No other woman will do for the determined duke...

To Lily Hightower, Edge is still the adventurous boy she grew up with, even though he’s now become the formidable Duke of Edgeworth. So when he doesn’t propose to her sister as everyone expects, shy Lily marches right up to him to ask why...

Wallflower Lily is amazed to learn that she is the duke’s true choice. She’s hiding a secret that, if he found out, could threaten everything. But Lily is the duchess of his dreams—and Edge is determined to make her his!

Edge had botched the first proposal terribly. But he wasn’t going to botch the first kiss.

He moved Lily slightly, turning her so he could savour every second and give her a feeling she would cherish.

‘This is how it starts,’ she said, whispering, shaking her head, turning away. ‘It’s not safe.’

‘One kiss,’ he said, knowing it was likely the biggest lie of his life.

‘No.’

But she didn’t push him away. She didn’t move to her feet—she just sat and leaned closer against him.

‘Half a dozen, then.’ He didn’t smile, again letting her hair brush his face. ‘Twenty. And that’s my final offer.’

Author Note

When the Duke of Edgeworth first appeared in The Notorious Countess, and felt irritated by his brother’s choice of an adventurous wife, I wanted Edge to have his own chance for love. Only Lily Hightower would do for him. No one would be better for him than the reserved woman he’d known since childhood.

Writing Lily’s story gave me a chance explore the path of having been friends with someone from such an early age that you can’t remember first meeting him, and knowing he is right for you and yet not quite being able to get beyond the barriers inside and around you.

That path of discovery is what I planned for both Lily and Edgeworth—because when romance enters the picture, no matter how long you have known someone, you can realise you hardly knew them at all.

Lily and Edgeworth are characters of my heart, and I hope you enjoy their journey as well.

The Wallflower Duchess

Liz Tyner

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LIZ TYNER lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups, and has been writing since childhood. For more about her visit liztyner.com.

Books by Liz Tyner

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

The Governess Tales

The Runaway Governess

English Rogues and Grecian Goddesses

Safe in the Earl’s Arms

A Captain and a Rogue

Forbidden to the Duke

Stand-Alone Novels

The Notorious Countess

The Wallflower Duchess

Visit the Author Profile page

at millsandboon.co.uk.

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Dedicated to my cousins.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

The future Duke of Edgeworth stretched his chin, and felt the nick he’d made on his first attempt with shaving. When he’d told his father how he received the cut, he’d been told never to touch the razor again. But some day he’d be Edgeworth—and no one would dare tell him what to do.

His parents’ voices blended into the background as he worked with the mathematics. He liked mathematics and he liked that his parents singled him out when preparing him for his future.

His father sat at the other desk, and his mother read over his shoulder, but then returned to her sewing stand.

The Duke’s voice broke into the quiet. ‘The younger Miss Hightower?’

‘She’s a lovely little girl.’ His mother nestled into her chair, picked up her sewing and studied it.

‘Not the older one,’ his father added. ‘She scowls.’

‘The older one is Lily.’ His mother returned to her embroidery, grumbling at a stitch as she picked it loose with her needle. ‘And she’s not scowling. She’s figuring things out.’

‘That girl is quite well mannered, but not a duchess,’ the Duke said.

‘She is too serious.’ His mother never looked up from her threads, needle again moving in and out through the fabric. ‘But I’m sure she’ll grow into a beauty. The least attractive babies make the most beautiful people, and frankly, I’d never seen such an ugly baby as Lily was. Her eyes were huge and her little arms so scrawny. Reminded me of a starved mouse. But she’s more human looking now and one can do wonders with cosmetics.’

The Duke tapped his fingertips together. ‘With her father living next door, it would be easy to keep up with the young one’s upbringing. But I’m not sure... Their mother is such a...’

‘But that doesn’t mean the children will be. The small one is an obedient girl. Did exactly as her older sister instructed.’

‘Obedient.’ His father nodded and Edge had looked up in time to see the wink his father gave his mother. ‘I’ve never heard you say a duke needs an obedient wife.’

‘Oh, most certainly,’ she’d added, turning to leave the room. ‘Sad your mother didn’t tell you that.’

His father chuckled, patted the papers on the desk and said, ‘It’s settled, then.’ He looked at his son. ‘What do you think about the younger Miss Hightower?’

‘She’s a baby.’ Lord Lionel continued with his sums. ‘Babies can’t marry.’

‘She’ll grow,’ his father said. ‘If we choose while she’s young, we can see that she is educated and trained just as a duchess should be. Just as you want her to be. Once I inform her father that you’re interested in her, he’ll be certain she is raised exactly as she should be. The man understands the value of society even if he has only half a boot in it.’

Lionel shrugged. Perhaps he would wed Miss Hightower some day, but not the little one. After all, only old people married. They were twenty-five at least. Perhaps thirty. Yes, at thirty he could ask the older Miss Hightower to wed, because by then he’d be too old for it to matter.

And he didn’t think she looked like a mouse, but even if she did, it was fine with him.

Last Wednesday, he’d been studying in the gardens when Miss Lily had called out to him and she’d curtsied. No one had ever done that before and he had nodded to her, just as his father did when people curtsied to him. Then she’d asked him to play dolls. He’d said no, even though it sounded better than studying. Then she’d called him Lord Booby-head. The governess had walked out and reprimanded her and Miss Lily had scrambled to her house.

He felt sorry for her. He’d overheard what his parents said about her and it was much worse than booby-head could be.

He didn’t know what a booby-head was, but he was not it. After all, he was going to be a duke, just like his father, and everyone always spoke nicely to the Duke. It was a rule or law or something like that.

His younger brothers said they would never call him Edgeworth because that was their father’s title and when he became a duke they would call him Edgeworthless. But their mother had overheard and shamed them. She’d told him they would have to be well behaved or it would reflect badly on the whole family. They were of the peerage. They must always remember that.

Chapter One

‘Your Grace.’ The valet’s voice had all the bounce of a rock falling into a well.

The Duke of Edgeworth did not want to wake up. He’d worked too late into the night trying to pull his mind back into the ledgers he’d neglected.

‘Your Grace,’ Gaunt repeated. ‘Your Grace.’ The voice broke just a bit.

Edgeworth opened his eyes, mainly to assure Gaunt that he still lived.

‘Yes,’ Edgeworth muttered, half-rising. The wobbliness in his head nearly threw him back to the bed. The pain had almost taken him.

Gaunt’s voice barely rose loud enough to be heard, as if he feared that the sound of it might damage Edgeworth in some way. Edgeworth clamped his teeth together. He was alive. Alive. He’d survived twice. The first time he’d nearly drowned and then he’d been burned. The year had not started out well.

‘The reason I woke you—’

‘Yes?’ Edge just wished the man would speak quickly. Gaunt’s delicateness grated and only served to remind him how close he’d been to death.

‘There’s a woman who wishes to see you. That—we are sure of.’ Gaunt’s hands were clasped.

Edge pushed himself to sit against the headboard, ignoring the pain, then he put his feet on the floor and stood. The sulphur-scented poultice Gaunt had tried to suffocate him with still lay by the wash basin. He pointed to it and with a sharp jerk of his hand indicated it should be removed.

Gaunt snatched up the cloth by two fingers and held it at his side, away from his body.

‘The housekeeper is with the guest now. The butler insisted,’ Gaunt explained.

The housekeeper never saw to guests and for the butler to have someone stay with a visitor was unheard of.

‘We thought it best,’ Gaunt added, ‘that the woman not be left alone. But we could not exactly escort her out as she claims to have news of a friend of yours from the country who has passed on to a greater reward.’

‘Claims?’

‘She does know your relative’s name.’ Gaunt’s face remained immobile as he spoke.

Edge strode to the basin, splashing water on his face. The burns had left him weak, but not feeble minded. And Gaunt knew the family tree far better than Edge himself did. On one occasion he’d even helped Edge sort out just how a cousin came to be related.

‘Why was she not asked to leave a card and sent on her way?’

‘I will dismiss her.’ His pause had a cough in it. ‘She’s dressed in black. Head to toe. Face covered. Handkerchief. Sobbed pitifully. I thought it best you decide. Something about her is...familiar.’

‘I’ll see to her,’ Edge said, wondering if the illness had affected his mind.

‘No carriage with her,’ Gaunt added. ‘Not even a hackney.’

‘Maid?’

‘She’s alone.’

Edge shook his head. This sounded like a jest his cousin Foxworthy would try. Sending some lightskirt on a mission of seduction and then waiting outside with a group of friends who’d wagered on how long before the woman left. Fox had done something similar in the past—more than once—but he should know better than to try such a thing on Edge.

Edge would give Fox a chance to gauge his own recovery skills.

* * *

When Edge stepped into the sitting room, the housekeeper’s eyes darted from the sombre handkerchief-clasping form to him.

Pausing to think back to the mourning attire he’d seen, he didn’t remember seeing anyone dressed so completely in black, although the veil over the bonnet did have a bit of yellow ribbon peeking through.

The woman’s clothing wasn’t dashed together and had no frayed edges or worn seams, and yet he didn’t think it entirely new. She held a wadded handkerchief in each hand and moved the one in her right clasp beneath the veil to daub at her face.

‘Someone has passed from this life?’ he asked the grim form.

‘Yes. Might I speak with you about it privately?’ The soft, velvety smooth words fluttered the veil. A lightskirt’s voice if he’d ever heard one. Foxworthy would pay.

