The day after the princess’s funeral, Nick had contemplated returning to Bath. However, the prevalent aura of grief had worked its way into his heart and mind, thrusting him back to the dark period following the loss of Jacinda and Elias. As a result, he stayed in his room all day, and the day after, he’d ventured only as far as his study downstairs.

He’d received a brief note from Violet’s physician notifying him that she was improving, but that the progress was slow. His relief hadn’t been enough to drive him back to Bath. He was too numb. And afraid. The threat of losing Violet in his current state of despair had incapacitated him. He’d fought against the shadows of the past and was now battling the darkness of the present. Just as he’d decided to try to live again, really live, disaster had struck, reminding him that he was cursed.

He wanted to go back to feeling protected, even if it meant he was alone. Over the past five years, and particularly the last three, he’d found a way to manage his grief and loss. Allowing Violet close had opened him back up to that pain. As much as he cared for her, as much as he loved her—and he did—he didn’t want to be vulnerable. His heart couldn’t bear it if she were taken from him, so it was best that he retreat behind his wall of ice.

Pulling on his gloves, he strode to the hall, where his butler hovered near the door.

“I’m going for a ride.”

Bexham, Nick’s London butler, an imperious man of nearly sixty years, reached for the door. “It’s good to see you back to your regular self, Your Grace.”

Nick didn’t know what his regular self looked or felt like anymore. Violet had reminded him that he was Nicholas Bateman, and yet he was as much the Duke of Ice as he’d ever been.

After an invigorating run in Hyde Park, Nick felt marginally better. He picked his way back toward the gate, and, as had happened on the days prior to the funeral, he came across Miss Kingman.

She drew her mount to a halt just off the path, and he moved his horse to stand alongside hers. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. I’d despaired of seeing you here again. I was afraid you’d left London after the funeral.”

He should have, but he’d shut himself away instead. “I’ve been busy.”

If she detected any upset in his tone—which he didn’t see how she could—she didn’t reflect it. He had the sense that even if he had displayed a flash of emotion, she would have ignored it. Their conversations had been devoid of weight or importance. They’d talked of fishing, the ocean, and her parents’ appalling desperation for her to wed someone Important.

“I hope you weren’t reading the newspaper,” she said, for the first time revealing a hint of something…anxiety judging by the tense set of her jaw and the glint of concern in her eye.

“No.” He’d read Hamlet, which had suited his mood, and then a horrid novel, undoubtedly placed next to his bed by Rand, who’d most certainly gotten it from Bexham, who, amusingly, possessed a small library of such work.

“Ah, well. There’s a bit of…speculation about you and me. Our rendezvous here in the park have been noted.”

The first thing he thought of was her parents and their desire to see her upwardly wed. “I’m certain your father is thrilled.”

“Quite.” Her brief smile was both self-deprecating and tinged with irritation. “I tried to tell him that we are merely acquaintances. I apologize for the unwanted attention.”

And yet here they were, meeting in plain sight once again.

“I’ve never cared what people said or thought about me,” Nick said. “I suppose that’s what happens when you grow up expecting a life of anonymity only to find yourself at the center of Society.”

“I don’t care either,” she said, lifting her chin. “Much to my parents’ frustration. But I felt I should caution you—that’s why I’ve been looking for you the past couple of days—my parents are organizing a dinner party next week and plan to extend you an invitation. I would advise you to leave London before they can trap you.” She delivered this advice with a tone of utmost gravity.

He laughed at her dire warning. “Would they attempt to snare me in a parson’s trap in some scandalous fashion?”

She exhaled. “I wish I could laugh and assure you that would never happen. However, I fear my parents will sink to any level they feel they must to secure a duke, particularly when they realize there is no truth to the rumor in the paper.”

He felt a rush of compassion for her—that was an emotion he didn’t mind, particularly when it alleviated his own pain. “How awful for you to have to live in this way. I don’t suppose you’ve considered running away?”

