“I’m sorry. There’s nothing for it. You are going to have to marry him.”

Elizabeth ignored her aunt. She would much rather stare out the window onto the street before the Moncrieff ducal mansion. It was so pretty out there, with the streetlights glinting off the puddles. The lights were deliciously blurred.

Behind her, in this small sitting room, was hell.

She could hear the rustle of skirts and the whispers—her aunt, Lady Jersey, the duchess, Ranald, and the duke himself—but she didn’t mind that they were whispering. She really didn’t care to hear what they had to say.

“Here.” Kaitlin, the Duchess of Moncrieff, appeared by her side with a cup of tea. “Drink this.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Please. You’ve had a shock.” Kaitlin pressed the cup closer and Elizabeth caught a whiff of something that was definitely not tea.

She accepted the offering and sipped, relishing the warm burn of excellent whisky. She glanced at her hostess and gave a small smile. “I had heard you were a scandal.”

Kaitlin smiled back. “I do try. Now. Finish that up and come have sandwiches.” As though sandwiches were a cure-all for everything.

They were not.

But perhaps whisky was. “Maybe he will not want to marry me if I am a drunk,” she suggested and took another snort. What a pity it went down the wrong way and made her cough and wheeze. The duchess, very obligingly, patted her back.

“He seems rather resolute in the matter. Such devotion is not such a bad thing in a husband.”

Elizabeth snorted a laugh. “He was resolute enough to force me into that room and kiss me against my will.”

“He did not!”

“He most certainly did. Do you imagine I would kiss that man of my own volition?”

“I was wondering. You did seem a sensible sort.”

“I am.”

“But he is wealthy, I am told. And some say he is handsome.”

“And titled,” Aunt Esmeralda warbled, although no one had invited her to join the conversation at the window.

“We need to figure out how to handle this,” the duke said. He turned to Lady Jersey. “Can you offer suggestions?”

Lady Jersey sniffed. “The most obvious is a special license.”

Elizabeth blanched. “No.”

The reigning queen of the ton fixed Elizabeth with a bland glance and raised a brow. “No?” This she said as though she’d never before heard the word uttered in her presence.

Elizabeth frowned at them all, each in turn. “I didn’t want to go with him. I didn’t want to kiss him. I don’t want to marry him.”

“My gel,” Lady Jersey intoned. “Life is not about what we want.”

Oooh. Elizabeth wanted to smack her. What a pity she was civilized.

As always, her aunt sensed her mood. “Sarah, why don’t you go back to the party? I would hate for you to miss a thing.”

Lady Jersey bristled. “Nonsense. This is far more interesting.”

“Twiggenberry is waiting,” Ranald reminded them. It had been a major coup, keeping him out of this discussion, but the duke—bless him—had insisted.

“Let him wait,” Esmeralda snapped.

“You need to make some kind of announcement tonight,” Lady Jersey advised. “To avoid scandal.”

“I couldn’t give a fig for scandal,” Elizabeth cried. “I’m not marrying him.”

“I understand, dear gel, that you do not have a care for what society thinks, but this is not just about you. Is it?”

Elizabeth blinked at Lady Jersey, then mopped her eyes. “What . . . do you mean?”

Lady Jersey stood and cupped her hands. “This is about your family. About your reputation. How many offers do you think your sisters will have with this hanging over their heads? Do you really want to rob them of their futures? Their opportunities?”

Oh.

Oh dear.

Visions of Anne and Victoria and dear Mary flitted through her head, and her heart ached. She couldn’t put her own happiness before theirs. Could she?

Seeing Elizabeth falter, Lady Jersey pressed her point. “It is the only way.”

Elizabeth glanced at her aunt, who grimaced and nodded.

“I’m afraid she’s right,” the duchess said sympathetically. “If you want to avoid a scandal, this is the only way.”

How devastating that they were right.

She could walk away if this were only about her. But it wasn’t.

It wasn’t. It was about the people she loved most on earth.

People she couldn’t bear to disappoint or tarnish or wound.

And so it was that, the night of the Moncrieff ball, Elizabeth St. Claire became engaged to Lord Wallace Twiggenberry.

And everything within her died.

* * *

It couldn’t be so.

It couldn’t be.

How could she have said yes?

How could she have agreed?

Hamish sank deeper into his chair in the Sinclair House library—the very place he had kissed Elizabeth just this morning—and tossed back his drink.

This had begun as the most wonderful day of his life and ended as the absolute worst.

The woman he loved had—willingly—given herself to another man.

He wanted to die.

On that note, he rose and made a markedly staggered way to the window, where there was another carafe of . . . something. He poured another drought—some of it into his cup—and headed back to his seat. The room spun, but not as much as his world, which was whirling in tatters around him.

“There you are.”

“Go the fook away.” He didn’t want to see Ranald, or anyone.

“I know you’re upset.”

Hamish stilled, then fixed Ranald with a sardonic stare. “Really?”

“Do you want to talk?”

“I want to drink.”

“That willna help.”

“It’s helping at the moment.”

His friend took a seat, sat back, and sighed heavily. Then he took the carafe from Hamish and poured himself a glass. When he took a sip, he grimaced and spat it back. “This is ratafia.”

“It’s all that was left.”

Ranald sighed and stood, headed for the bellpull, and tugged. “I canna have you drinking ratafia.”

“I just doona understand. And she willna talk to me.”

“She’s too overset. She doesna want to talk to anyone.”

“How could she have said yes? To him? He’s a fooking worm.”

“Aye. He is.”

“How could she have said yes?”

“What do you think? That she decided in the course of a dance that she dinna want you after all? That she wanted a smelly, titled lord with ten thousand a year?”

He had thought exactly that. At least for a moment. Or six.

