Following the debacle at the Moncrieff ball, Elizabeth went into a decline. There was no other word for it.

She curled up under her covers, refused meals, and slept—or pretended to sleep—for days.

She’d never been so miserable.

Her younger sisters were, understandably, befuddled. They couldn’t fathom why she was distraught, because she’d just become engaged to one of the richest men in the ton.

They did not know the truth—at least the whole of it—and Elizabeth was not inclined to share with them.

Anne was the only one who seemed sympathetic, but then, she knew the truth. She came to Elizabeth’s room each morning and tried to get her to drink her chocolate, and when Elizabeth couldn’t be tempted, Anne rubbed her back and hummed tuneless songs.

Victoria and Mary visited as well, but mostly to whisper about her when they thought she was sleeping.

“Do you suppose she’s ill?” Mary asked one day.

“She seems ill.”

“She doesn’t seem like a woman head over heels in love, does she?”

“No. And each time I tell her Twiggenberry has called again, she just groans.”

“They were caught in flagrante delicto,” Mary said.

“That is true.”

Elizabeth’s fury rose. She could not let this go unanswered. She rolled over and barked, “He kissed me against my will.”

Her sisters lurched back in surprise. “Oh my,” Mary said. “You look terrible.”

With a huff, Elizabeth pulled the covers over her head.

The bed dipped as one of them sat. Victoria apparently. “I can understand your annoyance at that. I know you hate being forced into anything. Why, when we were girls and Papa tried to make you eat your vegetables, you threw them at the ormolu clock—”

Mary snorted. “I daresay this is on another plane entirely. Her entire future is at stake. If she doesn’t want to marry a man, she should be allowed to say no.”

“Of course she can say no,” Victoria sniffed. “No one would expect her to say yes if she really didn’t want to.”

“Lady Jersey would,” Elizabeth mumbled from beneath the blankets.

“We don’t give a fig what Lady Jersey thinks,” Victoria said gently.

“Of course you do.” Elizabeth sat up and stared at her sisters, ignoring their grimaces at the state of her red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “Everyone does. Everyone has to.” A wail.

“Nonsense.” Mary frowned.

“Ask Aunt Esmeralda. She will tell you.”

“She’s not speaking much.”

Elizabeth stilled. “What do you mean?”

Her sisters exchanged a glance and Victoria shrugged. “Whenever we bring it up she says, not now.”

“She’s canceled morning calls as well,” Mary added.

“And we’ve withdrawn from the season.”

“Again?” Oh, this was not good. The whole point of her sacrifice was so her sisters could continue on in search of their husbands.

“It’s not so bad,” Mary said. “Peter Ross still visits.” She shot a glance at Victoria who, unaccountably, blushed. “And the duchess.”

This was bolstering. “Kaitlin?”

“Yes. I like her,” Mary said.

“And Twiggenberry,” Victoria added. “He comes each day. He’s eager to see you.”

“I can imagine,” Elizabeth muttered. “I can’t see him, of course. I’m still too angry. I would probably flatten his nose.”

Mary laughed. “Oh, you could have Hamish do that.”

To which Elizabeth perked up. “Hamish?” She tried to ask with as casual tone as possible.

“He’s been a bear lately.”

“Oh, a complete bear.” Victoria rolled her eyes. “He and Bower got into a fight in the parlor yesterday.”

“Did they break anything?”

“No.” Mary sighed. “Aunt Esmeralda stopped them before anything interesting could happen. But she’s asked him to move out.”

Elizabeth’s heart lurched. “What?” Was he going back to her?

“To Ross House,” Victoria said. “Aunt Esmeralda said something about him being able to drink himself to death there without being a bad influence.”

Mary shrugged. “Except on Peter, one would imagine.”

Elizabeth snorted. “Peter hardly needs a bad influence.”

The annoyance on Victoria’s face surprised her. “Don’t talk about Peter like that,” she snapped.

Seriously? “You do know he gambled away the family fortune. Catherine was forced to marry Duncan to save their house.”