Her brows lifted briefly. “I have, in fact. Alas, my purse is not large enough to support more than a few days’ journey. And where would I go?”

He considered her question seriously, but before he could answer, she said, “If I fled alone, I would be ruined, no matter where I went.”

“If you were in the company of a gentleman you wouldn’t mind marrying, it’s not a bad plan.”

Now she laughed. “I don’t know such a gentleman, save you, I’m afraid.” She sobered, and color bloomed in her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to suggest we should run away together. I only meant that I like you, and you seem to like me—for me, not for my fortune or my beauty.” Her lips twisted with disgust, and she looked away.

He edged closer to her, speaking quietly. “I do like you.” He’d been about to say that she’d find a gentleman with whom she felt comfortable, whom she could maybe even love. But then he remembered that she didn’t care about such things, particularly marriage. Just as he didn’t care about them—or didn’t want to anyway.

She squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Rather than run away, I’ve been thinking I ought to find someone I can marry, someone who will accept me for who I am and not some pretty prize to be won. I truly didn’t mean to...snare you; however, it occurs to me that we may be of service to one another.”

He suspected he knew her intent, but needed to be sure. “In what way?”

“You need a wife, I presume, since you’ve a title, and I’d prefer a husband like you. Your lack of ill-behavior and display of extreme equanimity is most appealing.”

Nick swallowed a laugh. “I’ve never been described in such a manner.” He supposed it fit, however.

Her brow arched in elegant inquisition. “Am I inaccurate in my estimation of you?”

Once upon a time, she would have been, but she’d captured the man he was now quite well. Except he had behaved poorly in recent days—he’d allowed a relationship with Violet that he never should have in the interest of soothing his own pain and regret. Self-loathing burned his throat like acid.

“No,” he choked the answer out.

Her shoulders dipped in relief. “Would such a union be of interest to you?” she asked softly.

Finally, he glimpsed a way to move forward and make a complete break from his past. He could set Violet free so that she could find a bright and happy love that would bring her joy for all the days of her life.

Nick needed to be completely clear with Miss Kingman, now that he understood his limitations. “I wouldn’t be a storybook husband. You cannot expect me to fall in love. In fact, I will insist that we keep such emotion from our union.” He had to. If he wanted love, if he wanted to take that risk, he’d run back to Bath—to Violet—this instant. Only, she wouldn’t be happy. She’d made it clear she loved the Nick of old, not the frigid man he’d become.

“You want a Duchess of Ice,” she summarized perfectly. “That appeals to me, actually. Indeed, I would prefer not to have children, but I understand you require an heir. I would only ask that we wait.”

She was precisely the type of wife he needed. “I should beget an heir, but as I’ve said before, I have male relatives in line. I have no quarrel with your terms.” His chest tightened, threatening to choke him. He struggled to take a deep breath.

“And I agree to yours.” She tipped her head to the side and whispered, “Did we just negotiate a marriage contract?”

His body tensed—his mind warring with his heart. “I think we might have.”

“My father won’t believe it.”

Nick’s heart thudded, making him wonder if Miss Kingman could hear it. Of course not. As loud as it seemed to him, the voice in his head was just as deafening, insisting that this was the right course of action, the logical course. “He will when I tell him in person,” Nick said. “Should we go now?” Then his heart wouldn’t be able to change his mind, not without causing a scandal.

“If you wish.”

“I’m agreeable to whatever you prefer.”

Her lips curved up. “Is this how it’s going to be? We’ll be insufferably polite and deferential?”

“Would that be bad?” he mused. She shook her head and he said, “I don’t think so either. Lead the way, if you will.” He gestured for her to precede him, and she kicked her horse into a trot toward the gate.

His heart clenched in a hard, fast spasm as he realized what he’d done. Miss Kingman was what he needed—a Duchess of Ice, just as she’d said—even if Violet was who he wanted.

Yes, he wanted her, but he wasn’t the man she wanted. He was damaged and afraid, and she deserved so much more. For both their sakes, he had to walk away. She ought to have a happy future, and he couldn’t give it to her.