“Why else would she say yes?”

“It should be obvious.”

“Nothing is obvious.”

“She did it to save her sisters from the scandal.”

Well. That shut him up. That was the Elizabeth he knew and loved. “That is stupid,” he muttered.

“Aye. But what her society demands.”

“She hates her society.”

“With good reason, it appears.”

“She wants to live in Scotland.”

“Perhaps Twiggenberry will take her?” A horrible joke, and Ranald knew it. He winced at Hamish’s glare. “Sorry.”

“Maybe I should just kidnap her.”

“It didn’t work for Tiverton.”

“I’m cleverer than Tiverton.”

“Nae doubt. But the issue with her sisters and their reputation still remains. No’ to mention the reputation of the duke.”

Hamish grimaced. Bluidy hell. There was that. He owed Lachlan better. “Maybe Twiggenberry could die before the wedding.”

Ranald cleared his throat. “I was thinking more along the lines of delaying the wedding as long as possible. You know. In the hopes that some opportunity presents itself?”

“That works too.”

“Do you have any ideas?”

Hamish gestured to his rumpled person. “Do I look as though I have any ideas?”

“Now that you mention it, you do no’.”

Henley scratched on the door just then. He entered without waiting for a response and with little ado, he set a tray of sandwiches on the table.

“What the hell is this?” Hamish bellowed.

But then Jamison appeared, carrying a bottle of amber liquid. “From the duke’s special collection,” the butler intoned. With aplomb he opened the bottle and poured three glasses, one of which he lifted in salute. “My sympathies,” he said and tossed it back.

It occurred to Hamish that Henley might actually have a soul after all.

Because when he withdrew, he left the bottle.

* * *

Elizabeth was desolate. Her life had gone from perfect to debacle in the course of a minute. A mere minute in the arms of a man she intensely disliked.

It was so terribly unfair, she couldn’t stand it.

Naturally, she wouldn’t be able to sleep on account of all the weeping, so she went downstairs with the thought of drowning her sorrows in either whisky or cakes. Or maybe both. It hardly mattered now if she became round. Maybe if she could make herself as hideous as possible, Twiggenberry would cry off. Perhaps she could develop the winds or manage to grow hair on her chin.

As she padded down the hall she heard voices in the library and she slowed.

Hamish and Ranald were talking and she could hear the clink of glasses.

So she wasn’t the only one with that thought.

She was desperate to see him, to speak to him, but she was afraid of what he would say. He had to be crushed and confused as well. She didn’t think she could bear to face his disenchantment with her.

With a sigh, she continued on to the kitchen but heard something that made her freeze. Horror snaked up her spine.

“Perhaps you should return to Scotland.” Bower’s tone made clear they’d been discussing it for a while.

Her heart clenched and her skin went hot and cold.

Hamish huffed a laugh. “Aye,” he slurred. Apparently he’d been drinking for a while as well. “It would probably be for the best.”

For the best?

“It’s not as though you canna find another woman.”

“I doona want another woman. I want her.”

Ranald blew out a breath. “What has happened to you? Is this the man who once won a wager to kiss a hundred lasses?”

“I dinna win. I lost.” Hamish huffed out a bitter laugh. “By one.”

“So there are at least ninety-nine women to choose from. I know the widow Dunn would welcome you back to her bed with open arms.”

“Ah, Moyra.”

“She’s a lovely thing.”

“Aye. And sooo accommodating.”

Both men laughed and Elizabeth’s stomach lurched. Her hurt quickly turned to anger. He had a widow. He’d been in her bed. She had open arms.

Oh, how had she not guessed such a thing?

Anne had warned her often enough about the feckless nature of men.

But she’d been too innocent, too trusting to see the truth.

She must have made a noise, because Bower turned and glanced over his shoulder and spotted her. “Ballocks,” he said.

Hamish turned as well, and his face went ashen. “Elizabeth. What are you doing here?” he asked.

Utter rage flashed through her, burning her from the inside out. “I live here. This is my house.”

“Well, I know that. But—”

“So you have a widow waiting for you back in Scotland.” Not a question.

His face went from ashen to a trifle green.

“No need to confirm it, I heard you.”

He came to his feet then, though somewhat slowly. “Listen, Elizabeth,” he said, clutching the back of his chair for balance.

“There is no need for you to explain anything.”

His brow darkened. His ears went red. “You’re damned right,” he bellowed. “You’re the one who is engaged to another man!”

“Hamish,” Bower said, setting a hand on his arm. “Doona say anything you may regret.”

Hamish knocked Bower’s hand away and growled, “Regret? Let me tell you about regret.”

His implication was clear. It was Elizabeth he regretted. The thought made her want to curl into a ball and never move again.

“Hamish. You’ve been drinking—”

“Nae, Ranald. She’s the one who agreed to marry another man. She took my heart and crushed it like a . . .” He made crushing motions with his fist as he sought an apt analogy. “Like a thing that is crushed.”

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“Of course you dinna.”

His snide tone enflamed her anger. “You have another woman. You always have. And you never told me.”

“Of course I never told you.” He took a step toward her, clearly intending to say more, which she wasn’t sure she could bear, but he stumbled on the carpet and fell flat on his face.

The next sound that came from him was a wheezing snore.

“Well,” Bower said, staring down at his friend. “That dinna go well at all.”

It was a game attempt at a joke, but Elizabeth was in no mood.

Though she hated the prospect of marrying Twiggenberry, this was so much worse. The illusion that Hamish had loved her had been the only thing keeping her together.

And now, she knew it was a lie.

He had another woman in his life and he had been intending to return to her all along.

She whirled from the library and ran to her room, but she had no idea how she made it there.

Her heart was shattered in pieces and nothing could put them together again.

Nothing.