had once seen in a shop window. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying raucously, and cresting waves raced toward the shore, sending up columns of spray as they dashed themselves upon the sand.
    Sophie stole a glance at Mr. Pendarvis. He looked such a different man out here in the open, relaxed and at ease as he seldom was in public. Just now, his expression conveyed only contentment, which sharpened into pleasure, even awe, as a towering wave struck the shore and flung a volley of foam into the air.
    “I think the sea is putting on quite the show for us today,” she observed, smiling.
    “Is it always so fine here, on the coast?” he asked.
    “On the north coast,” Sophie told him. “It’s gentler on the south shore. Still lovely, but less dramatic. My mother grew up on the south shore, and we’ve gone to visit her family there, but I know in my heart I’ll always be a north coast girl. This beach is one of my favorite spots—of course, there are so many beautiful places to be found in Cornwall, especially in the spring.”
    His smile warmed her, set her heart fluttering again. “And I’ll wager you know them all.”
    “A good many of them,” she confessed. “But then I’ve lived here all my life. It would be very strange if I didn’t know my own county.”
    “Have you ever thought you might live elsewhere someday? Most young ladies dream about going to London for their Season. Or even further abroad, to Paris.”
    “Well, I am to have a London Season,” Sophie replied. “Next spring, Harry says. And I wouldn’t mind visiting Paris, and perhaps Italy as well—Florence and Milan. I should love to attend an opera at La Scala one day. But as for where I’d choose to live”—she made a gesture encompassing the sea, the sky, and the distant cliffs—“my heart is here, and always will be.”
    “ This is mine own, my native land ,” Mr. Pendarvis quoted with a faint half smile.
    “Yes, that’s it.” Sophie tried not to sound self-conscious, or worse, defensive. “Perhaps that makes me a bit provincial, but—”
    “Not at all. I think it must be very reassuring to know exactly where you belong.”
    “I suppose it is,” Sophie said, after a moment’s reflection. “It goes back for generations, you see. There have always been Tresilians in St. Perran, and even further afield in Cornwall. You might come to feel that way yourself, eventually,” she added. “I understand that the Pendarvis name is a very old and respected one in the county.”
    “So Great-Uncle Simon told me, any number of times.” His smile turned rueful. “I couldn’t help feeling that he disapproved of me a bit, for not