The meeting with the dressmaker was as unpleasant as Charlotte had expected. Madame Guillemot was a thin, gaunt woman with a heavy, questionable French accent and a militaristic approach to fittings that would have made a general proud. She knew she’d landed quite a significant client with the Harringtons, but apparently it wasn’t enough to be paid her weight in gold. She demanded respect and made sure everyone remembered who the expert was.

And truly, as much as Charlotte hated fittings, there was no denying the woman knew her craft. Madame, ever punctual, arrived exactly on time with a retinue of harried looking assistants, young women with matching expressions much like that of hunted deer. In addition to her harried servants, she also brought twelve partially finished gowns, six pairs of new shoes, ten chemises made of spider-web fine lawn, numerous stockings and bonnets, hats and cloaks, and a dozen sheer night rails with matching peignoirs.

Overwhelmed by the rustle of lush silks and heavy brocades, Charlotte winced to think of the outrageous sums Mama was paying. The thought made Charlotte all the more determined to do her duty by the fitting, even though she’d have preferred to have a nail driven into her foot than stand for hours on end while stuffing herself into gowns far more lavish than any she’d ever owned.

It didn’t help that a few moments into the ordeal, Aunt Verity had whispered far too loudly to Charlotte that she rather thought Madame’s accent to be fake, for she sometimes forgot it all together. Thus, Madame was in a far from charitable mood when it came to the fitting itself. She tugged and pinned, poked and prodded, and repeatedly hissed, “You must stand still!” until Charlotte was ready to scream.

She was relieved when, three long hours after Madame Guillemot arrived, Aunt Verity had finally had enough, telling the woman that if she couldn’t work with the fittings she had, then they would hire someone would knew how to use their time ‘more efficiently.’ True to her charade, this had caused Madame to fly into a raging Gallic tirade where she’d had the ill fortune to call Aunt Verity ‘out of fashion.’

Aunt Verity had seemed half asleep during the modiste’s tirade, but Charlotte soon discovered that her aunt did not suffer insults lightly. The second the modiste paused for breath, Aunt Verity had answered, calling Madame every name in the book but polite. But as Verity had spun her tirade in pure, perfectly spoken French, Madame couldn’t retort, for her atrocious accent and lack of vocabulary would have completely unmasked her.

The only thing Madame could do was retreat. Fuming and unable to reply, Madame had taken out her fury on her harried assistants, snapping at them until everything was packed into their bandboxes and cloth sheaths. The assistants, their arms piled so high that they could barely see where they were going, hurried from the room while Madame, ever the actress, paused dramatically on the threshold. “I must warn you that I will be speaking with Mrs. Harrington about this outrage! Make no mistake!”

“That’s very kind of you, but there’s no need.” Aunt Verity hid a yawn behind her plump hand. “Olivia will be home before a letter could reach her, even if you did know where to address it.”

Madame gasped, her mouth opening and closing like a fish thrown onto land. After a horrified moment, she spun on her heel and marched out.

Charlotte turned an admiring gaze on her aunt. “That was masterful.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Aunt Verity hooked a foot around the leg of a tasseled stool and pulled it closer. “Sadly, I have no patience with pretenders, which is odd when you think of the fact I was once married to a fake baron.”

“Uncle Albert wasn’t a real baron?”

“Lud, no. My second husband was quite a charlatan, but he was charming, which goes a long way to making the unacceptable acceptable.” Aunt Verity paused to kick off her slippers before she plopped her feet on the footstool, settling deeper into the settee. “I do miss him, even today. He was quite good at many useful things, your Uncle Albert, and was never so gauche as to pretend to know something he didn’t.”

“But why did he lie about being a baron? Mama said he was quite well off.”

“Oh, he was wealthy. He wasn’t pretending about that. He just didn’t inherit it. His father was a tailor.” Aunt Verity smiled fondly. “He was a lovely man, too. He once fixed my hem where it had come loose during a carriage ride to visit him.”

“But how did Uncle Albert have so much money?”

“I don’t know. We never really discussed it.”