For that reason alone, he would let her go.

* * *

The past five days had been a frenzy of social events, all designed to stir excitement for what was being touted as the wedding of the decade—if Lady Kingman was to be believed. For Nick, it was all torture since he’d awakened in a cold sweat the night after agreeing to marry Miss Kingman. He feared he’d made a terrible mistake, and he’d spent the intervening days alternately feeling ill and drinking—perhaps too much.

Today he would tell his parents-in-law-to-be that there would be no more balls, routs, dinner parties, or levees. The wedding was to take place three weeks hence, and until then, Nick planned to keep to himself.

“What the fucking hell have you done?” Simon’s shouted question preceded his entrance into Nick’s study.

Bexham followed on his heels, his face pinched with distress. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, he wouldn’t allow me to announce him.”

“Who needs an announcement when he’s bellowed his presence for all of London to hear?” Nick waved his butler away. “It’s all right.”

Simon moved to stand in front of Nick’s desk and glared down at him. “Explain.” His jaw was tight, his teeth clearly clenched behind lips pale with anger.

Nick sat back in his chair and rested his hands on the arms. “I presume you’re speaking of my engagement?”

“To Diana bloody Kingman! Have you lost your mind?”

It was as succinct—and accurate—an assessment as Nick could’ve made. “Yes.”

“Explain,” Simon repeated before lowering himself into a chair.

How could he do that without exposing his weakness, his utter stupidity? “I went to Bath to reconcile with Violet, but it didn’t work. Miss Kingman proposed marriage, and I accepted.” Like a complete fool.

Simon got up and stalked to the opposite end of the room. “If I still drank spirits, I’d down an entire bottle of whiskey,” he muttered, but Nick still heard him. Simon turned around, the anger gone from his face and replaced with sorrow. “If you tried with Violet and it truly didn’t work, well then, I have no hope left. I would’ve bet my last pound that you were written in the stars.”

Nick stood and walked around his desk. He leaned on the edge. “You are a hopeless romantic.”

“Guilty.” He took a few steps back toward Nick. “What happened in Bath?”

Nick grasped the edge of the desk on either side of his thighs. He didn’t want to discuss this. “What happened doesn’t really matter.”

Simon narrowed his eyes slightly. “I’ll ask Violet about it when I visit her.”

Bloody hell. “You’re going to visit her?”

“I’d planned to, yes, and now, because of your idiocy, I think it’s vital. She’ll be devastated, I expect.”

Devastated. Nick winced, his insides twisting painfully, which was no less than he deserved. He’d written to her as soon as he’d returned home from speaking to Diana’s father. She hadn’t responded. So yes, she was likely devastated. Or furious. Probably both.

“You assume she wasn’t the one to break things off.”

Simon glared at him again. “I’d wager my last pound that she would never do that. She’s loved you for eight years and lived with the agony of her mistake. There’s no way she would’ve hurt you again.” He studied Nick briefly. “If you can even be hurt. You are the bloody Duke of Ice.”

The familiar nausea from the last few days rose in Nick’s gut. “This is not a revelation to anyone.”

“It is to me. And to Violet, I expect. We know the real you, who you’re capable of being.”

“Who I used to be. That person died with Maurice. And again with Uncle Gil. Yet again with Jacinda and then with Elias. Finally with—” Anguish tightened his body. “Never mind.”

Simon advanced on him, his brow dark, his eyes narrowed. “Whom did it die with?”

He was going to find out when he got to Bath anyway. “Violet.” Nick cleared the cobwebs from his throat. “She was in an accident. She was unconscious for quite some time and ill. I had to leave her to attend the princess’s fun—”

“You left her?”

“She’s fine now.” The physician had arrived back in London a few days ago and reported to Nick. Violet had been weak but was recovering.

