A Season To Be Sinful

by Jo Goodman

Genres: Clean & Wholesome Romance; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

USA Today bestselling author Jo Goodman's sweeping new novel brings to life a tale of courage, desire,  and dangerous secrets--as an intrepid beauty discovers that love and trust are two sides of the same coin. . .
Wyatt Grantham, Viscount Sheridan, is stunned to find three young boys at his door, demanding he right the wrongs of an incident that occurred earlier that evening when he thwarted a determined thief. When he discovers his wily pickpocket is a woman, now gravely injured, he takes his flame-haired attacker under his wing. Clearly, Sheridan's new "guest" is lady of quality. So how did she become a common street thief?  He finds himself irresistibly drawn the to clever, cheeky Lily, and determined to unlock her mysteries. . .
The five years since she left the care of the French convent have been a nightmare for Lily. Her secrets are dangerous--as is the powerful man determined to find her.The handsome Viscount is clearly a gentleman with secrets of his own, but staying with him could mean the difference between life and death for Lily. With each passing day, her handsome host turns Lily's convalescence into an increasingly sensual escape.  Now her greatest challenge may be imagining anything less than a future in his arms. . .

Release date: November 19, 2014

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 432

Sample

London, April 1815

His nibs was a watchful one. She’d give him that. Most of the young bucks strolling through Covent Garden after the theatre discharged its patrons gave their full attention to the muslin set and never took notice of the footpads brushing their elbows. Some nights it was so easy to lift the contents of a gentleman’s pocket that there was no sport in it.

She had never cared for the sport of it overmuch. Snick. Snack. A flick of the wrist and two swipes of a finely honed blade were usually all that was required. The threads, even the finest silk ones, could be sliced as easily as butter. Sometimes the money purse jangled, especially if it was nicely weighted, but by then it was already too late. Fleet of foot and as unpredictable in their movements as quicksilver, the thieves were already plunging through the crowd, hiding behind skirts as well as under them.

The gentleman—and she could tell by his negligent confidence that he was at the very least a gentleman—inclined his head toward the woman on his arm as she spoke. The nature of the comment was not clear to her, as the gentleman’s features merely remained politely fixed. The woman evidently thought her observation was worthy of some sort of response because she raised her brows expectantly. His nibs remained unmoved. This seemed to cause his companion some distress as the curve of her dark red mouth faltered, then fell. Lest he miss the point, the woman underscored it by pursing her lips, not with disapproval, but petulance.

It was not a look that sat well on the woman’s narrow features, she thought as she advanced on them, but that expression had arrested the gentleman’s attention and neither he nor his lightskirt made any attempt to evade her approach.

She saw the buzz-gloaks coming at him from three directions, moving purposely through the crowd but without hurry or menace, cautious in the way they were proceeding to deliver the rum-hustle. Indeed, if she had not been looking for them, they might have easily escaped notice. It was all part and parcel of their plan, a plan they had executed successfully more times than she cared to contemplate. One would rub elbows with their quarry, one would beg his pardon, and one would step smartly on his ladybird’s ruffled skirt. They would move on quickly, but not at a run. They were boman prigs and knew their craft too well to draw more attention to themselves than was strictly necessary. If their victim realized his purse had been lifted and gave chase, then they would run. It would require more luck than determination to catch them, for they had a lightness of foot that equaled the lightness of their fingers and putting hands on them was like trying to snatch quicksilver.

Her attention was all for them, gauging the moment they would strike, her deliberation matching their own. It surprised her, then, that she should notice anything at all outside the trap that was about to be sprung. Perhaps it was because she knew the players so well that one more or less in the drama gave her pause. It was as if Iago had made his entrance with Queen Titania’s fairie court; one knew immediately that Othello’s villain had no place in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

She did not mistake the man’s nature by naming him a villain. Although he was a brutish sort, with broad, uneven features and a heavy gait, he was in every way the equal of the dangerously sly and manipulative character that Shakespeare had perfectly penned.

These thoughts flitted through her mind so quickly that she barely grasped their import; acting on them was impulsive, accomplished more by instinct than plan. She had arrived in this place with only one purpose: to stop the three young ruffians from picking the gentleman’s pockets. Once she saw the glint of the attacker’s blade, she was helpless to respond in any way save to stop him from slitting the gentleman’s throat.