“Catherine is in love with Duncan.”

“She wasn’t then!” Elizabeth drew in a breath to calm herself. “But that does not signify. The fact is, the man is an inveterate gambler.”

“He’s changed.”

Oh dear. The tone of Victoria’s voice told a tale all its own. She was besotted.

“Victoria, forget about Peter Ross. Focus on finding a husband. One who will not gamble you into penury.”

Her sister put out a lip. “Honestly. You sound just like our aunt.”

“How is that a bad thing?”

“How is it? How?” Victoria sprang to her feet—as tears sprang to her eyes—and she bolted from the room.

After the door slammed behind her, Mary grinned. “Well, you’ve done it now.”

“I’ve done it?” Elizabeth practically fumed. “I can’t believe she is even considering Peter Ross! What is the point of my sacrifice if she marries Peter Ross and lives the rest of her life in the gutter outside Newgate waiting to visit her husband?”

Mary went preternaturally still. “What do you mean, your sacrifice?”

Oh ballocks. “Nothing.”

But Mary was no fool. She stared at Elizabeth. “You’re marrying Twiggenberry . . . for us?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Of course. I see it now. I understand. Oh, Lizzie!” She wrapped her sister in a hug and wouldn’t let go. “I cannot let you.”

“You cannot stop me,” Elizabeth muttered against her shoulder.

Mary pulled back. The expression on her face was . . . frightening. Not like carefree, fanciful Mary in the least. There was a martial light in her eye. And then . . . she smiled.

And Elizabeth’s blood went cold.

* * *

“What is Mary up to?” Elizabeth asked as she stormed into the parlor that afternoon.

Esmeralda and Victoria, who were holding up a swath of white organza, froze in a guilt-laden tableau. “What was that, gel?” her aunt asked, attempting to tuck the material out of sight, but there was far too much of it.

“What,” Elizabeth barked, “is that?”

Esmeralda blinked several times in succession. Far too many times for her innocence to be believed. “What?”

“That?” She pointed, unerringly, at the heinous material.

“That is nothing,” Victoria said.

“It is decidedly not nothing.” Elizabeth stomped over and yanked out the organza. It kept coming. And coming.

Victoria offered a cheery smile. “We were thinking it would make a nice veil?”

Acid skittered through her veins. “A veil?” Elizabeth plopped down on the divan and buried her face in her hands.

“You had to know we were preparing for the wedding,” her aunt said softly.

Elizabeth lifted her head and stared at her. “So soon?”

Victoria rubbed her back. “Darling. Don’t cry so.”

“Twiggenberry has gone to Canterbury.”

“Oh God.” A wail.

“He shall be back any day with that license.”

“How mortifying.”

“We just wanted you to be prepared when he returns,” Esmeralda said.

Elizabeth gulped. “I don’t think I can do it.”

“You can. And you will.” Her aunt nodded surreptitiously at Victoria.

Victoria frowned at Esmeralda. “Elizabeth doesn’t want to marry Twiggenberry.”

Elizabeth’s heart lurched. After that exchange with Mary, she’d realized she had to keep up the pretension with her sisters. If they knew how unhappy she was with this turn of events, they would stand behind her, even if it meant disaster for their futures. She could not allow that to happen. They had to believe she was delighted to marry the earl. But it cost her to lie. “Of course I . . . want to marry him.”

Victoria snorted. Wetly. “How long have I known you, Elizabeth Alexandria St. Claire?”

Really? What kind of question was that? “You’re a year younger than I am.”

“Precisely. And I can tell when you lie. But what has me baffled is . . . why? Why lie? If you don’t want to marry the man, say so.”

“We were caught in flagrante delicto.”

Victoria blinked. “So?”

“We have to marry.”

To her horror, her sister’s gaze drifted to her belly. “Oh . . .”

Elizabeth swatted her. “Not that.” She glanced at Esmeralda in desperation.

“She’s worried about your future, Victoria,” her aunt said.