“You never discussed it?” Charlotte burst out laughing. “Aunt Verity, you are the strangest creature! Did you know Uncle Albert wasn’t a real baron when you married him?”

“Oh no. I didn’t find out until a few months afterwards. But I realized that he was still the same man I’d married – funny, loving, charming. And then there was the money. You can’t ignore that.”

“You two seemed happy.”

“We were. I loved him, you know.” Aunt Verity tugged her shawl a bit closer around her shoulders. “It’s a falsehood to think that you can live with a person for a number of years and know everything about them.”

“Mama knows everything about Papa.”

Aunt Verity laughed. “Oh child, if you only knew!”

Charlotte leaned forward. “Tell me!”

“I would, but then my brother would ring such a thundering scold over my head—” She shuddered. “I feel the need for some tea. Should I ring for it?”

“Yes, please.” Charlotte wished Aunt Verity would tell her more about Papa. Charlotte had always suspected there was a great deal she didn’t know about her father. He had the air of a man of mystery, even now.

Aunt Verity picked up the small silver bell that rested on the table beside the settee and rang it.

The door opened immediately, and a footman entered.

“Ah, Johnson! I know it’s not yet tea time, but Miss Harrington and I just had a ghastly visit from a faux Frenchwoman and now we find ourselves in need of sustenance.”

“Shall I request a tea tray, my lady?”

“I knew there was a reason you have become my favorite footman. That would be lovely, Johnson. Thank you.”

Smiling, he bowed and left.

Charlotte eyed her aunt. “You are trying to steal him, as well, aren’t you?”

“I’m trying. Sadly, your servants are very loyal. You should be glad to know that.”

Tea was brought in short order. Charlotte sent the footman on his way and poured the tea herself while Aunt Verity pulled herself into a more upright position on the settee.

Charlotte put two lumps of sugar into her aunt’s tea and stirred it, the silver spoon clicking against the side of the cup.

Aunt Verity watched, her eyes half closed. “Lud, but I am exhausted after that fitting.”

Charlotte refrained from pointing out that she was the one who’d been pinned and poked. “I don’t know where Mama found that woman, but I wish she hadn’t. Every time she comes, I feel like a pincushion.”

“To give your mama credit, Madame Guillemot has a reputation as an excellent source of couture. Sadly, her manners do not equal her talent.” Aunt Verity took the cup Charlotte offered and sipped her tea. “Ahhhh! Just what I needed.” She leaned back in the settee and pushed her stockinged feet toward a warm spot of sunshine that pooled on one end of the footstool.

Charlotte sipped her tea. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

“Madame seemed to think she could deliver most of the gowns within the next few weeks, and then your trousseau will be finished.” Aunt Verity watched Charlotte over her teacup. “You’ll be one step closer to the wedding, won’t you?”

Charlotte forced a smile. “It will be lovely to have so many new gowns although, to be honest, I feel somewhat guilty about it.”

“Why? You’re getting married. It’s what one’s parents do, provide a trousseau and a dowry. I assure you my brother can stand the nonsense.”

“He’s been very successful with his investments, Papa has. I know, for Mama is quite proud of him for adding so much to the Nimway coffers. As much as she loves this house, it’s expensive.”

“Old houses are rather like men. They are going to cost you, one way or another, especially the ones worth keeping.” Aunt Verity tugged her shawl a bit closer about her shoulders before sending a keen glance at Charlotte. “I do wish you’d stop worrying so much about things. You didn’t used to. Not before—” She paused, and then continued in a resolute tone, “Not before Caroline’s death. There. I said it aloud. It’s best we should get used to saying it.”

“It’s hard.”

“I know. But just because something is hard doesn’t mean it’s also good for you. My physician is forever saying I should get out and walk more. He says it allows the blood to circulate more freely.” Aunt Verity shuddered. “Just walk, he says. As if I would not have to change clothes before and after, and find a pathway that would not mar my hems and – Why, I’m exhausted just thinking about it!”

Charlotte had to smile. “That does sound horrid.” She toyed with her cup where it sat in its saucer. “Aunt Verity, I’m sorry if I seem gloomy of late. I’m not usually so.”