Launching herself forward at a run, her lithe body defied gravity as it took flight. For a few moments she was actually suspended above the crushed gravel path, then momentum brought her crashing into the gentleman, bearing him hard to the ground.

Lady Georgia Pendelton, Countess of Rivendale, pressed her hands to her heart in what an idle observer might have determined was a dramatic, perhaps overwrought, gesture. Those fortunate people who numbered themselves among the lady’s dearest friends knew the sincerity of such gestures and would always recognize them as a sign that her sympathies were deeply engaged.

“Never say you were hurt, Sherry. I do not think I can bear it if you say you were injured.” Her pale gray eyes narrowed as she made a complete survey of her godson. He had suffered a measure of this scrutiny when he crossed the threshold into her sitting room, but then she had not known he had had an adventure. Now she must assure herself that he was none the worse for it, dear boy.

That dear boy, Alexander Henry Grantham, Viscount Sheridan, was in his twenty-eighth year, and he was as kindly cooperative of his godmother’s second study of his person as he had been her first.

This inspection was nothing new. He had been all of five the first time he was aware of it. On that occasion Lady Rivendale had swept into the nursery, his own mother a few steps in her wake, and made an extraordinary fuss over him. There had been comments about the unfortunate darkening of his hair, from toffee brown to bittersweet chocolate. And was there nothing anyone could do about the cowlick that surely pointed due north like a compass needle? His eyes, she also noted as she raised his chin, had lost every hint that they might be green or hazel and now were as deeply brown as his hair. Why was he so pale? she wondered, and because she was Lady Rivendale, his mother’s great friend from childhood and his own dear godmother, she felt free to wonder this aloud.

There was also a critique of the shape of his nose, which was pronounced as substantial as an eagle’s beak by his godmother and aquiline by his mother. “Just like his father’s,” Lady Sheridan had said. “Yes,” his godmother had replied, “but one hopes that can be changed.”

She said nothing about his mouth, which he remembered thinking was a kindness, for surely his lower lip had been quivering by then. Still, he stood there and accepted it, watching her gravely from eyes that she had already pronounced too large for his thin face.

She liked the way he stood, though, and complimented him on his soldier’s bearing. “Come, give us a hug,” she said, and enveloped him in her arms. For a long time afterward Sherry had thought the “us” he was hugging were the soft twin pillows of her breasts.

“You must call me Aunt Georgia,” she told him. Of course he did. How could he refuse a woman with such important breasts?

She would disappear for months, sometimes years, then announce herself without advance notice or invitation. She was always welcome. Presents arrived at odd times, never for the usual celebratory reasons like birthdays or Christmas, but simply because she thought of him. Later, when his younger sister reached the great age of six and exchanged the nursery for the schoolroom, Lady Rivendale proclaimed this also made her of interest and showered her with attentions that had been formerly reserved for him.

He did not mind overmuch. His godmother was in every way generous with her affections. The more she gave of herself, the more she seemed to have to give. For proof of this, he had only to think of the visit she made to Eton in the month following the death of his parents.

A great-uncle on his mother’s side was now guardian to him and his sister, but the charge lay heavily on his shoulders, more burden than privilege, and he gratefully surrendered all duties to Lady Rivendale when she applied for them. At the funeral service he had been overheard to say, “Deuced irresponsible of Sheridan and my niece to die with their children yet to be raised. What am I to do with the two brats? Oh, it is a simple enough thing with the lad. He is at Eton at least, and his future is set. But the girl? I can get nothing from her save tears.”

When Lady Rivendale arrived at Eton, she had his sister in tow. It was one of the few times she did not inspect his person before enveloping him in her plump arms and plumper breasts; it was also the first time he was called Sherry.

Viscount Sheridan. His father’s title, now his, but somehow uniquely his. No one had ever call his father Sherry, not even the dauntless Lady Rivendale.

On the occasion of that visit she had announced they would be family now, and she said it with such practicality that Sherry and his sister never questioned the good sense of it.

It was not a matter of becoming a family; they just were.

“I am all of a piece,” he said, returning to the present before she placed the back of her hand on his forehead. “The ill effects were confined to my frock coat, which split at the shoulder seam, and the backside of my trousers, which was pitted with gravel. Kearns says the frock coat will be repaired to its former fit; the trousers have already been surrendered to the ragpicker.”