Victoria gaped at them both. “My . . . future?” Then she threw back her head and laughed. “That is rich.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Esmeralda barked. “There are plenty of parties éligibles in the sea.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that I don’t want a parti éligible?” Victoria snapped.

“Of course it has. It occurs to me every day. That does not signify.”

“It most certainly does signify.” She set her chin at a militant angle and turned back to Elizabeth. “You are not marrying him for me.”

Sometimes Victoria was so stubborn. “There is still Anne to think about—”

“Anne has never wanted a husband.”

Esmeralda rolled her eyes. “And Mary.”

“She fancies herself in love as well.”

Elizabeth blanched. She hoped to God Victoria didn’t let slip with whom Mary was besotted, or their aunt might have apoplexy on the spot.

“Well, thank God one of you has a modicum of sense,” their aunt said.

The door opened and Bower walked in. Hamish followed closely behind and stopped when he saw Elizabeth. His gaze lingered, though it seemed to pain him.

It certainly pained her.

“Excellent timing as usual,” Esmeralda muttered.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Bower said with a bow. “I didn’t realize she was here.”

Really? Were they going to talk about her as though she weren’t present?

“Do you see this?” Elizabeth wailed, flailing organza. “They are planning my wedding.”

Hamish’s expression was hard. “You did say yes.”

She stared at him, trying to interpret his tone. Anger. Bitterness. And agony. A heartbreaking combination. She took a step toward him, but his expression stopped her. “I had no choice. Can’t you see that?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Of course.”

“Hamish. Please.” Elizabeth turned to her aunt. “We need a moment alone.”

“Absolutely not!”

Victoria shook her head. “What is this all about?”

Esmeralda blew out a snort. “Elizabeth fancies herself in love with Hamish.”

“I am!”

Victoria stared at her in horror. “Darling. I didn’t know.”

Ah, it was nice, her sister’s embrace. Warm, comforting, and tender. Elizabeth wanted to stay there forever, but Victoria stepped away and said, her tone brooking no refusal, “Out. Everyone. Let them have this time.”

Though Esmeralda sputtered something about propriety, Victoria hustled her—and Ranald—from the room. And then, she firmly closed the door.

Oh heavens.

Elizabeth swallowed heavily. Now that she was alone with Hamish, she didn’t know quite what to say. She plucked at a thread on her skirt. “They tell me you’ve been asked to move in with Peter.”

“What can I say? I’ve been a tad . . . unpleasant.”

She wanted to run to him, but knew she couldn’t. He wouldn’t accept her. “Please don’t drink yourself to death.”

“I have nae plans to,” he muttered, but she didn’t believe him.

“I am so sorry about this.” What else could she say? “If it weren’t for my sisters—”

“You doona need to explain. I understand.”

“Do you?” He didn’t look as though he did.

“This is the world you live in, wee lass. These are the rules you subscribe to.”

“I don’t.”

“Evidently you do.” He was silent for a moment, then cleared his throat. “You should know . . . I’ll probably be returning to Scotland soon.”

Hear heart sank. “Back to her?”

They both knew to whom she referred.

He did not respond, and it broke her heart. Still, she could not stop herself from crying. “Hamish, please don’t go,” she said through a sob. How could she exist without him? How could she be?

“I have to.” His tone was agonized. “I canna watch you marry him. I canna bear it.”

“Hamish—”

“This is goodbye, Elizabeth,” he said harshly. “I . . . wish you well.”

No. No. Her soul howled.

“One more kiss?” she begged in desperation.

When his gaze met hers, his answer was clear.

“All right,” she said on broken words. “Go then. Just go.” She whirled around, showing him her back. She couldn’t bear it either. It was far too heartbreaking.

She held her breath, waiting to hear the door. She did not, but she did feel a warmth well behind her and the sweet kiss of his breath as he whispered, “I will always remember you.”

And then, he left.

Elizabeth crumpled to the carpet and wept as though her world had ended.

Because it had.

* * *

“Hello there.”