At Edge’s side, the housekeeper’s arms tightened.

‘No,’ he answered.

Her fingers reached up, grasping an edge of the veil to lift it. But she paused.

‘Tell me your news,’ he said. ‘I would hate to keep a grieving person about on an errand when she could be finding solace in her home with loved ones around her.’

He heard her exhale and her arms tightened.

She stood, one sweeping movement. ‘Your Grace, I regret to inform you that your mother’s fifth cousin, Lady Cumberson, has passed on.’

Edge remained motionless, sorting out something, but he couldn’t quite place it. Lady Cumberson had died some months back. Then he let out a breath. ‘Lady Cumberson passed on? For a moment I had forgotten her. A dear, sweet woman. About so high.’ He moved his arm out to his side, indicating just below his shoulder. ‘Sainted woman. Grey hair.’

Lady Cumberson had stood taller than any woman he’d ever seen, had a vulgar sense of humour and coal-black hair.

‘No. Quite stately. Dark hair. And I suppose you could call her a saint, but I didn’t see her that way.’

He paused, recognising the voice. He forced himself not to react.

Lily? Lily Hightower? Fox would never dare send her. He had nothing to do with women like Lily. And when did Lily get such a sultry voice?

‘Could you spare a moment to tell me about her last days?’ he asked, turning to dismiss the housekeeper. The older woman scurried out.

‘What is going on causing you to attempt a masquerade?’ Edge asked.

She raised her veil just enough so that he could see a chin, a well-shaped mouth that caused him to take note and then two brown eyes peered out from under the edge of the veil. He swallowed.

‘I can’t visit you openly without my father knowing. I can’t wait until your mother returns from the country so I can pretend to visit her and hope you might walk by and we might chance a few moments to talk privately...’ She shook her head as if trying to remove unsure thoughts. ‘I suppose I didn’t think anyone else could help. And I had no idea what to do if you didn’t recover—soon.’

‘Thank you for your concern about my health.’

‘Of course.’ The words burst out. Her voice tightened and she lowered the veil over her face. ‘I heard of your accident—goodness, another one—but then the next thing I knew you were back in London, brought home in a wagon, and we didn’t know if you were going to live or die. My family would have been so distraught if you’d...’

‘Your...family...would have been distraught?’ He managed to inflect the words with just enough emphasis to point the question her way.

‘Of course, all of us would have been.’

The veil popped up again. The handkerchief bundled so that she could use two fingers to raise the covering and the dark eyes studied him. Then the fabric fluttered down again. ‘I feared for the worst, but then your mother took me to your bedside.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘You looked... But you recovered quickly after that.’

He waved her words away. ‘I only had two choices and I thought this one the best.’

‘It was horrible to see you so ill.’

A fogged memory of hearing his mother begging him not to die on his birthday surfaced, but he batted it away. Dwelling on those thoughts would do him no good.

‘Your Grace,’ she said. He leaned forward to hear her. ‘I am very relieved you are yourself again.’

‘If I had awoke to find that I was my cousin Foxworthy, I would not have recovered.’ He had to lighten Lily’s words.

He waited, watching for reaction. Blasted veil.

‘It would be a shame to die after you finally grew into your boots.’ Her voice regained strength.

‘Pardon me?’

‘Your boots. I remember looking at them years ago when you studied outside. It was as if someone had taken you by your ears and just stretched you right up from the boot-tops to the chin. You fit yourself now.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I did rather think you were quite handsome until that day you made me fall out of the tree.’

‘I kept you from killing yourself.’ And it hadn’t been easy. He’d realised she was going after the kite which was tangled in a small, half-broken branch near the top of the tree. He’d shouted for her to stop. She’d moved faster.

He’d darted forward, getting to the trunk in time to grab her by the ankle, but she’d had a firm grip on a tree limb. She’d tried to kick free of his grasp. He’d explained, methodically, that he should get the kite by another method. She was going to break the kite’s limb if she put her weight on it.

‘Oh,’ she’d said, looking up, eyes squinted.

He’d released her ankle, thinking she understood, and she’d lunged for the next higher limb. He’d caught her bootlace and she’d lost her grip, tumbling backwards on to him. He’d landed on his back, cushioning her. Spindly as she was, she’d plopped like a boulder on to his stomach. He’d laid on the ground, struggling for air while looking up at the kite fluttering happily overhead.

She’d screeched and jumped up, staring down at him. Apparently she’d bumped her face against the tree on her way down. He’d seen a split lip before, but not on a little girl.

‘You booby-head,’ she’d called out, eyes blazing into him.

Booby-head? He’d stared at her. Booby-head? Apparently little girls swore differently from other people.

‘You booby-head. You made me fall.’

‘You—’

He’d been planning to explain again how she’d been going to fall from a much higher limb and he wouldn’t have been able to catch her, but the blood on her face stopped his words.

At that moment, she put her hand to her lip, lowered her fingers so she could see the crimson liquid and wailed out a terrifying sound. She’d raced into her house before he could stand.

Later, he’d seen the thread-like scar, resting a finger-width from the bow of her mouth. Lip stain covered it when she grew older, but he always checked for it. Only now her mouth was hidden behind a gauzy screen. It irked him.

‘Your governess should have been punished,’ he said.

‘Mrs Smith was a dear, dear governess. Not like the next one.’ The bonnet tilted back and the veil dusted against the outline of her chin. ‘I think I turned out quite well.’

‘Of course.’ He’d known she would. ‘You don’t have to hide from me.’ He stared at the black cloth.

‘I’m not. I’m being discreet.’ Her tone rose.

‘Then keep your voice down.’ He moved closer and carefully reached out, lifting the cloth, holding it up like a tent between them.

He looked at the uncovered blemish on the challenging lips, then up at the brown eyes, and he felt like a youth—which was odd because even when he was a child, he’d never felt like one. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked and fought to keep his voice distant. He waited for her to say she’d wanted to see him.

‘Edge,’ she reprimanded and tilted her head back. The cloth slid from his touch.

She’d called him by the nickname his brothers and cousins had begun using right after the old Duke had passed on. Much better than being called a booby-head, he supposed.

‘I’d hoped to catch you in the gardens for a word, but—’ A prim sentence.

He nodded, frowning. The gardens. He’d not been into the sun since he’d been burned. He’d barely been able to move and he’d had no care about anything else. He’d put off leaving town for the summer, deciding he’d wait to see if he lived or died. If he died, he’d let someone else see to carting him to the family crypt.

She turned away. Inwardly, he smiled. She turned to hide her expression—as if he could see it under the gauzy fabric covering it.

He stared at her shoulders and his eyes drifted downward. At that second, he realised Lily had become Lillian. He took in a breath and turned his gaze to the wall.

‘You are a determined person. You’ve always done exactly as you should and you have a considerable amount of duties to keep up with...’ She cleared her throat. ‘One in particular.’

‘To what particular one might you be referring?’

‘You really are the only person who can answer the question I have.’

His gaze washed over her. ‘You are here to ask a question?’

She turned and lifted the veil again, staring straight into his face. ‘I don’t know exactly how I would word this and I would hate for a note to fall into the wrong hands, so I had to arrive myself. It’s far easier to deny a spoken word than a written one.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And I suppose I did want to see for myself that you’re up and about,’ she added.

He kept perfectly still, his mind’s eye seeing the little girl who would stare at him when he studied out of doors. He soon discovered he could look at her, grumble a growl and she’d laugh and run back into her house, leaving him alone with his books the rest of the day.

‘What question could you have for me?’ he asked.

‘Are you going to propose to my sister?’

The feeling of a boulder landing on his stomach returned. He leaned forward, staring. ‘Pardon?’ Confusion—then irritation—flooded him.

‘Soon?’ she asked.

‘I’ve not given it any thought,’ he said, snapping out the words.

‘You nearly died,’ she accused. ‘Twice. And where would that leave her? She’s not getting any younger.’

‘None of us is.’

Brown sparked in her eyes. ‘I would hope our connection of knowing each other years and years and years would allow you to appreciate my honesty and understand my concern for my sister,’ she said. ‘I would think we have a bond.’

‘We do.’ His gaze dropped to her lips, again. That tiny vertical scar, hardly bigger than a thread and only visible at close distance, ran upwards from her top lip.

Her attention wavered and her black gloved hand touched the mark. ‘Makes me look like a pirate,’ she said.

‘No. I can only see the scar because I know where—to look.’

Her eyes became solemn. ‘Are you going to court my sister? I need to know.’

‘Why?’ He shook his head. He’d thought that nonsense of his interest in her sister had died long before. It had been his father’s talk and he’d never encouraged it. Never. In fact, he’d thought it long forgotten.

He knew that on occasion when he’d planned a day at home, his mother had arranged things so the Hightower sisters would arrive for tea. But his mother planned a lot of teas with young, unmarried women when he was at home.

Her words about him marrying her sister slid in under his ribs and irritation bit into him. He didn’t mind so much when his mother dangled the names of young women in front of him, but Lily—she should know better. ‘You realise I nearly died,’ he said, chin forward. ‘Marriage has not been foremost on my mind.’

‘You are all recovered now. Aren’t you?’ Her eyes locked with his.

‘I’m alive, at least.’ Not that it appeared to make a great deal of difference to her, except where her sister was concerned.

‘Another reason for a marriage, I’d say.’ Hopeful eyes stared at him.

‘But if I die, it wouldn’t matter to me whether I have a wife or not.’ Well, it might. Lily should not wear black.

