Simone could not tell how she ever survived the picnic sitting so stiff with a smile pasted on her face the entire time. Roxie and Freda were free to join them and the pair chose not to, opting to take the only time of the day they were allowed on the birdwatching deck. And she wished she also had the freedom to choose not to be there because it was notoriously draining.

Not only did she have to pretend that she was fine and that the presence of Daniel Cavendish was naught but an honor, she also had to keep an eye on Price, Gale, and Lydia. The three had been throwing not-so-surreptitious glances at the duke, and worse, at her, then back, as if they were telling everyone they knew something. Which they didn't, of course, because they knew nothing.

Yes, they knew Simone and Daniel Cavendish had been exchanging letters for a duration of three years, but they truly didn't know the contents of those letters. They didn't know the depth of those conversations, the hearts she poured in hers, and the dreams in his.

However, they knew Simone had kept writing letters for another three years without a single reply from the man. And that was the excruciating and shameful part. There she was, sitting in a chair, fully aware of him from two seats away, remembering all the stupid things she wrote to him while he never wrote a word in return.

It was shameful at best.

And her last letter. Good Lord, what had she been thinking two years ago? To write to him as though they were lovers, practically telling him she was hurt for not getting any replies.

Shame was a terrible thing. And that's what made the picnic draining and excruciating.

"Do you think he'll marry her?" Price asked beside her. Following his gaze, she looked at Harry and Emmeline talking not far away, just the two of them. Harry had always been a charmer when it came to women. But it was rare to see him chummy with them with the exception of Arabella.

"No," she said.

"Are you feeling well?" Price asked, studying her face.

She slapped his hand away.

"You're a little testy, aren't you?" he asked.

"I'm just feeling hot. It's the sun," she gritted out.

"Surely, it's not the sun," he taunted.

"Don't push it, Price," she warned.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll walk out."

He laughed, and she stood, getting the attention of everyone around the table, including Daniel Cavendish. She made the mistake of looking at him, and he looked away, as uninterested as he was when a bug flew past him earlier. And she hated that. "I'm going for a walk," she said to her grandfather.

"I'll be your companion," Price volunteered, guiding her away before she could protest. "Your Grace, would you like to join us? I'll show you some interesting things in the woods."

"Oh, lovely! I'd like to stretch my legs too," Lydia piped in.

Simone walked on, very certain the man would say no. He could not even look at her with interest. Why would he be interested in a walk with them?

But to her surprise, she heard him say, "My pleasure."

Fortunately, she still had some control over her body. She did not turn even when the instinct was there. She just walked on, intent on overusing her muscle so she could later tell everyone that she wanted to retire early.

"Sisi, slow down!" Price called behind her.

"Keep up!" she snapped over her shoulder.

And he did. They did. Daniel Cavendish, still in a coat, silently walked beside Price. Lydia looped an arm around her and the two of them walked ahead of the two men.

"We spend most of our time here," said her brother. "There are dozens of birdwatching decks scattered around." He pointed at one tree. A ladder made of rope and wood was the only way up, which had never been a bother to all Stratford children. They grew up climbing up things.

Simone said nothing as they moved deeper into the woodland, the path growing thicker. Lydia, thank goodness, knew how to act whenever Sisi was cross. She remained silent, walking with her as the men talked, only saying a word or two if she thought Price's statement needed more elaboration.

"You also have to be careful with your steps," Price was saying. "Traps are everywhere."

"Not deadly, of course. Harmless ones, but still...traps," said Lydia, mirth in her voice.

"Over the years, we built traps for each other," Price said. "Most of them are forgotten now, but some of them might still work."

"And has anyone ever fallen victim?"

"Of course. Lydia has the most count," Price said.

Lydia broke free from Simone's arm and whirled around to playfully kick Price. "It's Gale. Do your math right."

Simone wanted to laugh with them, remembering the many times they all fell into each other's traps, even their own.

"Have you?" Daniel's voice asked beside her.

Startled, she looked at him. He was looking right at her. "What?"

He tore his gaze away from her and looked ahead. "Got into one of the traps."

"A few times," she murmured under her breath, then admittedly added, "a lot of times."

"Now that I think about it, it must be Sisi," Price said with a laugh. "She's the clumsiest."

Simone cleared her throat. "I can be quite boorish," she said.

"As I remember," Daniel said. She looked up at him and blinked, seeing the corner of his lips curled in a smile.

She was about to ask him what he remembered when suddenly she fell. Not on her face, but straight down. Well, not all of her, but just half a leg. Her shout rang in the woods, sending birds to fly away in alarm.

Price was fast to take her hand, but as he pulled, she let out a sharp cry, growling, "Whoever made this trap is going to die!"

"Sisi, what is it?" Lydia asked, alarmed.

Daniel Cavendish bent down on one knee, a frown on his face. Now, he must think she was the clumsiest. Which she was, but not as often as she was whenever he was around!

"Can't you get out?" Price asked, trying to pull again.

She pushed him away. "Price, no! I'm stuck."

"What do you mean?"

"Whoever dug this hole threw in some twigs and they're all sticking into my skin!"

"What?" He pushed Daniel aside and pushed aside her skirts. "Let me see."

She wrapped her arms around her brother's shoulders, trying hard not to cry. "We'll need a shovel."

"I'll get help."

"I will do it," said Daniel, sounding almost irritated. What was wrong with him? She was about to tell him he could just go and not return, but Price stopped him, saying, "No, you stay here." Daniel may be older and the one with the title, but at that moment, Price was the concerned brother. And master planner. "We'll be in trouble if they find out about this dangerous trap. By the looks of it, it could be the two girls' doing. Let's not bother the rest for now. Lydia will get something for her wounds—"

"Wounds?" Simone asked, voice thin in her attempt to not sound frantic.

