Celia let out a strangled cry as the duchess tore the drawings several more times and hurled the pages to the carpet.

“Mama!” Celia choked out, forgetting she was to address her mother by her title. “How could you?”

Her days of frenzied work, of Alec bringing forth a new world for her, showing her how to translate what she saw onto blank paper, gone in the space of a moment. Alec had opened her eyes to what was possible, and though Celia did not believe she’d achieve the greatness of famous painters, she could at least create something that pleased.

Tears flooded her eyes, and she clutched a chair to stay on her feet. “How could you?”

“Do not scold me, Celia. You are an ungrateful and disobedient child, spoilt and indulged by your father. There will be no more drawing lessons. Your uncle Perry and I have discussed what is to be done with you, and we still believe marriage is your best recourse.”

“Marriage …” Celia could barely speak the word, could scarcely breathe. Her heart was breaking, her work torn and trampled by the duchess’s high-heeled slippers.

“You took yourself well off the marriage mart by refusing the marquess,” the duchess went on. “You are now considered a light skirt, but as the months have gone by, and no child has come of it, other gentlemen not so fastidious will now consider you. Your husband will never trust you, I’m afraid, but if you are obedient and give him an heir, he will perhaps forgive your faults.”

Celia’s anger flared through her grief. Throughout her childhood, Celia often wondered what she’d done to make her mother dislike her, but in a sudden flash, she realized she’d done nothing at all. Her mother was a single-minded, ambitious woman who did not see Celia as a person, but as a thing to be used to further those ambitions. The duchess had married for the same reason, having no use for the duke once she’d made him her husband and borne two children by him.

“And who is this paragon who will accept me with all my faults?” Celia demanded.

“Keep a civil tongue, daughter. He is not a marquess but the brother of one. A quiet young man who will not amount to much, but at least he has good connections and has said he is willing to marry you. He is James Spencer, younger brother of the Marquess of Ellesmere.”

Celia had met this young man once, a few years ago, when the current Lord Ellesmere, great-nephew of Lady Flora’s husband, had come up to London to go over some business or other with Lady Flora. Lady Flora had invited the duke and duchess for supper with Ellesmere and his brother, and Celia and Edward had come with them.

Celia remembered a rather vapid young man two years older than herself, with limp clothes, a long, pale face, and teeth already rotting. Rumor had it he was a sodomite, although rumor said that about any gentleman who was not well liked and hadn’t yet married.

Younger sons of aristocrats often went into politics or the military, but James Spencer seemed to do not much of anything. He was languid and lazy, and one of the most unprepossessing gentlemen Celia had ever met.

“You cannot mean me to marry him …” Celia’s breath went out of her, blackness closing in. Her stays were far too tight, her stomacher cutting into her abdomen.

“Turning up your nose again, are you?” The duchess sniffed. “Haughty creature. Are marquesses and their families beneath your notice? Lady Flora herself proposed the match. Perhaps she is so fond of you that she wishes to call you niece.”

“Lady Flora.” Celia wheezed the name, fear piling on top of dismay.

“She agrees you are a handful. James lives with Ellesmere on their estate in Hampshire. You will not be a hostess there, of course, as Ellesmere is married, but I’m certain you will be of some use to Lady Ellesmere as her sister-in-law.”

Celia could form no more words. Lady Flora intensely disliked the current Lord Ellesmere—which was not surprising, as she had intensely disliked the former one, her own husband. That Lady Flora would believe his brother would make a good match for Celia … Either James Spencer had much changed since that supper, or Lady Flora had run mad, or else she was setting up this marriage as some machination of her own.

Celia had the sudden urge to discuss the matter with Alec. To pour her troubles out on him, to beg for his advice. To feel his hand on her arm, to hear him rumble, “Ah, poor lass.”

But Alec had troubles of his own—he would hardly wish to listen to hers, would he? What would the sorrow of a young gentlewoman coerced into a loveless marriage be to a man far from his home and family, terrified of speaking his own name?

Through the fog in Celia’s mind came Alec’s quiet but emphatic words from a few days before, when he’d momentarily dropped his cold distance.