‘But it might matter very much to your lineage and to a woman wanting a family. A duke needs an heir. Simple fact. But I don’t expect you to die, however, I expect you to live a long and healthy life.’ Her eyes sparkled in jest. ‘You’ve no choice. Duty.’

‘I hope you don’t overestimate me, Miss Hightower.’

He’d wanted to make his mark in life by the time he reached thirty. He’d thought he’d be able to use his influence in Parliament to produce more jobs for the people put out of work by the mechanised looms, but his progress was much slower than he’d expected. Marriage had seemed the logical next step after his work. And he’d just assumed Lily understood. The few times he’d spoken with her as an adult and told her how much progress he was making, and had said personal duties would come afterwards, she’d nodded her head in complete understanding.

He’d thought.

Now Lily stood in front of him and she must have seen something on his face. She put her hand out, not touching him, but hovering above his sleeve. She smiled. ‘So you will be at our soirée next week and consider courting my sister?’

‘No.’

‘No?’ She stepped back, eyes widening before the lids lowered, her hand falling to her side. ‘No?’

Neither spoke.

‘Are you certain?’ The words came out carefully, hesitant. ‘You’re not going to marry Abigail?’ She examined him closer than Gaunt had when he’d been checking Edge to see if he had a pulse.

‘I can’t believe you ask that.’

She took in a breath and somehow managed to hold it. ‘Do you have any plans for marriage?’ Her voice rose, her arm moved out and she patted as if touching the top of small heads. ‘A family of your own. Little heirs. A little group all snuggled together at bedtime.’

‘I do not think of it quite the same as going to a litter of kittens and picking out the one with the healthiest yowl.’ Then he thought of Lily falling from the tree and hid his smile. ‘Although I’m not opposed to a healthy yowl.’

‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘But you have to admit my sister would make a good duchess.’

‘Your sister is a pleasant person. But I’ve never seen her as a duchess. Ever.’

Mouse-brown eyes stared up at him and a flutter in the area of his heart gave him pause. His mother was right. Lily had grown into her eyes, although he did not think her comment about his marrying her sister deserved explanation.

Because of his father’s words claiming it to be true, people had assumed Edge would marry the younger Hightower sister. It had suited Edge’s purpose to let people believe the tale. It deflected false hope in mothers angling their daughters to catch his eye and kept him from having to dodge flirtations. Besides, he’d always known he would some day marry Lily. He’d decided it and the idea had flickered through his thoughts on occasion, seeming more perfect each time, and he’d just known Lily felt the same way. How could she not? True, he always danced with her sister first, then Lily last so he could linger with her without Abigail fluttering around waiting for her dance.

And they’d not said much, but he’d not thought there was a need. They’d stood by each other, companionably, watching the others. If that did not signal a deep interest then he did not know what could have. He’d stayed late at a noisy soirée with music and chatter drowning out all words so he could spend a few moments at her side. Never had he done that with another woman.

‘Stop looking so grim.’ She mocked his face, a forced snarl to her lips. ‘It hasn’t hurt my sister to be considered as your potential bride. Quite the opposite. She received the best education and the envy of so many people.’

He shrugged internally, realising he didn’t quite understand women as well as he’d thought. ‘So, on the day you mentioned that your father would be so happy to have a duke in the family...’ Well, he’d misinterpreted that statement. Her sister had been the last person on his mind as he’d waltzed with Lily that night.

He knew without question she’d always been pleased to have a private word with him. And when she’d spoken about how well Abigail was growing up, he’d noted it as a statement of how well Lily had taken care of her sister and how Lily would be a good mother...to his children. He’d not imagined her as assuming he had any interest in Abigail. Abigail?

‘Edge.’ This time her lips pressed firmly before speaking and he knew she didn’t jest. ‘I know you’re an honourable man and, since you’ve said nothing, I started to worry we’d misunderstood. No one will court her because they think you have her planned for a bride. Father has frowned upon any other suitors. She’s going to end up a spinster if she waits almost for ever for you and then after she’s rejected everyone else you look in a different direction.’

‘I have never once indicated any intention to marry Abigail.’ He’d treated her with extra notice because he did plan for her to be family. His wife’s sister.

‘Well, Father has so much money I suppose we could purchase a husband for her later on.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I do feel you should have told me, though.’

‘I thought I indicated my intentions to you.’

‘That you intended to marry Abigail.’ Her words accused. ‘Yes. And she’s said she’s tired of waiting on you and she’s determined to wed before the year is out. It is on her list.’

‘Her list, or your list?’

‘It is on her list, above finishing the embroidery sampler. That sampler will never make it to the wall. However, Abigail will make it to the church... And it is on my list, too. Finding my sister a suitable match.’

‘I will attend the soirée, but—’ The same feeling of the ground crumbling beneath him he’d had when he’d fallen into the water overtook him. His breath shortened. What if Lily didn’t—wouldn’t marry him?

She walked closer, a form he could not decipher behind the dark clothing, and reached out, again stopping just before touching his arm. ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ she said. Her voice quavered.

‘Lily—’

She smoothed the edge of the veil and the view of black covering her eyes shot into his body, the same as another brush with death. Darkness choked him at the thought of her not being in his life.

Lily moved away, walking towards the door. The air stirred and a light floral scent swirled around him.

The whiff of the perfume jarred him to his boots. He couldn’t have spoken even if he could have thought of something to say.

He kept from moving forward. He’d thought himself delirious after he’d been burned and when he recovered he’d shoved the memory aside, not wanting to accept that his mind had been so addled.

But it hadn’t been an angel sitting at his bedside. He knew the second the trace of flowers touched his nose that Lily had been in his sickroom, comforting his mother.

He slightly remembered his mother leaning over his form in bed and wishing him a happy birthday and dripping a tear on his face and then smudging it off and bursting into loud sobs and running from the room.

Foxworthy had spoken from somewhere in the chamber and said that there wasn’t anything to worry about because Edge’s brother had three sons to pass the title to.

Anger had blasted over his last embers of life, giving him strength to move his hand. He was going to do one last thing and then die.

He’d tried to curl the fingers down, except for the middle one, but he didn’t think he’d made it before an angel had taken his hand, pressing, covering his fist. A feminine touch held his fingers. The skin was cool—refreshing after the heat that smothered him. An angel to ease his pain and take him from life.

He’d squeezed the fingers twice.

The angel had grabbed him and jostled him, sending aches throughout his body. But then she’d hugged him, pressing closer. A wisp of her hair had tickled his nose and the flowery soap she used had masked the sickroom scent. Her touch worked better than laudanum and the pain had abated. He’d breathed in, trying to keep the scent of her locked inside him and the feel of her cheek imprinted on his.

‘Hurry and get better,’ she’d whispered, her lips at his ear.

The touch made his blood flow and his heart beat, but when her hands left him, he’d been unable to move to follow her.

He’d wanted her to stay. Ached for her to stay, but it was a different kind of pain than the jagged throbs that had sliced him.

She’d told him to get better and he’d done it. For her. For the angel. For Lily. And he’d be damned if he didn’t ask her to marry him.

Chapter Two

‘Gaunt.’ Edgeworth stepped from the window when his valet entered. ‘Are my things prepared?’

‘Your Grace?’ Gaunt tilted his head forward in question.

‘For my neighbour’s little...’ he waved his hand in a circular motion and sat at his dressing mirror, pleased that his face had regained the look of health ‘...soirée. Surely you have my clothes ready.’ Keeping his eyes on the mirror, Edge asked. ‘You do have my clothing ready. You have not forgotten?’

‘Um, yes, Your Grace. Of course.’ Gaunt stepped away, feet brisk.

Edgeworth didn’t move. In one brief moment, he’d seen Gaunt’s eyes reflected in the mirror. Even as he answered with the usual unruffled respect, the valet’s eyes had briefly looked heavenward. Exasperated.

Edgeworth stared at the looking glass. Gaunt had been Edgeworth’s only valet—ever. And the servant never forgot a—Edgeworth thought back. He’d not told Gaunt of the soirée. No. He had no memory of mentioning it. He’d been busy catching up with all the duties that had fallen by the wayside while he recovered and he’d been planning his proposal. But it didn’t matter. Gaunt was always prepared.

When Gaunt returned, he had the same stoic expression as always—except for the few moments before when he’d not known himself observed. Now Gaunt whipped things about just as if he’d been told earlier of their need. Warm water appeared. Clothes were readied. Shaving was quickly accomplished, with the little splash of the scent which Gaunt said was nasturtiums and Edgeworth suspected was merely an ordinary shaving soap put in an expensive container.

Edgeworth gave a final perusal of himself, though he knew the valet would have alerted him to any flaw.

‘I can’t believe you forgot the soirée,’ Edge said.

‘Nor can I.’

No flicker of irritation. Perhaps Gaunt did think he’d forgotten.

Edge took the comb and did another run through his hair, then set the comb on the edge of the tabletop, absently letting it fall to the floor. When he stood, he picked up the dry cloth on the table, brushed it at his cheek, wadded it into a ball and tossed it over the soap pot. On the way out, he glanced at Gaunt’s expression. Calmness rested in his eyes.

The Duke paused outside the door, shutting it, but then he stopped and opened it quietly. Gaunt retrieved the comb, putting it in the spot it belonged. Then retrieved the flannel and his cheeks puffed. He wrung the cloth once, and then again, and again, as if it were—perhaps, a neck. Then he precisely smoothed it before returning it to the exact spot Edge preferred.