"Just a precaution," her brother lied.

"Is it bad?" she asked.

"You won't die," he said, standing to his feet. "Lydia will get something for her leg while I get the shovel from the garden. If they ever find us, we'll tell them we're just on our way back to show you the treasures."

"Treasures?"

"We have some buried not far away," Lydia explained. "Just silly things, really."

"Right," said Price. "And we'll tell them we left you and Sisi on a deck."

"Price," she said, squeezing his hand.

"I'll be back," he promised. But as he realized his words, he corrected by saying, "I won't take long."

And that was how she trapped the duke in the woods, Simone thought as she watched her brother and Lydia walk away and as she realized she was alone with Daniel Cavendish. The duke, of course, not the man she liked years ago.

She wiped her tears with her hand and tried to hide a sniffle. Her leg was in pain, the ends of the twigs inside biting into flesh. She could only hope it was not deep enough that the doctor would think of cutting it off to save her. He had done that many times with some of the villagers.

"Are you feeling all right?" His voice was so unfamiliar, lacking the one she remembered, the one she could hear whenever she thought of him.

What happened to you? She wanted to ask. He looked impatient standing there, waiting for her answer. "I'll be fine," she said. She could not even muster a smile because her disappointment was growing as she spent more time with this Daniel Cavendish. Was this truly him? Was this the real him?

"Are you certain? You look pale."

"This is not the first time, Your Grace."

He opened his mouth to say something, as if to tell her she could just forget the formality, but he closed it again. Nodding, he paced in front of her. An owl hooted somewhere. And from somewhere quite far, a bleat.

"Is that a goat?"

She winced as she changed the position of her free leg. "Yes."

He walked away and she was just about to say he did not have to put that much distance between them because she was not planning anything, but then she realized he had bent down and dragged a log toward her. "Here. Sit."

"Thank you," she mumbled.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

She gritted her teeth. "Please, help me ignore the pain by not asking."

Again, he just nodded. With her previous emotions spent on the event of her accident, Simone felt more relaxed. And somehow, a bit brave as she studied his features, his movements. Impatient and uncomfortable. Why?

"Would you answer one question, Your Grace?" she asked.

His face was unreadable when he faced her again. He did not answer yes, but he waited for her question.

"Do you..." She wavered at the sudden attack of fear, but then she realized he had nowhere else to go. He was just as trapped as her. "Do you remember me?"

His already existing frown deepened. "Whatever do you mean?"

"We met nine years ago," she said. "I wrote you a letter." He stayed quiet. "Oh, but of course, you don't. I hardly remember it myself," she said with a scoff. She still had her pride. Of course, she should act nonchalant about the past. "But I was hoping you would remember at least a little." She cleared her throat and smiled at him. But, really, she was crushed. How could he just stand there and look so clueless? "We had a bit of a correspondence." A bit, of course, was an understatement. He wrote dozens of letters. And she, hundreds.

As the silence between them lingered, she was drowning in shame. To be reminded of the things she wrote him, of her childish stories, of her open admiration toward him, was just embarrassing. Did she really send him those horrible drawings of her designs? She wished she didn't. She wished she could not remember all of them. Just like he could not.

"I remember," he said. She wondered if he was telling the truth because his voice was as lifeless as her injured leg. Was he just being nice?

"Why did you stop?" she asked, swallowing hard. Whoever said she was not brave should bite their tongue. Then, surprising them both, she laughed. "I'm jesting, Your Grace. It doesn't matter. You don't have to answer that." Maybe she wasn't that brave after all. His reasons could stay hidden. He was here, a duke, and she was here, half a leg buried under the ground. Clearly, they were both different people now. And clearly, they regretted the many silly things they did in the past. Like writing those letters. And as if she needed to convince herself more, she added, "That was a long time ago. I don't even remember half of it. And I'm certain you received many letters from other fans."

His face did not even change. Not a flash of something. "I understand," he said.

"You're not acting anymore, are you?" That question got a reaction. His jaw had tightened and she knew she had said something wrong. "Well, anyway, I was childish back then. I truly hope you burned my letters." Again, she forced out a laugh. She may be swimming in shame, but she refused to drown in it. But she should probably shut up. "It was—"

"A thing of the past," he interjected.

Her mouth remained half-open with the words he did not let her speak. A thing of the past. No, that's not what she wanted to say. To hear it from him was quite different. It hurt, really. He just told her that everything else in that part of his life—their letters about the theater, his plays, their friendship, her—were naught but a thing of the past.

She was the only one who had been clinging on to the memories of him, after all. Her past was just a speck in his memory. His dreams, the theater, were just not a part of him anymore.

A thing of the past.

Slowly, Simone nodded, biting her lips. "I understand." This time she did not hide the crack in her voice, nor hide the tears. But she refused to let him think it was because of him, so she said, "Oh, my leg hurts. I hope they come back soon."

His gaze was on her, his almost stoic face showing slight concern. As if he could read her mind, but really, he didn't. He couldn't. Because he was no longer the Daniel Cavendish she met across her window in Picadilly. The concern on his face was just about her injured leg. Not about what he just made her feel. He did not understand that he just shattered her embarrassingly beautiful childish memories. And yes, they were childish indeed. And she was too old for those.

"I'm sure they're on their way back," he assured her.

She took a long breath and nodded, hoping he would be away soon so she could finally convince herself that her life could now go on. That she no longer had to remain curious about him. That dreams could be lived and then forgotten.

But of course, fate had a different plan as they would soon find out.