When those around ye are making your world hell, ye can trust me. Promise me you’ll remember that.

Celia had answered, I promise.

Had he known of Lady Flora’s and her mother’s plans? Had he been warning her?

“Your father has already approached Ellesmere about settlements,” the duchess said. “The wedding will be quiet, a special license here at home, and then you will be off to Hampshire. We will take you out into the world a bit to get people used to seeing you again while we make preparations, but you must not expect to be too much in society once you are married.”

No, Celia was to rusticate in the country, the family embarrassment shunted aside. “Papa agrees to this match?” she asked in incredulity.

“He sees that it will be best. He indulges you too much, as I say. It will be good for the pair of you to have you out of his influence.”

Her mother had bullied her father into it, she meant. The room spun, and Celia had to sit down, though she was never allowed to sit while the duchess stood.

“No, I will not …”

The duchess’s lip curled. “Do not begin about what you will and will not do. I hope Lord James will cure you of this obstinacy with the back of his hand. If he does not, Ellesmere will. Now, tomorrow night you will accompany me and Lady Flora to the Spring Gardens at Vauxhall. We will go in fancy dress—this will be one of Lady Flora’s extravagant outings, and you must be paraded about as Lord James Spencer’s betrothed. Have your maid fix you a costume—one of the commedia dell’arte—Pierette, say, not one so ostentatious as Columbine. Do not speak to me again until then.”

So ending her speech, the duchess swung around and strode out of the room. She did not bother to slam the door—a footman closed it decorously behind her.

Celia slid from the chair to the floor. She groped for the torn drawings, the lines and curves she’d painstakingly drawn now forlorn scraps.

No more tears would come. Her eyes burned, her grief twisting inside as she gazed upon the destruction of work she’d labored over for the last week. Celia had poured her heart into the drawing of London, and Alec’s hand was in it—it was art they had created together.

As Celia gathered the fragments and held them close another realization poured over her. It wasn’t simply the picture she mourned, but what it represented—the hours she’d stood close to Alec, his hand brushing hers as he showed her how to bring the drawing to life, his breath on her skin as he scrutinized her strokes.

He’d been as caught up in the creation as she had been. Time had at once stood still and flown by, magical moments of Alec and Celia working side-by-side, both of them excited about the vista of London unfolding before their eyes.

The duchess had destroyed that beautiful time with each rip of the paper.

Celia could never marry Lord James Spencer. Even if the young man had been a paragon of gentlemanliness, Celia could not pledge her heart, her loyalty, to him. It would be a lie, through and through. She would live in misery, and it would be unfair to James, as unpalatable as he was.

But would she have a choice? Her father must have decided that giving in to the duchess was the quickest way to peace. Celia had watched him give way to her all his life—it was unlikely he’d cease now, no matter how much he sympathized with Celia. And perhaps her father had been convinced that marriage to the brother of a marquess would be better for Celia than no marriage at all.

When those around ye are making your world hell, ye can trust me.

Celia gathered up the pieces of the drawing. She couldn’t save it, but perhaps she could save herself. She’d seek out Alec and pour out her tale. Even if he could do nothing to help her, he might have some advice, or at the very least, he’d comfort her in his low, rumbling tones that made her want to stand close to him and simply listen.

She’d dress up and go to Lady Flora’s gathering and be sweet as honey, coercing an entry into Lady Flora’s house. If the lessons were at an end, she couldn’t simply turn up—she’d have to plan a way for Lady Flora to invite her so that she could speak with Alec alone.

Celia restored her portfolio the best she could and lugged it herself out of the room and up the stairs. Her determination was high, but her heart was lead in her chest.

The shaft of light that had kept her life bearable these last days had been suddenly and inexorably extinguished.

* * *

Alec climbed into Lady Flora’s carriage the next night to find himself facing a lady in a diamond-patterned dress of bright green, red, and black, with a lace ruff at her neck, jewels glittering on the fabric. A tricorn hat rested on Lady Flora’s fair hair, and she held a black mask in her gloved hand. Next to her was Mrs. Reynolds in more subdued colors but with the same kind of lace ruff, tricorn hat, and mask.