“I am certain your valet has your wardrobe well in hand—he has never failed to turn you out impressively—but what of your backside?”

Sherry blinked. He should not have been surprised by the remark, for Lady Rivendale always spoke her mind. Most often it was a refreshing discourse. He found, however, when the subject was his backside the notion of such plain speaking was rather alarming.

“You are really quite charmingly priggish,” she said, dropping both hands from her heart to lay them lightly on his forearm. “I have always thought so. No, you must not take offense, for none was meant.”

“Saying that it is charming does not mitigate the priggishness.”

Lady Rivendale smiled deeply. She loved his wry tone. Sherry might be a tad high in the instep, but at least he had the good sense to know it. “I will not be persuaded to allow my question to go unanswered.”

Sherry regarded her gravely. “When I said I was all of a piece, dear heart, all the pieces included my backside.”

Clapping her hands together smartly as she laughed, her ladyship sat back comfortably on the settee. “Splendid. That is perfectly splendid. Now, what of your companion? I suppose she emerged unscathed.”

Had his sister made the remark he would have reproved her, but this was his godmother and he found himself chuckling instead. “You will be disappointed to learn it was just so.”

She did not deny it. “Bother. I would not wish her any grievous injury, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But the thought of Miss Dumont tumbling head over bucket, especially if it were done with little grace, well, it is a delicious image.”

Sheridan’s manner of collecting himself until he could make a considered reply was to lift a single dark eyebrow in a pronounced arch. In that fashion he could communicate reproach, caution, or even carefully measured astonishment. If the dark glance that accompanied it was equally persuasive, the recipient of this look simply ceased to speak. There were times, though, when Sherry’s deeply brown eyes were only amused, and the effect of the raised brow was to lend his expression a touch of the ironic.

“I did not realize you were acquainted with Miss Dumont,” he said mildly.

“Acquainted? With your mistress? Hardly, Sherry, and you well know it.” To give her hands something to occupy them, Lady Rivendale picked up her teacup and sipped. “But aware? Yes, indeed, how could I not be? She has been your consort these last three months. I believe I learned you intended to set her up in that house in Jericho Mews before she knew the same.”

“You have never said anything.”

“It is not at all flattering that you can scarcely credit it. I have always maintained that you should have some secrets from me.”

“Or at least the illusion that I have them,” Sherry said dryly.

Lady Rivendale had the grace to blush. Suffused with pink color, her remarkably smooth countenance hinted at the complete beauty she had been in her youth. In her fifty-second year, she was still a handsome woman by any of society’s standards, though proportionately rounder. The visible markers of her advanced age were the graying threads of hair at her temples and the faint but permanent creases at the corner of her eyes. Because she had earned the latter by laughing at the vagaries of life, and the former by surviving them, she accepted both without regrets or any thought of concealment. A military man did not conceal his ribbons, and it was no different for her. Life was a campaign.

“You are put out with me, Sheridan,” she said. “Do not deny it; I can see that you are. Although I abhor defending myself, I cannot abide that you might think I spy on you. What particulars reach my ears concerning you are never sought by me.” Over the rim of the delicate bone china teacup, Lady Rivendale saw her godson’s brow rise a fraction higher. “Almost never,” she amended. “Certainly that is true in the case of Miss Dumont. I might have happily lived the rest of my life without knowing you had an arrangement with this woman, but no less a personage than Lady Calumet repeated the on dit within my hearing. Deliberately done, make no mistake, but entirely for my benefit. She knows I dote on you.”

“Then perhaps I should extend my thanks. Will a note be enough, or should I call on her?”

Her ladyship went on as if Sherry had not interrupted. He meant not a word of what he said, and they both shared that understanding. “I doubt that Miss Dumont is even French, so if she has tales of escaping the Terror or of connections to the Bourbons to retain your sympathies and lighten your pockets, it is all lies and nonsense. Miss Duplicitous is what the baggage should call herself.”

Sherry was glad he was holding his tumbler of whisky and not drinking from it. By only the narrowest bit of luck did he manage to swallow his laughter rather than choke on it. “Pray, do not mince words. If you have an opinion, I should like to hear it.”