“Something’s bothering you. I’ve known it since I arrived.”

“It’s probably just wedding nerves. You know how those are.”

“Hm. Perhaps. But it seems to me that it’s more than mere wedding nerves.”

“There’s so much going on right now. There’s the wedding and the breakfast and the renovations and Robert and—oh, just everything. It’s happening so fast and I’m not ready and—” She threw up her hands and gave a weak laugh. “See? It’s complicated. Perhaps more than anything, I feel guilty for Mama working so hard to get Nimway ready for the wedding. She’s exhausted herself.”

“It’s been good for her. You said so yourself.”

“Yes, but . . . Oh, I don’t know what’s wrong with me!”

“Don’t you?” Aunt Verity set down her tea so that she could place a lemon cake on a china plate decorated with delicate blue and white flowers.

Charlotte picked up a spoon and absently swirled her tea. “When I agreed to marry Robert, I didn’t realize it would be such a huge endeavor. I just wanted a simple wedding, just enough of one to distract Mama from all the things that have happened.”

“That was very kind of you, although I think it unnecessary. Tell me, child, what did you think would happen after that wedding?” Aunt Verity ate a bite of cake, her sleepy gaze never moving from Charlotte’s face. “You and Robert would be married, and . . .” She waited with an expectant gaze.

Charlotte frowned. “That’s it. Robert and I would . . . Well, we would be married.”

“And? What would happen to you after that?”

Charlotte opened and then closed her mouth. What would happen after the wedding? “I’m to live with Robert in his home in London.”

“I thought you weren’t fond of the city.” Aunt Verity looked regretfully at her empty plate. “When I sponsored you and Caroline for your seasons, you said the city smelled of old eggs, and the people were cold and unfriendly, both valid observations, I should add.”

Charlotte winced. “Did I say that?”

“You and Caroline said it.”

“You must have wanted to smack us for being so ungrateful!”

“You were merely being honest and there’s no refuting what you said. The streets of London smell horrid, some worse than others, and the people can be quite cold and unfriendly, especially if they think they are superior in some way.” Aunt Verity put her empty plate on the table and reclaimed her tea cup and saucer. “But we were talking about Robert and where you’d live after your marriage, not about your unfortunate season.”

Charlotte laughed. “It was an unfortunate season, wasn’t it?” Two years ago, when she and Caroline had been seventeen, Aunt Verity had sponsored her and Caroline for their first – and what turned out to be – their only season. They’d been presented at court and had attended a whirlwind of balls and dinner parties. They’d met dozens of eligible men, all of whom were painfully polite to Charlotte, and madly in love with Caroline. “I never understood why Caroline decided to end our time in London so quickly. We’d barely been there three months.”

“It surprised me, too. She was the bell of the season, a position most girls that age would die for.” Aunt Verity watched Charlotte over the rim of her teacup. “You do know that your sister received no less than three proposals in the short time you were in London?”

“What?”

Aunt Verity muttered something under her breath. “I vow, but I must have told them a hundred times that you deserved to know.”

“They? My mother and father?”

“And Caroline, too. Her suitors were quite acceptable, and all were of the peerage. One of them is now a duke. Caroline turned them down, but still, three proposals only three months into the season? That was an impressive accomplishment, and I’m sure there were more coming.”

Charlotte didn’t know what to say. “She never told me.” How had Caroline kept such a thing a secret? What else didn’t she tell me?

“She was worried you’d feel slighted. Your Papa and I told both Caroline and your mother, too, that you wouldn’t care one whit—”

“I wouldn’t have! I’d have been happy for her.”

“Of course you would have been. You don’t have a selfish bone in your body.”

A flicker of irritation made Charlotte say rather sharply, “They were always trying to protect me.”

“No one needs to protect you, my child. You do quite well for yourself. Or you used to.”

Charlotte looked at Aunt Verity in surprise. “Used to?”

“You’ve changed since Caroline’s death. There are times it seems you’ve lost some of your spirit.”

“Aunt Verity! I—I don’t even know what to say to that.”

Aunt Verity winced. “I’m making things worse, aren’t I? Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you about Caroline and her offers.”