Hamish whipped around, nearly dropping the pile of clothes he was packing. He hadn’t been expecting visitors. Especially in his private room. Especially Mary.

“Ah, Lady Mary.” Really, what else could he say?

“I need to talk to you.”

Hamish nodded to his bags. “I’m busy.”

“This is important.”

Honestly. Nothing was more important than getting packed and getting the hell out of this house. His soul couldn’t take much more. That one conversation with Elizabeth had nearly destroyed him. She’d looked nearly as miserable as he was.

Yet there was nothing he could do to save either of them. And that was the worst part about this whole catastrophe.

“I have an idea.”

Hamish sighed. Obviously she was not going to go away. He dropped onto his bed and massaged the bridge of his nose. “All right.”

“I know Elizabeth is sacrificing herself for us—”

“How on earth do you know that?”

“She told me.”

To his consternation, Mary sat on the bed beside him. Absolutely inappropriate, but he didn’t have it in him to protest. “She told you?”

“She didn’t mean to, of course. It just slipped out, don’t you know.”

“I see.”

“I don’t want her to marry Twiggenberry if it will make her unhappy. And it does seem to.”

“I can imagine.”

Her button nose wrinkled. “He does . . . smell.” This last bit she whispered conspiratorially.

“I had noticed.”

“Anne doesn’t want to marry.”

“Aye?” His brow quirked, not sure how this signified.

“Victoria is in love with Peter Ross.”

Hamish nodded. He’d noticed the mutual interest the two seemed to have for each other, and after a conversation with Duncan, Peter’s new brother-in-law and guardian, all Hamish’s concerns about the boy’s previous wildness had been laid to rest. “And?” he prompted when Mary did not seem inclined to continue.

“And . . .” She grinned. “That leaves me.”

Suddenly, he understood.

What a sweet, sweet lass. She was talking about the barriers keeping Elizabeth locked into a betrothal she did not want. What a pity her clever plotting would be for naught.

“What about you?” he had to ask.

“I couldn’t care less about a society wedding,” she said. “In fact, I have much . . . simpler tastes.”

Simpler tastes? He had no idea what she was alluding to, but judging from her expression, she assumed he was following.

“What if I ran away? Say, with a footman?”

He blanched. “Doona even jest about that.”

“It could help.”

“It will no’ help.”

“Of course it could. If Elizabeth’s indiscretion could ruin my reputation, then my indiscretion could ruin hers. Twiggenberry would have to toss her aside.”

“Not necessarily.”

“But she could refuse him then, couldn’t she? If she were not trying to protect us? Her sisters? Three women who neither want nor need such protection?”

Was he mad, or was she starting to make sense? Or was his rising hope engulfing his reason?

“There is still the duke’s reputation to consider,” he found himself saying. “You owe better to a man who took you in on trust. We all owe it to him to honor his reputation.”

She peered at him as though she could see far too much of his soul.

“What do you owe the duke?” she asked.

“Everything.” He’d saved Hamish’s life and livelihood.

Mary put out a lip and kicked her feet, making her look very young indeed. “You know him. Do you think he would care so much what high society thought of his relatives?”

Hamish nearly laughed. Lachlan would probably like them better if they did mutiny. But he could hardly say that to this child. She was far too volatile. “I canna, in good conscience, advise you to ruin your life with such folly.”

“Pfft. You know I don’t give a fig.”

“Nae doubt your aunt would.”

Mary smiled. It was a horrifying smile for a man to see because he had no idea what it meant, but it made little skitters dance up his spine. “She would forgive me.” Then she patted him on the hand, hopped to her feet, and quit the room. But not before smiling again and saying, “Thank you for the talk.”

He wasn’t sure if he’d made things better or worse.

But if he were a betting man, he’d go for worse.

* * *

He fully intended to relay the conversation to Ranald and ask for his take on it, but when he came over from Ross House the next morning, the household was in an uproar.

Mary, it seemed, was as good as her word.

She had, indeed, run away.

And Jamison, the handsome young footman without two farthings to rub together, had gone with her.