Unlike her beloved godson, Georgia Pendelton had never held back laughter in her life, and she was not inclined to begin now. It was no polite, trilling titter that escaped her. When she laughed it was an abandonment of genteel sensibilities in favor of a full-throated, husky shout of her delight. Her shoulders and bosom were engaged in the activity, heaving once, then merely shuddering until the first wave of amusement passed. There was little delicacy in the movements, though in the end, when she dashed away the tears that had collected at the corner of her eyes, it was accomplished with a certain gravitas.

“You are an evil boy,” she said without rancor. “I am certain I knew it from the first. Look, you have made me spill my tea.” Since every drop had been neatly caught by the saucer, her accusation did not have the weight of a rebuke.

At once solicitous, though with an exaggerated formality that made his gesture a parody of concern, Sheridan leaned forward and took the cup and saucer from her hand. He tipped the saucer so the droplets of tea slid onto the serving tray, replaced it under the cup, then added a generous pour of whisky from his own tumbler to her tea.

“For your nerves,” he said. “Drink deeply.”

Lady Rivendale was immediately alert. “What is it? Never say you mean to marry the girl.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I confess, the idea has never occurred to me. It is not a done thing.”

This time when her ladyship’s plump bosom heaved, it was with relief. She could point out to him that it was indeed a done thing, though perhaps not very well done. As annoying as Sherry’s perfect sense of propriety could be on occasion, there were times, such as now, that it was a most comforting aspect of his character. He actually looked a bit affronted that she had even briefly entertained the notion.

“I am heartily glad to hear it,” she said. She raised her cup and took a deep swallow. The whisky blended nicely with the tea’s piquant flavor and admirably warmed her. She regarded him expectantly. “Well?”

“Last evening’s incident at the garden was not without bloodshed.”

The whisky kept Lady Rivendale’s complexion in the pink. He was right to suspect she would need it. “But not yours,” she said, eyes narrowing again.

“No. Not mine.” Before she could interrupt, he hastened to add, “And I did not do murder, though that thought did occur to me. It was the fellow who bowled me over who was stabbed.”

“Hoist with his own petard, I’d say. He meant to rob you.”

Sherry nodded thoughtfully. “It appears that way.”

“You are entertaining some doubts?”

“No, not really. It all happened very fast. Most of the crowd scattered. Perfectly understandable. You can imagine there was a great deal of screaming.”

“A fair amount of it from Miss Dumont’s substantial lungs.”

He confirmed his godmother’s observation with a faint grimace. The memory of Francine’s shrill vocalizations following the attack still echoed in his ears unpleasantly. “It was generally agreed by those witnesses who were in the least reliable that the fellow tripped in his approach and was caught by his own blade.”

“A grievous wound?” she asked. “Or will he hang for surviving it?”

“I’m afraid I can answer neither of your questions. While I was being attended to, and Miss Dumont was being quieted, he was carried off.”

“Carried off? Whatever do you mean?”

“Just that. Taken away.”

“By the parish watchmen?”

“No, not the Charlies. By his accomplices, I should think. Except to remove his person from mine, no one evinced concern for him. That he was wounded was apparent. There was the knife hilt under his ribs and blood seeping on the stones. Hoist with his own petard, as you said. Onlookers moved in closer, and when the area was cleared again, he was gone.”

“Then mayhap he was not hurt at all.”

“I cannot conceive of a reason for such an elaborate ruse, but it doesn’t matter. His wound was real enough. The blood on my waistcoat and shirt was quite real.”

“You did not mention blood before.”

“We were speaking of my injuries then,” he said with perfect calm. “And I will remind you that there were none. In any event, the waistcoat and shirt went the way of my trousers. Kearns insisted.”

“As well he should have.” She gave him a considering look. “I did wonder why you so easily accepted a whisky this morning. It is not generally your way to drink this early.”

Sherry had only accepted the tumbler because he knew most of it would be used to lace his godmother’s tea, but if she thought he required Dutch courage or the hair of the dog to set last night’s adventure before her and behind him, he would not correct the assumption.

“It was good of you to come and tell me the whole of it, Sherry,” she said. “I shudder to think how the story will be perverted by the time I hear it again from Lady Calumet.”

“Yes, there is that.”

“Hmmm.” Georgia’s gaze became a little unfocused as she regarded a point in the distance beyond her godson’s shoulder and set herself to the task of perverting the facts to fit her own sense of how the tale should be told. “I shall have to put it about that you gamely acquitted yourself. One does not like to think that you simply lay there under that unfortunate person. Do you ever carry a blade, Sherry?”