Pulling the door softly shut behind him, Edgeworth paused. The towel had not been wet, but if it had been his neck, he wouldn’t be going to the soirée.

* * *

Lily walked to Abigail’s room and peered in. Her sister had the face of her mother, a perfect heart shape, and her father’s fair colouring and blonde hair.

Lily supposed her colouring came from her true father. At the one time she’d seen the blacksmith, she’d not been aware that men could pass their resemblance on to their children. She was thankful for that.

Her mother had jerked Lily’s hand forward, pulling her into the invisible wall of heat and charred odours which separated the shop from the alive world. A blacksmith had appeared, standing like a gruff ogre at a fire where his next meal could be roasted—or a fire where a little girl who’d stepped too near could be tossed.

His eyes couldn’t have been gleaming red-hot—he was human—but in her memory he’d had red eyes, blocks of huge teeth and his wet hair had spiked down the sides of his face into points.

When the stories in the newspaper were published about her birth and she fully considered what that really meant, she’d shuddered. Fortune had plucked her into a princess world where even her maid hummed. Being illegitimate wasn’t nearly so bad as the thought of how different life would have been with the man whose walls hung dark with long pinchers.

She’d only had the one nightmare where he’d grabbed her with the pinchers and tossed her into the flames, laughing and telling her she didn’t belong in the rich man’s world. She belonged in the coals.

Now, Lily appraised her sister, thankful for the brightness Abigail brought into the world.

‘You look like a princess.’ Lily leaned around the doorway.

‘I feel like one, too.’

Lily smiled and left, moving down the stairs to the ballroom. Tonight, instead of frowning at any man who stood too close to Abigail, she would smile and step into the shadows.

She took a breath before she walked into the ballroom, the scent of the specially ordered candles wafting through the air. She fluffed out the capped sleeves of her gown. The dress was three Seasons old, but the embroidery on the bodice and hem had taken a seamstress months and months to complete.

She paused when she took in the broad shoulders and firm stance of Edgeworth. The man to the left was taller. The one to the right had a merry face and narrow frame. Edgeworth was not above average in height and features, except for his shoulders and eyes.

Everyone noticed him, even if the ladies were cautious about it. No one wanted to anger Edgeworth. Even her. Usually.

But she had once borrowed his book when he’d left it outside on the bench. She’d known he was returning for it. She’d known—and she’d darted upstairs, nearly biting her tongue in half when she’d stumbled on the steps, then she’d rushed into Abigail’s room to watch the events next door unfold. The hedge around the bench hadn’t been so big then and she’d stood at the window, waiting.

He’d returned and stared at the empty spot.

Then he’d looked up. She’d held the book against the glass.

Edgeworth had pointed to the bench and she’d seen the set of his shoulders.

He’d moved one step in her direction. He’d waggled a finger. He wasn’t smiling as she’d thought he might. One hand was at his side and clenched.

She’d put the book down because she couldn’t manage a book the size of a chair seat and the window at the same time.

She’d pulled open the window, lifted the book and then held the volume in both hands and released it flat. Then she’d jumped back inside, shut the window and stepped from sight.

The rest of the day she’d expected to be summoned for punishment, but no one had mentioned it. Her father would never have forgiven her. A common girl did not irritate a duke’s son.

And then he’d left that second book out and she’d taken it, knowing he left it for her. She’d laughed when she’d seen the title. She’d never read it, but still, she’d placed it in her father’s library and it had made her smile when she walked by and thought of him leaving it for her to find.

She’d intended to tell him later that she’d burned it, but she’d forgotten about mentioning it the next time she saw him. She’d been too excited, telling him that her mother had decided to leave London. She’d not be pulled back and forth between her two parents’ homes any longer. She and Abigail would stay behind.

She wondered why she noticed so much of Edgeworth. She always had. But she supposed it was just because she’d known him her whole life.

Now, he glanced around the room at the soirée and his eyes didn’t stop on her. They didn’t even pause. Her stomach jolted. She knew, without any doubt, that even though he’d not looked at her, he’d seen her. He’d seen her just as clearly as he had on the day he’d glared up and into the window, staring because she’d taken his book.

His eyes reminded her of the story of the man who captured the sun’s rays and reflected them on to boats to light them afire—only Edgeworth’s flares were blue. It was mesmerising, the way he used them, almost like a knight might flash a sword tip in a certain direction, ready to slice someone in two.

Pretending not to be aware of him, she moved to the lemonade table. She kept her back to the men so she would not be tempted to watch Edgeworth. Music from the quartet drifted over her, and she smiled. The night would be perfect for Abigail.

‘Miss Hightower.’ She could not help herself from turning towards the words right behind her shoulder and the voice she instantly recognised. The voice sounded in direct opposition to his eyes. Perhaps, she thought, that was what made him fascinate her. Cool eyes. Warm voice, at least some of the time.

He reached around her, keeping his balance and not touching her, and lifted a glass to her hand.

‘Thank you,’ she said, tone low and attention safely on the lemonade. She looked up for a brief second, taking care not to linger.

He reached out, touching her elbow. ‘Would you like to dance?’

‘No.’ She looked at her feet and admitted, ‘My slippers pinch.’ But something was different. Something about him, and she couldn’t figure out what. Dancing with him—it almost seemed too close. Not that it ever had before. And he’d not asked her sister to dance first, she was certain of that.

‘You shouldn’t wear something painful,’ he said, looking in the direction of her feet.

‘That’s part of why I detest these events.’ She stopped suddenly. ‘I don’t detest them, I didn’t mean that.’ She did. An interloper. One step above a governess—only she knew some of the governesses had a better lineage than she did. One had once told her that. A pang of guilt burned in Lily’s stomach. She’d not so innocently told her mother what the woman had said and the woman had been sent on her way.

Now Lily held her chin level. ‘You look like your old self—frowning from ear to ear.’

A grin did flash, but he quickly hid it. ‘I don’t think one can frown from ear to ear.’

‘Oh, goodness,’ she said, blinking awe into her eyes. ‘You manage it regularly.’

‘Thank you, Miss Hightower. Your presence makes me capable of things I didn’t know possible. Such as my earlier recovery. I wanted to tell you that I remembered your visit to me when I was ill. I suspect I had so much laudanum in me I hardly knew what was real or imagined.’

‘I had little choice but to visit you,’ she said, a smile added. ‘Your mother was pacing outside, weeping, certain you weren’t going to make it. The temperature had turned back to winter and rain had started. I begged your mother to let me see you so I could get her out of the weather.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I may have been worried about you a hair. Just a hair.’ She smiled again.

‘As you had me planned for Abigail’s husband.’ His eyes iced over.

‘Not just that—and you know it. I’ve known you and your family all my life.’

‘Would you have been so concerned if it were my brother Andrew, or Steven, ill?’

‘Of course—’ she insisted. His eyes narrowed. ‘Of course,’ she added, speaking straight into the ice. But she softened her words with an upturn to her voice. ‘But they never caused me to be scarred for life. Growled at me. Or tried to convince me that unicorns did not exist.’

‘Fine. You win. The drawing you showed me did prove that unicorns are real and I hope you have finally saved enough to purchase one.’

‘I bought a doll instead.’

‘I did ask to see the unicorn when you purchased it.’ His shoulders turned to her.

She lowered her chin. ‘Even then, I was not fooled by your sincerity.’

The silence in the air between them was filled with shared memories of childhood.

‘Well, I do thank you for visiting me while I was ill,’ he spoke softly. ‘It meant a lot.’

‘Someone needed to make you mind your manners,’ she said.

‘What?’ He raised his brows.

‘When you were ill and Fox said that dreadful thing and—you—really shouldn’t have done that, you know.’

He shook his head, not following her meaning.

She looked over his shoulder and stared into space. ‘That gesture. The bad one.’

‘Ah...’ He shrugged. ‘I apologise. I was out of my head from the pain and the medicine and I didn’t realise you were there. Fox and my brothers and I don’t always speak gently to each other.’

She shook her head and censured him with her stare. ‘Your mother had stopped in the doorway. I had to make sure she didn’t see it.’ She leaned closer. ‘And then you were whispering that very bad word.’

‘I didn’t whisper anything.’

‘You did.’ She locked on to his gaze. ‘I had to speak to cover your words and get you quiet.’

She examined his face when she spoke to him, because he certainly wouldn’t say what he thought, and if not for the little—well—spasms of emotion that she could imagine, she wouldn’t have any idea what he might be thinking. His words didn’t give much away.

But he had been quite the different person when he was ill. In those moments she’d sat at his bedside, he’d needed her. She’d known it. She’d known he wouldn’t have wanted her sister—or any other woman—to see him sweating and restless, but he didn’t mind her being there at all. ‘You squeezed my hand and called me an angel,’ she said. ‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.’ She leaned in. ‘And you had to be out of your head to do it.’

He didn’t respond. Not even with his eyes.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘That honesty is refreshing.’

‘Isn’t everyone honest to you? Mostly?’

‘If their opinion is what they think I wish to hear.’

‘Don’t let it concern you. Most people are like that.’

‘It does concern me. Most people won’t say what they’re thinking to me and it seems your words are a reflection of what you truly believe. Not just what is the more correct thing to say to a duke.’

‘Are you wishing you were born a second son?’ She asked the question aloud the moment she thought it.

He examined her face. ‘No. Not at all. I was born to be who I am. As we all are.’

Lily heard laughter break out at the other side of the room. She turned, forcing her attention from Edgeworth, but not truly noticing the others.