“No, I’m glad you did. I only wish Caroline had told me, for it must have been horrid, facing all of that alone.”

“She certainly wasn’t happy about the unwanted attention. She said she felt rather hunted, like a rabbit in the middle of a pack of hungry wolves.” Aunt Verity took a sip of tea. “It was odd, but early in the season, she seemed determined to kick up a stir, and she did so, but as the days passed, she was less and less interested in the balls and grew a bit pale. I asked her if she was feeling quite the thing, but she laughed and said she was just tired from staying up so late every night.”

Charlotte thought back to their time in London. “I thought she was just homesick. I was, myself. But I was as surprised as anyone the morning she said she was done with London and demanded to go home.”

Aunt Verity shuddered. “I remember that morning well. Your Mama was shocked, but your sister wept so copiously and begged—She was so unhappy, poor thing. I had no idea.”

“We were both relieved when Papa said we were to come home.” Charlotte looked out the window where the sunshine glittered on the surface of Myrrdin Lake. The lawn waved in the breeze, colorful flowers nodding from where they’d been planted around the water’s edge. Beyond the lake, the harvest gold field rippled as if a giant’s hand had gently stroked the bobbing heads of grain. Meanwhile, in the distance sat mysterious and beckoning Balesboro Wood. It was so beautiful here at Nimway, the only home she’d ever known. Poor Caroline.

“I did wonder one thing, though . . .” Aunt Verity helped herself to another tea cake. “Caroline had to know she’d receive offers while in London. I mean, that is the purpose of a season.”

“I think she just wanted to dance at balls and wear beautiful clothing. She said that no matter what happened, she was going to have a wonderful time and dance with whomever asked her, which is what she did. She never turned down a request to dance.” Charlotte smiled. “Robert once escorted us to a ball and said he couldn’t get one dance with her as she was mobbed the second she appeared, and her card filled up before he could reach her. He was quite miffed about it.”

“He’s a good dancer.”

“He is. I should know, for I danced with him at every event. My dance card wasn’t as full.” The memory soothed some of Charlotte’s angst about Robert. I should remember that he’s a good man, and kind. Yes, he’s a horrid correspondent, but not everyone takes to the pen. That doesn’t make him a poor choice for a husband.

But still . . . At one time, she’d thought being ‘kind’ enough of a reason to marry someone. But was it? If Robert was indeed the man she should be with, how was it that she kept finding herself in Marco’s company? She bit her lip, thinking of the simple, platonic kiss on the cheek she’d given him which had turned into something much, much more. Something heated. Now that her pride had healed a bit, she knew he’d been right to send her away. They could not be alone. But shouldn’t she feel that way about Robert? All they had was friendship, and although it was a true one, would it be enough to carry a marriage through the years?

Aunt Verity patted Charlotte’s knee. “Don’t look so worried. I’m sure everything will work out to the good.”

Charlotte hoped her cheeks weren’t still pink. “I was just thinking that I will miss Nimway Hall.”

“It’s a beautiful house, but I doubt it’s the Hall you’re going to miss. I’ve been married a number of times. Five, if you’re counting. Four, if you’re not. And that makes me an expert on the subject. Your Mama would not approve of what I’m about to say, but say it, I must.” Aunt Verity set her tea aside and pinned Charlotte with a serious gaze. “If you’ve any doubts about this marriage, then say so. Your parents would understand, and – from what little I know of Robert – so would he. He’s always seemed a most pleasant man.”

“He’s a good person.” Charlotte gave rueful smile. “Too good for me, I sometimes think.”

“Nonsense. But, if you’re sure you want this marriage, then fine. It’s odd, but I never thought he was interested in you in that particular way. In fact, after Christmas one year, I was certain he—Ohhhh!” Aunt Verity’s gaze, which had absently followed a streak of sunlight to one of the large windows, had locked on some distant point outside.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

She flushed as she slowly stood, her hand stealing to her throat. “That’s . . . oh dear.”

What on earth? Charlotte stood, too. Still holding her cup of tea, she leaned to one side and peered around her aunt to see what was so intriguing. It didn’t take her long to find what it was.