Simon goggled at him and ran a hand through his hair, sending it straight up from the top of his head. “This is unimaginable.” He barely waited for Nick’s nod before raging on. “How did you determine you wouldn’t suit? If you’d truly tried, as you say you did, I simply can’t believe that’s true.” He moved close enough to Nick to jab him in the chest, which he did. “What did you fucking do?”

The emotion he’d struggled to bury since Violet’s accident erupted out of him. He shoved Simon, sending him stumbling backward. “I was a coward! She got hurt—badly—and I feared she would die. I cannot go through that again.”

“Because you love her.”

“Desperately.” The pain was so keen that he doubled over, sucking in a deep breath to try to right his equilibrium. “So desperately,” he whispered brokenly.

Simon’s arm came around his shoulders, and he guided Nick to a high-backed chair near the fireplace.

Nick sank down onto the cushion, his head bent as tears tracked from his eyes and dropped to the carpet. The wetness on his face was so foreign, and yet it felt so damned good.

Simon stood at his side, his hand a comfort on Nick’s shoulder. After a few minutes, Simon coughed. “I understand your fear—I really do. But why on earth you thought marrying Miss Kingman was an acceptable solution is beyond my comprehension. You’ve made a goddamned mess of things.”

Yes, he had. He’d spent the last five days torturing himself but not seeing a way to fix it.

Nick wiped his hand over his face and leaned his head back against the chair. Staring at the ceiling, he gave in to the anguish, realizing—too late—that the loss he’d tried to avoid had found him anyway. He’d been a fool to think he could control his feelings.

“Violet won’t want me. She loved who I was eight years ago, not this shell of a man I am now.”

“You are not a shell.” Simon tipped his head from side to side, reconsidering. “Perhaps you are a bit of a shell, but I think you’re filling in the holes again. It may take time, but there is no one better suited to help you with that than Violet.”

Nick looked at his friend. “What if she doesn’t want to?”

“Then you’ll be in a sorry state, and I’ll help you pick up the pieces. But she will want to. She loves you. And you love her.” Simon squared his shoulders. “That just leaves the matter of Miss Kingman. Allow me to handle that.”

Nick eyed him warily. “How? She doesn’t deserve ruination.”

Simon’s nostrils flared. “Because I’ll ruin her? I suppose that is what I’m known for.”

Nick flinched, his shoulders twitching. “That was a poor word choice. You are not known for that.”

“Not for ruining young women, but why not expand my depravity?” Simon shrugged, as if his reputation didn’t matter at all.

“This isn’t a joking matter, Simon. For me to cry off will cast Miss Kingman in an unfavorable light.”

“I imagine her parents will be furious,” Simon said.

No doubt. And given what Nick knew of her circumstances, she’d have even less choice than she’d had before he’d rescued her. Nick frowned at Simon. “They may try to force her into something terrible. She’ll want to get away, I imagine.”

“Leave it to me,” Simon said. His eyes glinted with determination, and he squeezed Nick’s shoulder before letting go. “Now tell me what you’re going to do about Violet. Might I suggest going immediately to Bath and telling her what a daft prick you’ve been and begging her forgiveness?”

Nick sat forward in the chair, a combination of anticipation and dread thrumming through his veins. “I’ve botched this rather horribly. She may not want me.”

“She may not. Will you take the risk?”

The pain of his losses reared in his mind, but he shoved it aside and found the joy he’d shared with Violet. “Absolutely.”

Simon’s lips spread into a satisfied smile. “Go. Trust me to handle Miss Kingman.”

There was no one Nick trusted more. Other than Violet, and he’d done a terrible job of actually doing that. He should have told her what he was feeling, and he damn well shouldn’t have cowered in London. “Thank you. I’m not sure I deserve a friend like you.”

“I told you long ago that we deserved each other,” Simon said dryly. He walked to the door but looked back at Nick before he left. “Give my love to Violet.”

Nick nodded, his gaze fixed on the hearth long after Simon had quit the room. Yes, he’d give Violet Simon’s love, but only after he offered her his first. He could only hope she’d want it.