Lily wasn’t meant to be who she was. It was just her good fortune not to be living in a home with a fiery pit. ‘One would say your mother was born to be a duchess, too.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘One could say the same of you.’

She gulped in air and moved so that she held her glass with both hands for a second. ‘No. One couldn’t.’ Her heart warmed at his politeness. Edgeworth knew his manners.

‘Don’t disagree when I’m right,’ he said. ‘It’s true.’

Music filled the air and Edgeworth watched her as if she should say something profound, but all she could manage was a pinched-sounding mumble of thanks.

‘Greetings, all.’ Fox appeared behind Edgeworth, popping into the conversation like a marionette might drop on to the stage to scatter the other puppets.

‘Edgeworth dragged me from the country so that I might attend this evening, but when I realised that I would be seeing the two Hightower sisters, I thanked him most utterly and profusely—even though one of them...’ he tilted his chin to the ceiling, batted his eyes and looked as if he might whistle ‘...may once have compared me to a piece of very important pottery.’ He smiled. ‘I tried to steal a kiss and you told me you’d prefer to kiss a chamber pot.’

‘I meant it as a gentle reprimand,’ Lily said.

‘It was.’ He chuckled and put a hand to his ear. ‘Is that music I hear?’ He held out his arm for her to clasp. ‘Dance with me, please, I beg you, so that I might apologise for being so ungallant in the past.’

‘You are not here to impress Miss Lily,’ Edgeworth said.

Foxworthy’s jaw dropped, but his eyes sparkled. ‘I thought for certain I was here to impress every woman in attendance. I’m crushed.’ He winked at Lily. ‘So even if I cannot sway you to swoon with admiration, will you please do me the honour of dancing with me?’

Edgeworth’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tensed.

Quickly, she returned her glass to the table and accepted the request, feeling the men must be separated immediately.

She glared at Fox and hurried to the dance floor.

Even with her back to him, her mind’s eye could see Edgeworth watching her. Prickles of warmth flared. But he needn’t have worried. Foxworthy was all nonsense. He liked a certain type of woman and she wasn’t it. That she knew.

Fox turned to her, pulling her into his orbit with a half-hidden smile. He moved into the dance so quickly she had to pay attention.

‘Edgeworth is watching us.’ Fox leaned close and practically stumbled over her, but she was certain he was an excellent dancer. The cad. She hated to dance and it was hard enough for her to keep up with the steps without having a partner who purposefully stumbled.

His head turned and at that moment his eyes changed. ‘Your sister just walked into the room.’

‘She tends to do that.’

‘I had not realised how long it’s been since I’ve seen her,’ he said, eyes locked on Abigail.

‘She’s not for you.’

‘Really?’ She had his full attention. His brows moved so that a little crease formed in the middle between them.

‘She is only interested in men who have the most honourable intentions.’

‘My intentions are honourable. Always honourable intentions,’ he said.

She didn’t answer. Honourable intentions written in air.

‘Miss Hightower. You’re starting to look at me the same way Edge does. Are there any sharp objects about that I should hide?’

‘If we look irritated at you, it’s for good reason and you know it. You are a disaster waiting to happen.’

Nodding, Foxworthy said, ‘I’ve tried to keep my life amusing, unlike Edgeworth. He’s just like his father. I can still hear my uncle saying to Edge, “You are a duke first, you are a duke second and you are a duke third, and whatever of you that is left over after that is also a duke.”’

‘That’s Edgeworth.’

‘Yes. And I see him being just like the old Duke. He’ll settle into married life some day, because he does his duty. He will have his duchess. The perfect family. And then some years hence, he’ll discover he’s a man as well. Then you know what will happen. Just like his father.’ Fox shut his eyes for half a second and shook his head in the way of a sage.

His words jarred her insides. The recollection of the old Duke looking over his nose at her ignited memories she’d rather forget.

‘I want to experience life while I am young and get all the adventures I need out of my system.’ Fox swirled her around. ‘When I marry I will happily rot away, blissfully, in the arms of my beloved.’

He caught her eye, giving her another wink. ‘Just wanted to reassure you.’

‘Foxworthy.’ She snapped out his name. ‘You cannot possibly reassure me. You’re constantly in that half-rate newspaper that scandalmongers delight in.’

‘I’ve only been in it fourteen times and I count the Beany Beaumont incident even if I wasn’t mentioned by name.’

‘You are terrible.’

‘I am not.’ He glanced towards his feet. ‘I’ve missed only one step and it brought me closer to you. So how can I be upset with myself?’

‘Foxworthy. You wish people to talk of your missteps. You are a rake to the core.’

‘But beyond that, I’m pure gold.’ They turned around the room again. ‘Admit it, you find me quite charming.’

‘I would not exactly say that. I would say you have the very minimal charm necessary for a dance partner.’

‘Ouch,’ he said, and the dance ended without any more banter, but at least a dozen smiles from Foxworthy. He did have a rather elegant way of looking into a woman’s eyes, but it made Lily feel as if he expected her to swoon over him. She would be pleased when she could retire to her room, but she wasn’t leaving Abigail alone with only their father and aunt for chaperons.

She didn’t think it coincidence that Fox managed to stop them near Edgeworth.

‘Miss Hightower has commented quite directly on my charm as we danced,’ he said to Edge. ‘I fear it has quite gone to my head. Near smacked me across the temples, in fact. But—’ He spoke as he released her hand. ‘She was quite the most wonderful partner and a treat to listen to.’ He looked deep into her eyes. ‘Thank you. I will never, ever forget these moments with you.’

Then his eyes turned to Abigail and he clasped his hands flat over his heart. ‘Another Miss Hightower. How fortunate we are to have two in our presence. Please do me the honour of a dance.’

Abigail rose on tiptoes and proved women could not fly or she would have fluttered off the floor at that moment. ‘I would be honoured, Lord Foxworthy.’

He swirled her away.

‘Stop staring after him,’ Edge said. ‘He’s full enough of himself as it is.’

‘I don’t like him dancing so close with Abigail.’

‘It’s not close.’

‘He’s looking at her much too lingeringly.’ She turned to Edge. ‘Are you going to let him get away with it?’

He didn’t move, but she heard a snort of air from his nostrils. ‘I insisted he accept the invitation for that very purpose.’

Her eyes widened. This wasn’t the same Edgeworth she’d known her whole life.

He took her by the arm and led them from the music and back to the refreshments. He bent his head low so his voice wouldn’t carry. ‘When you told me that everyone believed I’m interested in your sister, I made sure Fox knew it wasn’t true and insisted he attend to change the perception.’

She stopped, mouth gaping, and reached for a glass. ‘You can’t be serious? Foxworthy?’

He nodded.

‘But you’ve always... I’ve heard the rumours—that you warned men to—’

‘To take care around the Hightower sisters.’

‘Around Abigail.’

‘Lily and the sister she watches over.’

‘Because we’re neighbours. Because Abigail and I often were next door.’ She put the lemonade to her lips.

‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘And because I didn’t want another man near you.’

She spewed droplets of lemonade over his coat.

She coughed, her hand over her mouth, choked. She followed with another sip to keep herself from coughing again. ‘My apologies,’ she croaked out.

‘Not a problem.’ He pulled out a handkerchief and offered it in her direction. She shook her head. He dusted off the front of his coat while he studied her.

‘Could you repeat that?’ she asked.

* * *

One musician began a softer tune and the other players joined in as background, the evening slowing down. On her right, a group of older gentlemen discussed the Chancery Court’s recent decision deciding the guardianship of a child.

Edgeworth led her to the other side, almost behind where the musicians were, and used them as a buffer to keep the conversation quiet.

Lily looked at him. Gauging Edgeworth’s thoughts in bright light wasn’t easy and in the muted shadows she could see only the barest amount and had to rely on his voice. He examined her just as closely.

‘I realised you haven’t always known,’ he said. ‘Our understanding. I thought you did. I thought you would have told me, nicely, if you’d not agreed, so I accepted that we both thought the same.’

‘Known? Understanding?’ She spoke rapidly. ‘I knew you—were going to court Abigail and I had to make certain she never stepped one foot wrong. You seemed to pay attention—’

‘You were always together. I couldn’t see you without seeing her.’

‘Me?’ She tilted her head to the side.

He looked at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘Yes. Of course.’

‘You know how different Abigail and I are. She’s like lace and I’m more—’ she couldn’t think of a word that wouldn’t be insulting to herself ‘—practical.’

‘Practical. Sensible. It’s all the same.’

‘I’m...’ She couldn’t say the words.

All eyes watched a duchess. Her events were well attended and filled with lace-like people. A duchess would think nothing of meeting someone in the royal family. Other peers. Lots of people. People who couldn’t help sharing little whispers.

She crossed her arms over herself. He’d never understand. ‘Why did you wait so long to tell me?’ she asked.

‘We talked about it.’

‘No.’ The word whooshed from her lips. ‘I would have remembered that. I know I would have.’

‘Well, maybe I didn’t say the exact words, but I could tell you are fond of me. You always spoke so honestly to me.’

‘I speak honestly to everyone.’ She leaned forward so he could not miss the emphasis in her words.

‘No, you don’t. I’ve watched. You’re very kind, nice, and—’ he moved so they stood at a slant to each other, mostly facing the room and shoulders aligned ‘—the most polite Miss Lily Hightower. With me, you’re different. You told me when my voice squeaked like a carriage wheel and asked if I could please do it again.’