“I do not.”

She sighed, expecting just that answer. “No matter. It is perhaps better that you had no weapon. Placing yourself between the cutpurse and your lady friend is romantic nonsense, of course, but just the sort of thing a doting mama with a daughter on the marriage mart will want to hear. Are you certain you were with Miss Dumont, dear? Mighten it have been Miss Harriet Franklin who accompanied you? I think you will agree she is likely to inspire more gallantry than Miss Dumont.”

“What she inspires is indigestion.”

Lady Rivendale frowned. “Truly? That is too bad. I admit to having some hopes in that direction.”

Sherry merely shook his head and set himself comfortably back in the wing chair, though if she had offered him another pour of whisky he would have seized it with the alacrity of a man going under for the third time.

Mrs. Nicholas Caldwell, née Cybelline Louisa Grantham, brushed past the butler in the foyer of her brother’s townhouse and summarily announced herself in Sheridan’s library. He was caught between pleasure and dismay in the same manner he was caught between standing and sitting behind his polished cherry wood desk.

Cybelline did not expect ceremony from her brother, though she knew he was hard pressed not to offer it. “Oh, do sit, Sherry, if that is what you intended. I am quite content to come to you.” She briskly unwrapped the paisley shawl from around her shoulders and unfastened the ribbons of her straw bonnet, then tossed bonnet and shawl in the direction of the damask chaise, all the while advancing on the desk as if she were a regimental standard bearer. She stopped only when she was inches from the chair into which he had slowly lowered himself. “Perhaps you’d better stand,” she said. “I will have to see for myself that you are unhurt.”

“Would you be offended,” he asked mildly, “if I snapped to attention?”

“Beast.”

Sherry pushed back his chair and stood, allowing himself once again to be the object of a loved one’s careful scrutiny. Cybelline’s study was only different from his godmother’s in that her eyes were a steelier shade of gray. “You are looking well, Cyb,” he said. “You are glowing, you know.”

“Glowering.”

“That also, but I choose to comment on what is lovely about you.”

The glower went completely out of her. She rested her hand lightly on the gentle swell of her belly. She was only three months into her pregnancy and would have welcomed more proof of it. “How is it that you know precisely the right thing to say?”

“The same instinct that sends a fox running to his earth: self-preservation.”

She tapped him lightly on his arm with her fist. “You really are a beast, Sherry.” Assured now that he was in every way unharmed, Cybelline backed away and bade him sit once more. She chose the damask-covered chair for a resting place, fitting a small pillow in the curve of her back and placing her feet on an upholstered stool. When she looked up she saw his expression had arrested on her. She laughed. “Yes, Sherry, I am going to have a child. Truly. Did you have doubts?”

He blinked. Raising one hand to his dark hair, he plowed through it with an apologetic, if somewhat perplexed, manner. “No doubts,” he assured her. “But I think it is only now penetrating the gray matter.”

She nodded wisely. She knew the look and the feeling. It was akin to her own experience but even more closely mirrored her husband’s. “It was the same for Nicholas. He accepted the news easily enough, but I know the exact moment he actually understood it. Astonishing, really, when you think about it, since it is the natural course of things. You do realize you’ll be an uncle?”

“I knew that at the outset, but you will understand that until a moment ago it was an abstract concept.” He regarded his sister’s lovely, familiar features. They were set more softly now than they had been when she entered the room. Then they could only have been described as militant. At this moment a slight smile lifted the corners of her mouth, and the color in her cheeks was as pink as a perfect English rose. Curling tendrils of hair the color of honey framed her serene countenance like a golden nimbus. She did indeed glow.

“Uncle Sherry,” he mused aloud. “It suits me, I think.”

Cybelline let her hand flutter over her belly again. “Certainly it does. You will be a wonderful uncle.” The timbre of her voice dropped slightly as it took on a husky, hopeful quality. “Marriage . . . babies . . . your turn as uncle might yet inspire you.”

He grunted softly. “You have surely been talking to Aunt Georgia.”

“She is entirely sensible on the subject, though that is not why I came here today.”