Lady Flora took in Alec’s plain breeches, frock coat, boots, and hatless hair with disapproval. “You are supposed to be in costume.”

The coach jerked forward, wheels bumping over cobbles on its way out of the square.

Alec lifted the flap on the pack he’d set next to him, revealing a fold of white velvet trimmed with black. “I’ll not ride through London dressed as a clown. Ye have to take me as I am for now.”

Lady Flora’s eyes tightened in annoyance. She had laid plans, and she didn’t like any alteration to said plans. “Make certain you are ready in time. It would never do for Celia to go off with the wrong Pierrot.”

Mrs. Reynolds put a soothing hand on her arm. “I will steer her right.”

Lady Flora let out a sigh, but sank back into the cushions as the carriage moved down South Audley Street to Piccadilly. From there they wended their way through St. James’s to Charing Cross with its pillory in the center, empty tonight. Whitehall took them farther south, past palaces full of British government ministers and the admiralty who would have collective apoplexy if they knew a rebel Highlander rolled in a comfortable carriage through their midst.

Whitehall petered out into meandering streets full of people enjoying drink, cock fights, and general laziness. A few of these denizens ran after the coach to beat on it and demand coin. Lady Flora’s coachman snarled at them and flicked his whip menacingly.

The carriage emerged unscathed to Mill Bank where the coachman halted at stairs leading to the river. Footmen who’d clung to the back of the coach jumped down to assist Mrs. Reynolds and Lady Flora, and Alec lent his hand to help them into the hired barge that awaited them at the bottom of the stairs.

The barge was hung with paper lanterns for the occasion, its benches cushioned with velvet. Lady Flora and Mrs. Reynolds settled in, their masses of skirts leaving little room for Alec. He shoved fabric aside with his boot as he sat, chuckling when Lady Flora scolded. The end of this night would work to Alec’s satisfaction, and he decided to push aside his anger and enjoy the absurdity.

The river didn’t stink quite as much here as it did farther downstream, but even so Alec put his gloved hand to his mouth as the water slapped their barge. Lady Flora and Mrs. Reynolds lifted pomander balls to their noses, the scent of spice and dried oranges drifting through the fetid air. The waterman, used to the stench, rowed on, heading the barge to the opposite bank.

At the stairs on the Lambeth side of the river, Alec helped Mrs. Reynolds and Lady Flora from the barge. At the top of the steps another coach waited, arranged by Lady Flora to take them the short distance to the Spring Gardens.

The gardens at Vauxhall had been popular for some time now—Alec had seen them on a London visit before the Jacobite Uprising had made his life hell. He led the ladies through an open gate in a thick wall, where an acrobat in a backbend scuttled past to encourage them inside.

A long avenue took them to the center of the gardens, where a silken tent in the Turkish style held food, drink, and musicians within its red and black striped walls. More walks led from the central area, some lined with trees, others with elegant colonnades containing marble statues in arched niches, directing visitors down a grand promenade.

The Spring Gardens were free to enter, and the paths were already full. The wine, ale, and food within had to be purchased, but anyone in London could stroll in and enjoy the open garden not far from the stuffy city.

Nature under control. This was the philosophy of English gardeners of the day, especially Lancelot Brown, who busily removed real nature so he could carve landscapes around great houses, and hauled away rocks and woods to put in sweeping parks. Alec had studied his drawings and those of Brown’s colleagues to help spark his ideas for the gardens at Kilmorgan Malcolm had asked him to design.

Mal had already laid out the groundwork for a grand house that would take the place of the now-ruined castle. He’d begun having stones quarried when the Jacobite rebellion had disrupted their lives and driven them into exile. Mal, with his characteristic stubbornness, carried on planning the house from afar, urging Alec to continue with his schematics for the garden. The Runt would have his way in the end, Alec was certain. Mal had a knack for it.

Lady Flora’s masked guests quickly surrounded her, wishing to show they were intimates of one of the most interesting women in London. Only Mrs. Reynolds saw Alec slip away into the darkness, watching him go without a nod.