‘I didn’t know boy’s voices did that.’ She took in a breath and looked away. ‘You could have explained it wasn’t a new skill. I thought it fascinating. And the look on your face that day didn’t convince me you were fond of me in any way.’

‘I wasn’t. At that moment.’ His shoulders bumped just a bit. ‘I thought my voice would stay that way for ever.’

Their eyes caught in memory.

She had to speak, to put words in the air between them and make the world seem normal again. ‘What if I had courted someone else?’

‘I would have swooped in like a hawk.’

‘It would have been too late.’

‘That’s what I mean about your honesty,’ he said. ‘And it wouldn’t have been too late.’

‘And you have quite the opinion of yourself.’

‘I was taught I should,’ he said. ‘And so should you. Have a high opinion of yourself.’

Her teeth tightened against each other. She couldn’t keep her lips from forming a straight line.

Small muscles in his face tensed, making a statement of disagreement without speaking. ‘We’ve known each other since childhood.’ One shoulder moved in the closest he would ever get to a shrug. ‘I thought you were keeping yourself hidden away...well, because you were waiting for me.’

‘No. I wasn’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I was just—living. Next door.’

His lids shuttered his eyes, but then he looked at her—the first whimsy she’d ever seen on his face. His eyes weren’t cold. Her toes squeezed into her slippers and somehow her legs kept from melting away.

‘Apparently, when I err it’s on a grand scale,’ he said.

‘We’ve been friends for a long time, true. And you’re a lot like your...family.’ She thought of his father.

‘It’s a good life,’ he said. ‘I’ve known you since I was six. Or something around that age. Why shouldn’t you be my duchess?’

He knew full well why. Just as everybody else did.

‘Is this a proposal?’ she asked. ‘Not a jest—not a jest like when I took your book and you left the volume of manners out for me to see.’

He moved closer. ‘I knew you’d see the note.’

‘There was a note?’ Her voice rose.

‘Yes.’ He nodded.

‘What did it say?’

‘That you would need this for when you became a duchess.’

* * *

Edge watched her. ‘Lily. Breathe.’ She acted as if he’d told her he’d not marry her if she were the last woman alive.

Her lips moved. ‘I have other plans.’

‘What other plans?’ He leaned in.

‘I don’t know.’

The first time he remembered seeing her she’d asked if he could growl. She’d walked to the bench on his parent’s property, holding a biscuit in each hand.

And in his confidence at being the heir and needing to do whatever he must, he said, ‘Of course. I can do almost anything.’

‘Growl, then.’

‘No.’ He’d frowned. ‘I’m studying.’

‘Lord Lion can’t growl. And you can’t fly. You can’t do most anything. You only read.’

‘Lord Lionel,’ he’d corrected her.

She’d paused, studying his face as if she didn’t hear correctly. ‘Lord Lion-owl. Lions growl. Owls fly. You don’t do either. I’ve watched.’

‘Lord Lionel,’ he’d insisted.

She’d looked him over. Frowned. ‘If you growl, Lord Lion Owl, you can have a biscuit. They’re good ones. Cook makes them just for me.’

He’d held out his hand, but she’d stepped back, shaking her head.

He’d growled. She’d thrown the biscuit at him whilst sticking her tongue out. He’d caught it with one hand and growled again. She’d turned, running to her house, laughing.

That biscuit had tasted like orange cake.

Chapter Three

Lily stared. Edgeworth didn’t look down his aristocratic nose at people—she was certain of that. But when one looked at the sky and saw one layer of wisped clouds floating lower, and then a second tier floating above the first, Edgeworth was the most distant level. He floated on the top tier.

‘No,’ she said, remembering her manners and then adding, ‘but thank you so much. I’m so honoured to be asked. And it is a great compliment. I will cherish this moment.’ She paused. ‘For ever.’

His eyes still blared blue at her. And he did seem to be looking down his nose a bit, after all.

‘I said thank you,’ she whispered. All eyes would be on her as a duchess. And while she didn’t take the responsibility for anything her mother had done, she couldn’t bear the whispers about her being above herself.

He didn’t move when he heard her answer. ‘You said “No, thank you”. One word too many.’

‘Perhaps you could clasp your hands over your heart,’ she said, ‘and act as if an arrow pierced you deeply because I didn’t respond with a yes.’

‘I am deeply wounded.’

She lowered her chin. ‘I believe so,’ she said. ‘I believe the shock has rendered you unable to show the deep grief you’re feeling.’

‘Exactly.’

She shuddered a half-shake in disagreement. ‘Why do you consider me for a duchess?’

‘If you’d said yes, I’d be inclined to tell you.’

‘You’re making a mistake. I’m—’

His lips firmed and he gave the slightest shake of his head. ‘You’re not a mistake.’

All the other sounds of the soirée faded away while she listened with her whole being for his response. The insides of her stomach bounced against each other, waiting. ‘Explain.’

She could see it in his eyes. Few people insisted he speak when he didn’t want to. He stared at her, but it wasn’t the knife-cutting stare of his father, nor the biting glare of condemning eyes. He seemed to be pulling the thoughts from inside himself, having trouble putting his feelings into the air.

‘I know you.’ Each word hit the air alone. ‘I was at university and I thought of you and your sister’s laughter, and I studied hard so that when I took my seat in the House of Lords I could do the country well for people like you.’

‘Because of laughter?’ She could hear the squeaking wheel in her own voice.

He bent his head towards her. ‘Miss Hightower, never underestimate the sound of innocent laughter.’

She leaned forward. ‘I wouldn’t have ever assumed it worth a marriage proposal.’

‘I did not propose,’ he said. ‘I merely discussed it with you.’

‘Well, that is totally a horse of a different colour.’

‘Not vastly different, I suppose.’

‘Not vastly.’ She spoke in the same tone, but with a smile at the end. ‘And had I heard your laughter in the past, I suppose the answer might have been different.’ Not true. But she felt guilt for refusing him and interrupting his plans. He planned so carefully.

He didn’t speak.

‘How long has it been since you’ve laughed?’ she asked.

‘No one can easily answer that question.’

‘It’s harder for you than for other people, I would imagine.’

‘I never thought such a simple enquiry would lead to such a long conversation.’

‘Your Grace, you might do well to expect a lot of talk to accompany a marriage proposal, years and years of it, and it shouldn’t all be one-sided.’

‘I try not to clutter the air with unnecessary prattle.’ His brows moved. ‘You’ve never once before called me “Your Grace”.’

‘I’m sure I have,’ she said.

‘I’m sure you have not. A discussion of marriage shouldn’t distance us.’

‘It hasn’t, Edgeworth.’

‘You don’t call me that often. You call me Lord Lionel, or Edge—as my brothers do.’ His eyes were walled. ‘And not long before my accident, you called me Edgy, which served its purpose and took days to forgive. I usually have no reason to forgive anyone.’ He stood like a pillar beside her.

‘That was childish of me. Please forget I said it.’

With the barest of forward movement, he leaned in closer to her face. He’d not really needed to. No one could possibly hear his voice but her.

‘I do have a question. Something I’ve wondered for years,’ he said.

She waited.

‘What is a booby-head?’

She squinted and leaned towards him. ‘What? What is a—?’ She could not fathom what he was thinking.

‘Never mind. I suppose I know.’ She heard a smile in his voice and this time she was included but she didn’t know why. ‘I think it best to forget the question.’

His eyes showed nothing. No humour. No irritation. Just the calm demeanour of a man who might as well have been alone.

If she could change one thing in her life, it would have been the moment she told the newspaper man about his father’s illegitimate child. Edgeworth must never find out she was the one who told. He’d never forgive her.

He left, leaving her with a polite manner groomed from centuries, and she felt as if she had been jilted at the altar.

* * *

Her sister dashed into the room without knocking. ‘Did you notice Foxworthy must have looked into my eyes for a full minute, when our dance stopped?’ Abigail sat on the bed, depressing the mattress. ‘I suppose it could have been longer. What do you think?’

‘It was a night to remember.’ She couldn’t recall much about Abigail’s actions at the soirée. Different memories lodged in her, creating a pleasant and unpleasant feeling mixed deep inside.

Her sister waved a hand. ‘Lord Foxworthy... Really, did you notice how he looked at me? And after our dance we stole away to the library and he kissed me.’ She shivered. ‘That lasted much longer than a mere five seconds.’

‘You do not need to tell me all the gory details,’ Lily muttered. ‘And you are not to be alone with Fenton Foxworthy.’

Abigail sighed. ‘Isn’t Fenton the most elegant name?’

‘No more elegant than, I don’t know, Lionel.’

Abigail grimaced. Then she spoke softly. ‘He looked deep into my eyes. Deep. Something happened. It could have been love. On his part.’

Lily snorted. ‘Don’t fall in love with him. He has had so many women’s names linked with his it would be easier to count the few he hasn’t romanced.’

‘Love.’ Abigail smiled and her eyes lost focus. ‘I could not say I am entirely in love. But enough. Just deliciously in like.’

She whooshed up from the bed and her gaze locked on Lily. ‘I hope you’re not jealous of my friendship,’ Abigail said. ‘I noticed you standing very close to him.’

Lily’s heart thumped an extra beat. The Duke’s face moved through her thoughts.

Abigail’s face peered close. ‘Yes. What were you and Foxworthy talking about?’

Lily glanced at her sister, then answered, ‘Foxworthy?’