There, walking along the path from the lake to the stables was Marco. He’d apparently gone for a swim, for his hair was wet, his white shirt – usually so loose – clung to his wet shoulders and broad, muscular chest. The sleeves were rolled back to his elbow, his powerful arms visible even from this distance. The sunshine lingered on him, outlining every well-defined muscle, the breadth of his shoulders, and the tight line of his stomach. Beads of lake water glistened as he reached up to rake back his wet hair, his muscles on fine display.

Charlotte’s mouth was suddenly dry and she absently lifted her cup to her lips but forgot to drink. He looked so—

“No!”

Charlotte blinked at her aunt. “What?”

“You cannot look at that! And I, as your chaperone, will not allow you to!” In a rustle of silk, Aunt Verity almost leapt between Charlotte and the window, holding her arms out in an effort to block the view. “Stop looking! Why, if your mother saw that and knew you’d seen it, she’d be furious with me.”

Charlotte lowered her cup. “You were looking at him.”

Under her powder, Verity’s cheeks pinkened. “That’s different. I’m not engaged to be wed. I may not be the strictest chaperone when it comes to your meandering about the estate alone on your horse, but watching an almost nude male is another matter.”

“He was fully clothed.”

“It didn’t seem like it, did it? Now come. Turn away from the window. We’ll sit with our backs to it.” She took Charlotte by the arm and led her to a chair facing the fire and set her in it.

Aunt Verity returned to her settee, adjusted her skirt’s panniers to each side, her neck quite flushed where there was no powder. “I don’t suppose you know who he is?”

“He’s the sculptor Mama commissioned to make the fireplace in the dining room.”

“He’s an artist, too? Good God, what was your mother thinking? And now he’s out there, wandering around with no clothes.”

Charlotte laughed. “Aunt Verity!”

“Fine, he was wearing clothes, but in such a way that one couldn’t help but imagine what he must look like without them. That’s not acceptable!” Verity picked up her linen napkin and fanned herself. “And don’t say that I shouldn’t have looked, for I know it, but he was right there in plain view and I . . .” Aunt Verity’s face softened as she leaned forward to say in a low tone, “As if anyone could help but look at such a man!”

“He’s quite attractive.”

“He is indeed. Women are in such a ridiculous place in the world. We aren’t supposed to notice anything earthy, as if we were blind, deaf, and dumb, while men not only notice such things, but positively delight in it. It’s so unfair.”

“It’s the same with my riding. I may ride all I want so long as I never gallop, never jump a hedge, never do anything but creep along at the pace of a slug on a perfectly flat surface.”

“Society has not been fair to the fairer sex,” Aunt Verity agreed. “But to get back to the sculptor. What do you know about him?”

Charlotte’s face heated. “Why would I know anything?”

“Come, child. I’m sure you know something about him.“

“Only a little. I know he’s Italian and he’s gaining a reputation as a master sculptor. His father is a famous painter, but he no longer paints because of his health.”

Aunt Verity’s gaze had sharpened. “It sounds as if you’ve spoken to him.”

“Barely,” Charlotte lied, hoping her cheeks didn’t appear as flushed as they felt. “Mama asked me to report back to her about his progress. She wants to be sure the fireplace is finished in time for the wedding.”

“Sometimes I wonder about your mama. She’s far too smart to make such an error.”

“He’s not an error. He’s quite famous in Italy.”

“Oh sweetheart, I am famous in Italy and I’m not a sculptor.”

“How are you—”

“La, child, how you talk,” Aunt Verity said in a rush. “But I plan on having a word with your mama when next I see her. But in the meantime, you, my dear, must stay away from that man.”

“But the fireplace—”

“He can send word via a message. I suppose he can write?”

She nodded.

“Then have him send you notes. Meanwhile, you can put your energy into your other duties.”

“What other duties?”

Aunt Verity dropped her napkin back into her lap and frowned. “Surely over the last few years you’ve overtaken some of the responsibilities here at Nimway?”

“Mama was training Caroline to oversee the house. Except for basic housekeeping, I was never included.”