Sheridan was certain that was so, but wondered now if he should be glad of it. Sighing, he forged ahead. There was no point in avoiding the subject any longer. “What have you heard, and more significantly, from whom did you hear it?”

“I should have liked to have heard it from you,” she said reprovingly. “Since you failed to deliver the details yourself, I had the tale from Miss Arbuthnot and Mrs. Dorsey.”

“Then it was your ladies’ literary circle that was titillated by the story. I suppose I may take some solace in that. If my poor adventure is going to be embellished, the best minds should have a crack at it. Come now, out with it.”

“The particulars are these,” she said, raising one slim hand to tick them off on her fingers. “You were set upon by footpads in Covent Garden.” Tick. “You dispatched one by planting him a solid facer that broke his nose and the other by using his own knife to gut him.” Tick. Tick. “Miss Dumont made a cake of herself screaming like a banshee while you were attacked.” Tick. “And when it was over you gave the Charlies enough coin to see that your erstwhile victims were properly cared for.” Tick.

Sherry regarded his sister’s open hand for a long moment before he spoke. “My. The wags have had a good run with it. Aunt Georgia weaves a story with considerably more warp than weft. I suspect by the time I arrive at the club this evening, modesty will prevent me from admitting that I dealt soundly with a half dozen of London’s worst sort.”

“None of it’s true?” Cybelline asked.

“You are crestfallen,” he said, observing the way her mouth pulled at the corners. “And I am sorry for that. You must feel free to make more of the tale if the fancy strikes you.”

“I am not disappointed,” she said stoutly, “and I will have nothing to do with perpetuating the lie. What is the truth?”

He told her. When he finished he could see clearly that she could no longer deny her regret. “It is singularly unheroic, is it not?”

“You were simply knocked down?” she asked.

“Flattened.”

“You did not try to move Miss Dumont out of the way?”

“She stepped aside easily enough. The fact that she was screaming like a banshee did not dispose me to save her.”

“Then that part is true.”

He tapped one of his ears lightly with the flat of his hand. “Sadly, yes.”

“You did not gut your assailant?”

“I do not clean my own fish.”

“I wondered about that.”

He watched her carefully. “Should you have liked it better if the tale were true?”

“No!” The response was forceful and surrendered a shade too quickly. “No,” she said more convincingly a moment later. “You had no opportunity to defend yourself.”

“Perhaps I would not have.”

“I don’t believe that.”

He shrugged. “When the choice is put to you that it must be your money or your life, there is only one sensible answer. I do not like it that the question was not even posed. It seemed rather ill mannered that he would simply run at me.”

“Ill mannered?” Cybelline said weakly. “That is your characterization of the footpad’s methods? You do admire good form.”

“I do not deny it. Why should I? Every profession must have standards, else how to judge one’s success?”

“Why, Sherry, you are disappointed that he was not better at it!”

While it was clear his sister was astounded by this notion, Sherry did not understand the why of it. “Certainly. How else was I to properly acquit myself? I might have wrestled him on the path and taken the upper hand. Not dignified, mayhap, but preferable to lying under his dead weight with my lungs absent of breath. We might have grappled for the knife if it hadn’t been buried to the hilt in his side. He was so inept that he tripped while advancing and plunged the thing in himself.”

Cybelline frowned. “You’re certain you had nothing to do with that? It seems deuced odd that he would have been able to manage the thing.” Standing, she crossed the short distance to his desk and picked up the silver letter opener that was lying squarely at the center. She held it by the embossed hilt as if to make a stab at him, then puzzled over how she would do herself in with the same blade. She reversed the opener in her hand so that she gripped it by its sharper end and tried again.

“Bloody hell,” he said.

She looked up, startled, and realized he had been watching her closely. “Why, Sherry, you never swear.”

He did not apologize for it. “Do give it over before you do real damage to yourself and my niece or nephew.”

Glancing down, she saw she still held the pointed tip of the opener mere inches from her right side. “This is what you were doing before I came in here,” she said. Certain that she was in the right of it, she did not wait for his confirmation. “You were wondering yourself how it was accomplished.”

Sherry held out his hand and waited until she slapped the letter opener smartly in his palm. To quell further temptation, he opened a drawer under the desktop and slipped it inside.

“It is merely a curiosity,” he said by way of explanation. He waved her back to the chair before he returned to his seat. “As I mentioned, it all happened with surprising speed. It is difficult