Abigail chuckled. ‘That was much more pleasant than when you spoke with the Duke. It is a good thing your faces didn’t get stuck that way.’ She moved to the door. ‘On the other hand, if Foxworthy’s face had locked for ever when he looked at me...’ She took in a deep breath and didn’t complete the sentence.

‘It’s time for breakfast,’ Abigail said. ‘Father’s already at the table and probably finished eating by now.’

Abigail left and Lily rushed through her morning ablutions.

* * *

By the time she stood at the table, her father was lost in his paper. Abigail sat on his left side, hardly touching her food, her fork designing shapes in the jam. ‘Fox seemed to think the Duke is truly not interested in me,’ Abigail said.

Lily slid into her seat. ‘I received the same conclusion.’

Their father lowered his paper, but didn’t speak.

‘Fox says I am too lovely and too vivacious to waste my time on his stuffy cousin.’

‘Nonsense. He’s a duke,’ her father said. ‘He is not a waste of your time.’

‘Perhaps we misunderstood His Grace all these years,’ Lily said.

‘Couldn’t have,’ her father said. ‘I saw the book.’

‘What book?’ Abigail asked.

‘The deportment one. The one Abigail put in the library.’

‘I put it there, Father,’ Lily said.

‘What were you doing with Abigail’s book?’

‘Book?’ Abigail’s voice challenged.

‘Edgeworth gave me a book on deportment.’ Lily shrugged the words away.

‘He did?’ Her sister’s head snapped around to Lily and her eyes widened. ‘You never told me.’

‘The note...’ Her father studied her. ‘It was for you, Lily?’

‘I never put any note in a book.’ Abigail’s nose wrinkled. ‘What did it say?’

‘Something about you becoming a duchess,’ he answered.

‘Oh,’ Abigail put her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh.’ She looked at Lily and then at her father. Her eyes gleamed with laughter. ‘Lily. Lily’s note.’ She jumped to her feet and leaned over the table. ‘Father.’ She stretched her arm and pointed her finger almost into Lily’s face. Lily batted it away. ‘It was hers.’ She laughed. ‘The Duke. They were whispering in the corner. Foxworthy was trying to distract me and tell me how beautiful I was—right out of the blue. We all know that’s true, but Foxworthy kept saying all his normal balderdash, and all the while Lily and the Duke were nose to nose in the corner. You didn’t notice?’

‘They’ve always—’ He stopped, irritation fading. He tapped his fingertips together, staring at Lily. ‘It was your note.’

‘A jest,’ she said.

‘Well...’ He stood and perused both his daughters. ‘This may change plans for the two of you. But it doesn’t really change mine. I want your fortunes to increase with marriage.’ He rested a hand on the back of a chair. ‘Remember, money can’t buy happiness, but a rich person who is miserable has to work at it.’

He turned. ‘I want Edgeworth for a son-in-law. I don’t care how the two of you sort it out.’

Lily watched him leave the room.

‘So...’ Abigail swooped, laughing. ‘You are all set to steal my beau.’

‘No.’ She shook her head, wishing Abigail would stand still enough to swat. ‘Edgeworth has—had a misunderstanding.’ She couldn’t have so much attention on her. People would sneer. The blacksmith’s daughter who married a duke.

‘Well, I should be upset that he prefers you over me, but I’m really rather relieved. Particularly since I prefer almost everyone over him.’ Abigail grimaced. ‘Edgeworth is a little—I mean, he acts ancient. I prefer someone more lively.’

‘He’s just serious.’

‘Yes. He is,’ Abigail said, leaving. ‘Too serious. Just like you.’ She tapped her finger against her lips. ‘I never noticed that before.’ She turned, her dignity leaving as she called out, ‘Father. Is the note to Lily still there?’ Her voice rose. ‘I must see it.’

Lily clamped her teeth together. Abigail could look all she wanted. The book was now hidden under Lily’s bed and the note had been folded into a bookmark and now resided in a recipe book.

* * *

Standing behind the open curtains in Abigail’s room, she watched for the Duke to step out of his house. The nightly jaunt into the gardens had been a tradition of sorts. His father used to walk out in the evenings and smoke occasionally—and always when Edge was home from his studies. She’d eavesdropped several times, impressed with his father speaking so much. But after a few nights, she’d lost all interest in what a duke should do and how he should do it.

When Edge was injured, she’d known he was very ill, because his forays into the garden had completely stopped. Not once in eleven days had he stepped out.

Now, she waited.

Finally, a lone figure moved into sight. If she’d not been watching for movement, she wouldn’t have seen him in the fading light. He stood, eyes taking in the night. He’d been named well. She’d never seen a lion at night, just the one in the menagerie, but it hadn’t seemed to care who watched it, or what they thought, because it had a powerful build and the force of generations of strength bred into it.

She took a wrap from the dressing chamber and put it around her shoulders, and sat a bonnet on her head, leaving the blue ribbons to flutter.

A flash of memory caused her feet to slow and a pang of guilt to hit her midsection. She’d lived so carefully, avoiding every opportunity to be like her mother.

Before stepping outside, she gave an extra tap to hold her bonnet in place. She paused when the fresh air hit her face. But it was dark enough no one would see her.

She’d had to wait until the sun set because otherwise when she moved forward, she would be in view of all the windows, and it simply could not appear she was engaging in anything of questionable nature. She’d been fortunate with the mourning attire, but one servant had seen her returning to the house and met her with a broom, concerned a stranger was lurking about.

She’d explained that the sun had given her a headache and she’d wanted to shield her face, and she’d donned the darker clothing. That had caused a furrowed brow, but hadn’t been questioned.

If she said she’d suddenly taken an interest in horticulture at night time no one would believe it.

She could not let anyone think she was like her mother, particularly Edgeworth.

Not one word had been mentioned in print about Lily’s family in such a long time and she didn’t want it to change. The words didn’t seem to stick to the people who’d been generations in London, but it landed on her family like the stench in the streets everyone stepped around and it lingered. Everyone thought her father had bought his way into society and, in a sense, he had.

She took in a breath and moved away from the house. Perhaps she was like her mother.

Her footsteps didn’t make noise in the dew-dampened grass. She forced herself to slow, the wafting honeysuckle perfume of the night surrounding her. When her eyes locked on Edgeworth, she could have been the predator.

When he saw her, his shoulders turned while he pulled in a normal intake of breath with the same fluidity. With that movement, their positions reversed. She couldn’t even see into his eyes, but still he mastered the space.

She curtsied, but didn’t lower her head. The bench, hidden in the daylight by the semi-circle of hedge around it, was at her left. Edge had sat there so many times with his books.

Even though she couldn’t see it until she stood near, she moved directly to it and sat.

He walked to her as if he’d invited her into the garden and had been waiting.

She saw not a man, but a monument to one, carved like the figures that jutted from the towers of some castles to warn intruders. She wanted to tap at the stone, study it, look for divots caused by weather or age, and see how the shape had been formed.

The thought flitted through her mind that if she didn’t speak, he wouldn’t. The ability to outlast another person had been bred into him, perhaps from some warrior grandfather of his.

But she could tell this wasn’t a contest to see who could outlast the other. He merely waited for her.

‘You have to discourage Fox from my sister,’ she spoke quietly. ‘Now she’s enlisted Father in her plans for marriage.’

‘He should take part in his daughters’ futures.’

‘He never did particularly before. But now it’s as if he’s thought of it as business and he’s taking it as seriously as if it’s something on a ledger sheet.’

‘Has my name been put into the accounting?’ he asked.

‘Of course. But now he knows you’re not interested in Abigail.’

‘What did he say about your prospects?’

‘That,’ she said, ‘is immaterial, as I do not have a list for such a thing.’

His breathing tightened. ‘It’s nature to want a person in your life who thinks you above all others and you think above all others. Selfish, perhaps. But nature.’

She ground her teeth against each other and the moment was so silent she could hear the sound from inside her head. ‘If people followed their nature—’

‘Most people do.’

This time she didn’t mind the long silence. His words remained in her thoughts. ‘Do you?’

He could have given a soliloquy in the space before he answered, ‘My nature is precise. Planned.’

‘Methodical?’

The silence fluttered around them again.

‘Your Grace.’ She spoke more softly, taking the bite out of her words.

‘Miss Lily.’ His voice, little more than a whisper, rumbled into the night and had no sting in the words. ‘Speak as you wish. You always have. To me.’

She stood. ‘I don’t particularly care what your cousin does. But I do care if my sister is hurt.’ She moved closer—which would have been improperly close in the daylight, but she needed to see his eyes.

She raised her arm, keeping it close to her body so she wouldn’t nudge him and clicked a fingernail against her incisor. ‘Did you notice he has white teeth?’ The wind fluttered her bonnet and she grasped the untied ribbons with her other hand, holding both in one grasp.

‘Teeth?’ He narrowed his eyes, questioning. ‘I don’t care about Foxworthy’s teeth and that isn’t a concern of mine at all.’

‘My sister noticed. She thinks he has the loveliest mouth she has ever seen.’

‘His teeth are just teeth. He’s lucky someone hasn’t removed them for him.’

‘That would devastate my sister.’ She sighed. ‘She notes every little detail about him.’

‘Fox encourages such nonsense.’

Her brows rose and her chin tilted down, and her lips turned up the merest amount. ‘I asked her about you.’ Again she watched for the divot or a clue to show inside the immovable stone.