“Oh dear. That should have changed, although as you’re getting married so soon, I suppose it’s too late.” Aunt Verity sighed and looked around the room. “Your sister did love this house. She glowed whenever she spoke about it.”

“She did. It made her so happy, although . . . The week before she died, she came into my bedchamber and she looked as if she’d been crying.” Charlotte frowned. “She said she’d dreamed she’d left Nimway and it had upset her. Perhaps she was just realizing how much the house meant to her.”

“Perhaps,” Aunt Verity said without conviction. “I vow, I wish we might find your sister’s diary. It would answer so many questions. I still cannot reconcile myself with the fact that she was out riding a horse in the middle of the night. You, I would believe, but not her.”

“We were all shocked. And we’ve looked everywhere for that diary, and it has not been found. I’ve started to wonder if perhaps there wasn’t one.” Charlotte sighed. “Caroline was different after our season in London. I don’t know why, but after that, she seemed secretive. But she was so happy, even more so than usual, that I didn’t ask questions. Now I wish I had.”

Aunt Verity sighed. “Well until that diary is found, we’ll never know what Caroline was doing, so that is neither here nor there.” She roused herself with an obvious effort and said in a sharper tone. “Come, we should focus on the present, not the past, as difficult as that may be. And you may start by explaining something to me.”

“Of course.”

“How is it that your mother thought Caroline the guardian of Nimway, but hasn’t passed that responsibility on to you? My brother has said a female must hold the title of the house, so if Olivia is the current guardian, and Caroline is gone, that must mean you’re next in line.”

“I don’t have the mark.”

“What?”

“The Guardian is always born with an oval mark on the back of her shoulder.”

Aunt Verity looked horrified. “Do you mean to tell me that the ownership of this magnificent house rests on a happenstance birthmark?”

Charlotte nodded. “It’s been that way for centuries.”

Aunt Verity glowered. “And you don’t have this mark, so – Bloody hell.”

Charlotte blinked. “Aunt Verity!”

“I know, I know, it’s rude to curse, but really.”

“I don’t mind it. To be honest, I’d like to travel, for I’ve never been anywhere but here and London. But Robert doesn’t enjoy it. He says coach and ship travel make him ill. But he rides very well.”

“You cannot ride a horse to the Continent.”

“I know. No two people want the same thing. I’m sure Robert and I will find a way that satisfies us both.”

Aunt Verity placed her hand over Charlotte’s. “You are indeed a Harrington. We all suffer from wanderlust. In his day, your Papa vowed he’d never settle down.” She laughed softly, her gaze focused on an image from the past. “One time, he even sh—” She caught herself and pulled back, releasing Charlotte’s hand. “Never mind.”

“Aunt Verity, please tell me! I know Papa was very different before he married Mama, but he won’t tell us how.”

“He will, one day, but he won’t thank me for spilling his secrets.”

“He won’t tell us anything. And now Caroline will never know it.” Charlotte’s heart ached, the rush of sadness swallowing her once again. “Her death has changed everything. People never tell you that when a sibling dies, you change, too. You’re no longer the oldest or the youngest or the only. Your place in life, in the family, changes. Both John and I felt it. But I . . . I was no longer a twin. That always made me feel special, and with her, I was never alone. When Caroline left, she took that with her, too.”

“Oh my dear!” Aunt Verity reached over and captured Charlotte’s hand. “It’s been hard on the entire family. Harder than I’d realized. But you must realize that while you’ll miss Caroline, you are still you, our wild, untamed Charlotte.”

“Wild and untamed.” Charlotte had to laugh, though the sound was bitter. “Mama wishes I weren’t either of those. I’ve been trying to be better for my parents. They were so devastated when Caroline died.”

Aunt Verity’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. “But so were you. And changing yourself, or tying to, just to please others, is not the answer.”

“I’m just trying to be better.”

“Better implies that you weren’t good before, and you were. You must be true to yourself, whatever you do. And if this marriage is what you would do if Caroline were still here, then by all means, continue with it. But if you’re merely trying to distract your mama with a wedding or you think to become whatever it is you believe Caroline was to your parents, then you are making a grave error, one that will only end in tragedy for both you and Robert.”