* * *

Celia’s plan to speak to Lady Flora about calling upon her evaporated when she beheld the crush that surrounded her and Mrs. Reynolds. Lady Flora must have invited every single person in her social circle tonight—Celia had never seen so many costumes from the commedia dell’arte in one place in her life.

Lady Flora was Columbine, the lover of Harlequin and as full of schemes and japes as he. There were a quite a number of Harlequins trying to sidle next to her. Many older gentlemen came as Punchinello, each with a different sized hump on their backs. A few ladies were dressed as Pierette, as Celia was, in white velvet gowns trimmed with black braid and pompons. Many of the women wore dominos—a short silk cloak with a hood and a mask that covered the eyes.

Celia’s mother staunchly wore no costume but had consented to a domino. Celia wore a black mask and hat, as anonymous as the others.

Celia would have been excited to be at such a gathering earlier this year, at the height of the Season. She’d have fallen in with her friends, whispering and laughing with them about nonsense, thrilling when a handsome gentleman asked to escort or dance with one of them.

Now she watched as an outsider. Most of her friends had already married, or at least were engaged and had returned to their father’s estates. Celia hadn’t been entirely shunned since the Disaster—her parents were far too powerful for society to risk cutting their daughter completely—but she was avoided and talked about.

Celia wasn’t as bothered about society’s opinion of her tonight, because her thoughts were all for Alec. She found herself looking for him—had he persuaded Lady Flora to bring him along? Was he even now in a Harlequin costume, lingering at the edges of Flora’s crowd?

None of the Harlequins seemed right for him—some of the gentlemen had good physiques but not Alec’s height. No, dressing up and hovering around Lady Flora wasn’t right for Alec. He must be at home with his daughter, or possibly in the studio alone, drawing or painting.

She imagined him in his linen shirt which gaped open at the neck, his eyes focusing as he leaned to the easel to paint something beautiful. He’d absently wipe his cheek, leaving a streak of color on it. Celia’s heart gave a painful throb.

“There he is,” her mother said into her ear.

Celia jumped, and then sucked in a breath, knowing her mother could not possibly mean Alec. “Who?” Her voice cracked.

“Your brother, of course. Edward. There.”

Celia turned in confusion to where the duchess pointed, the image of Alec dissolving. “How can Edward be here? He’s in France with his regiment.”

Her mother heaved a sigh worthy of Lady Flora. “Well, now he is here. He is granted leave once in a while. He wishes to speak to you, Lord knows why.”

Celia hadn’t seen Edward since the Disaster, when he’d made it clear he thought her a fool. She’d hoped one day she could make him see her side of things, and they’d be friends again.

She rose on tiptoes to peer eagerly over the heads of the crowd. “Where?”

“Down that walk. He is dressed as Pierrot. Go on—be quick about it.”

The duchess pushed Celia in the direction of a tree-lined walk. Not many lanterns hung there, and deep shadows pocketed the way. But if Edward had come, wishing to speak to Celia away from Lady Flora’s crush, she’d brave the darkness.

She gathered her velvet skirts and hurried down the path.

When the first shadow closed over her, Celia halted, common sense cutting into her excitement. Why on earth would her mother arrange a meeting between the disgraced Celia and her darling Edward? If Edward wanted to speak to Celia, he’d simply come to the house, or have accompanied them to the gardens. Why don a costume and skulk about in a dark lane? There were easier ways of meeting with her.

Her mother was up to something, wasn’t she? The man waiting would not be Edward, but Lord James, and Celia would be caught alone in the dark with him by Lady Flora and all her friends. Once again, Celia would be forced to either agree to marry a gentleman or let herself be shamed.

Being found in yet another man’s embrace would clinch the opinion that she was a wanton harlot. Only marriage would save her from being completely ostracized this time.

In rage, Celia swung back. She’d thwart the duchess’s scheme and give her a scathing dressing down, never mind her upbringing to honor her parents. Her mother needed to learn a few things about honor.

A gloved hand came out of a black shadow and dragged her from the path. Celia drew a breath to scream, but another hand pressed over her mouth, and a voice sounded in her ear.

“Stop squirming, blasted woman.”