He leaned his head forward, but she sensed only a mild curiosity about her sister’s opinions. In fact, Lily felt he studied her report of her sister’s talk to judge her view of it, not to form an opinion of Abigail. ‘She thought you have nice teeth, too, but she wasn’t certain.’

Brows flicked the words away. ‘Nice enough.’

She could sense he found the moment humorous, but she couldn’t see a smile.

‘And I asked her about your hair since she noticed Foxworthy’s hair turns up in darling little curls when it gets wet.’ The words tumbled over each other. ‘She said she once saw him come in from the rain.’

‘So he comes in from the rain. That shows he is more intelligent than I thought.’

‘You can’t let him near my sister.’

‘They would make a good match.’

This time she heard decision. She gasped. ‘No.’

‘I believe Foxworthy is ready to settle in to marriage. Your sister could keep his attention.’

‘No one is that enchanting.’

‘Marriage will settle him.’

‘You’re willing to ruin my sister’s future.’ She wanted her words to jar him, yet he didn’t move.

‘Underneath it all, Fox is a good sort.’

Edge would just dig those boot heels tighter into the ground if she kept mentioning his cousin’s flaws. But she couldn’t stop. ‘I don’t believe that. Underneath his heart, lungs and liver, there’s a part lower down that is not virtuous. He’s a scoundrel. But I suppose if you are talking about his knees and his toes, he has quite an amount of quality. Those are not the parts which cause trouble.’ She grimaced. ‘I must correct myself. They are the parts which lead him to trouble as he dances from one woman to the next.’

‘He is maturing.’

‘And in twenty years he’ll surely make some woman the best of husbands. But I’m worried about tomorrow. Before she left to visit my aunt, Abigail said Father has asked you and Fox to our house to discuss an investment. It is a thinly disguised attempt at matchmaking.’

His eyes widened. ‘I am so shocked.’

‘Sarcasm? Your Grace?’

‘I sent my man of affairs over to ask your father if he knew of any business ventures Fox or I might invest in. A simple query.’

‘Oh, my.’ She put a hand to her cheek. ‘You cannot get his hopes up like that. To have a duke and the son of an earl at his home to discuss business.’

‘He is very knowledgeable about investments.’

‘Yes. And he will be considering a very long-term one for his daughters.’

‘What is so wrong with that?’

‘It’s Abigail I’m concerned about. She’s the one interested in marriage.’ She levelled a gaze at him. ‘And Foxworthy is interested in an entirely different arrangement.’

His face became bland again. He stepped aside, putting a foot on the bench, adding more distance between them, yet not. He leaned her way, one arm on his propped leg and his fingers clasped. Almost subservient. Except, not. A lion taking a step away, yawning, pretending not to see the prey, letting it get closer and closer. ‘So tell me. What exactly would it take for you to risk a long-term investment?’

‘I don’t have to take any risks and see no need to. I am able to live my life as I wish, without upheaval.’

‘A life without upheaval might not suit you for ever.’

‘Then I will worry about it when that time arrives.’

‘I have arrived at that time in my life. As I won’t live for ever, I’ve decided I might wish to marry some day.’

‘You only have to say you’re a duke.’ She increased the distance between them and could tell by the barest flick of his head that he noticed.

‘Not worked so far.’ His voice fell, fading into nothingness. A low rumble.

She didn’t move closer.

‘Describe a suitor’s best qualities. Knowing them might help me impress someone.’

She caught the emphasis he put on the word someone and the subtle lightness that appeared in his eyes as he looked at her, and her heart beat bird-like. She clasped her skirt in her hand, clenching her fingers on the cloth. ‘It would not do you any good to be putting on a pretence while courting a future wife.’ She pushed forward, moving close, her body directly aligned with his face. ‘You must be true to who you are.’

‘I agree.’ His words affirmed in a way that said no one should doubt it. ‘Tell me about what it would take for a man to interest you as a husband.’

‘I have never given it thought because the nature of marriage seems false to me. I have no pressing need to carry on the lineage as you do.’

‘It’s a shame because you would make a good mother. You watched over your sister so closely.’

‘I had no choice.’

‘No one would have faulted you for not.’

‘But she is my sister and I could do it. I would have faulted myself. And now I fear I can’t keep her from that rake Foxworthy and he will break her heart or ruin her.’

‘You cannot manage someone’s life for them. And they may be good for each other.’

‘Will you help keep Foxworthy away from Abigail?’ she asked.

‘No. It’s their lives.’

‘But she’s my sister and I don’t want her being—’ Miserable. Miserable like their mother had been. Separated from her husband and society. Locked in an unhappy marriage.

‘Let the romance finish on its own. You can’t keep them apart.’

‘I thought you would help me.’

‘I am. Let it be and Fox will tire of her soon, and if he doesn’t then it may be a good match.’ He took his foot from the bench.

Edge no longer stood in front of her. His Grace watched her. But it was the Duke she wanted to question. ‘Why did you notice me?’

He moved his palm only slightly, indicating her house. ‘You live—’

‘So does Abigail.’

‘So she does.’

She tried to pull every memory of him to the forefront of her mind. ‘Do you remember shouting at me?’

‘I did not shout.’

‘You told me you had to study and for me to play in my garden. Not yours.’

‘I had to be top in my studies. I couldn’t grasp the Greek language. It was hard to concentrate with you asking me what each word I said meant.’

‘I had to go back to my mother’s house that day and my grandmother had been telling me that Mother didn’t love us or she would have stayed at the estate. It was a very bad day.’ Lily had been almost ten when her mother moved into a nearby house. But the separation was as failed as the marriage in many ways. Her parents hadn’t truly been able to stay away from each other until Lily’s late teens when they’d had one quiet argument—a courteous one—and something had turned bleak in both their faces.

‘I would have been kinder had I known,’ he said.

‘It wouldn’t have mattered. I had to get used to the arguments. My parents could not live together and couldn’t live apart. Until, well, you know the story.’

‘Yes. I remember. Your mother left town when Sophia’s memoirs were published.’

‘Just before. They’d been friends, but had a disagreement, and I’m sure Mother knew Sophia would use the book as a chance to get back at her.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t know how peaceful a day could be until she finally moved away.’

‘You stopped going out so much.’

‘I’ve not been invited—not that it mattered.’

‘I meant in the garden. You used to spend hours and hours outside.’

She laughed. ‘Part of it was a quiet rebellion. Mother had told me that my skin would blemish in the sun and no one would want to marry me.’

His grumble barely reached her ears. ‘I thought you were spending time with me—because you were interested in becoming a duchess.’

‘You did make my rebellion more enjoyable.’

‘And you made the studies more tolerable.’

‘Did you envy others their freedom?’

He shook his head. ‘I was fortunate. With privilege there is responsibility. My mother said it over and over.’

Another silence surrounded them, but didn’t separate. This time, he spoke. ‘I was curious, though. To not have a purpose would have been strange and I didn’t want that. Everyone’s future is mapped for them to some degree, so I didn’t rail against my good fortune of having the best of life. But the common life—the rest of life is so foreign to me. How can I represent the country well without understanding all of it?’

‘So that is why you noticed me. My commonness?’

‘Lily. Don’t put words in my mouth.’

‘I want to know what you really think.’

‘Then don’t jump to conclusions about what I say.’

She let the skirt she still clasped fall from her fingers. ‘You have been so trained to be a duke and lived it so long—that I wonder if what you say is what you really feel or what you have been trained to feel?’

‘Does it matter?’ Each word could stand alone.

‘It might some day. If you are deciding on your marriage now because it is what you are supposed to do.’

This time she heard his inward breath, slow and measured. ‘On my sickbed, I could hear the voices around me, but I didn’t want to speak or even open my eyes. My brother Andrew asked, “Do you think he will die tonight?”

‘I heard my brother Steven answer. He said no, I wouldn’t die that night.’ He continued to face her, but didn’t see her. ‘I didn’t care one way or the other.’

The honeysuckle touched her nose again and this time the sweetness churned her stomach. He’d been so pale and the pupils of his eyes so strange.

‘My family gathered around me, but at a distance. My mother would move close, but only for a second. My burns weren’t contagious; they all had to know that. They all kept their respectful distance. Respectful. Distance.’

‘But they were with you. You could not have wanted them to smother you with closeness.’

‘I didn’t. But my life felt wasted. All the work I’d done didn’t matter.’

‘So now you worry about having an heir?’ She called him back from his memories.

‘No.’ The quiet word slashed the air. ‘I only want to do the best I can with the time I have left. I was trained to be a duke, so I did precisely as I should. Motions. All the right ones. I still believe in them. But I want more from life.’

‘You want a touch of commonness? A wife who has lived on the edge of society, one foot in and one foot out.’

‘Is that wrong?’

‘It could be if you look around in a few years and discover that you are a duke through and through, and these moments are a reaction because you almost died. Then you might wish for a wife who is completely in society and has the same strength in her bloodlines as you do.’

‘I might wish for a wife who’d be willing to hold my hand when I lay dying and who would miss me.’

‘I don’t think marriage necessarily provides those things.’

‘It should.’

‘Yes. But, if anything, marriage seems to move people apart, instead of closer together.’

‘My parents had a good marriage—mostly.’

She shook her head, disagreeing. ‘You can hire someone to hold your hand and you can live a life so that others miss you. Marriage is tiresome. I understand your need to have heirs. And you should find someone who can stand with you in public and create the world you wish to have around you.’

She stepped back. ‘But don’t invest your heart in someone. It’s too risky and the return on the investment is dismal, from what I’ve seen.’

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