Was that what she was doing? Was she trying to take Caroline’s place? Charlotte looked at the delicate teacup resting in its saucer and wondered what she’d be doing if Caroline were still here.

Aunt Verity tsked. “Look what I’ve done! I’ve made you sad. See what happens when I’m distracted by a handsome man? I start lecturing you on every topic possible! Let’s talk about something more pleasant. Tell me, what did you think of the blue silk gown? I do believe that was my favorite.” Aunt Verity, always ready to talk fashion, went off into raptures over some of the materials and stitches while Charlotte smiled and nodded.

Every once in a while, Charlotte pretended to cough so she could glance out the window where they’d seen Marco walking from the lake. Aunt Verity had forbidden Charlotte to see him again, which was unfair in the extreme. Just the thought of it made her hands curls into fists. Why shouldn’t she see him? She was well able to take care of herself. True, she’d allowed her guard to slip in the past, but that was only more reason for her to challenge herself to regain her control. Seeing him again would be good for her. Even Aunt Verity would agree, if she were thinking straight. But of course, who would think straight after seeing Marco like that?

She remembered how he looked, walking from the lake. She’d felt those arms about her, had felt the heat of his skin on hers. Her chest tightened, as if there wasn’t enough air in the entire world to fill her lungs.

Meanwhile, Aunt Verity was now discussing the merits of silk wool to combed wool, her voice slow and soft as she yawned between words.

Charlotte’s gaze moved back to the windows. Marco would be in his shop by now, working. She wondered if he’d made much progress on the fireplace pillars. What does he have planned for those? He was being so secretive when I visited him, and I let him. Before Caroline died, I’d have never allowed him, or anyone else, to put me off like that.

She bit her lip. Good God, how I’ve changed. Aunt Verity was right; she’d been trying her best to make her mother and father happy, to follow in her sister’s footsteps and be – well, the good child. She’d tried so hard that she’d actually done it, never realizing what she was giving up.

She couldn’t be both sedate and lively, both quiet and loud, both perfectly behaved and wildly passionate. I can’t be both Caroline and Charlotte. I can only be me.

A gentle snore pulled Charlotte’s attention to her aunt, who was now snoozing peacefully, her empty teacup resting in her lap under her relaxed hand, her shawl puddled on the floor near her feet.

Charlotte retrieved the teacup and placed it back on the tray, and then she collected the dropped shawl and spread it over her snoring aunt. “Thank you,” Charlotte whispered. She kissed Aunt Verity’s powdered cheek and then tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

In the hallway, she caught sight of Simmons speaking with two footmen. He dismissed them and then joined her. “An, miss. There you are. I take it Lady Barton is asleep?”

“Just now.”

“I will awaken her. She’ll be much more comfortable in her own bed chamber. I’ll let Miss Hull know that her ladyship is on her way up to—"

“No, thank you.”

He paused, surprise flittering over his thin face. “No?”

“There’s no need to send word to Miss Hull. Lady Barton will stay in the sitting room and enjoy her nap to the fullest.”

A pained expression crossed the butler’s face. “Miss, please. I’m sure Lady Barton would agree with me; it’s not genteel to sleep on a settee in the middle of the day—”

“Phooey.”

“I—I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. I said ‘Phooey.’ If my aunt – or anyone else for that matter – wants to nap on a settee in the sitting room in the middle of the day or at any other time, then they should be left alone to do so.”

“I—Yes, miss,” he said stiffly, looking as if he’d swallowed a lemon.

“Post a footman by the door so Lady Barton isn’t disturbed.”

“Yes, miss. Will that be all?”

“No, there’s one more thing. Bring some fresh ink to the library, please. I’ve letters to write. Two, in fact.”

Simmons bowed. “I’ll see to it right away.”

By the time the butler had fetched a fresh pot of ink from where it was kept locked in a cabinet in the pantry, and had carried it to the library, Charlotte was already sitting behind the desk, her hands folded in front of her, ready to compose two of the most difficult letters she’d ever written.