Callum had hoped to see Charlotte when he entered his London townhome.

He certainly had not expected to see a man of similar height and exact age to himself.

“H-hamish?” he stammered.

“Callum?” Hamish raised his head from a book.

Callum frowned. Most people if they entered homes that did not belong to them did not occupy themselves with books. They preferred to hide. Or leave.

“What are you doing here?” Callum asked.

“Ah.” A ruddy flush darkened Hamish’s cheeks.  

Callum frowned. He hadn’t known his brother to have a tendency to blush.

He leveled his gaze at him.

His brother scratched the back of his neck.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Hamish said finally. “It’s quite nice.”

“Er—yes.” Callum supposed it was nice. “Did you develop a passion for London on your visit?”

It was the sort of thing a more sociable person than his brother might do.

“In a manner,” Hamish said.

“A manner?” Callum narrowed his eyes.

Hamish’s chin jutted out. “I’m staying here until I can find my own lodging in London.”

“You want to live in London?” Callum sputtered.

“It’s not so odd,” Hamish said. “You’ve seemed to always like it.”

“That’s true,” Callum said, wondering whether he actually had liked it, or if he’d just wanted an excuse to be far from the setting of his childhood. He suspected the latter might be the case. His two weeks in Guernsey had far exceeded any pleasures he’d ever experienced in London. He hadn’t missed the theatre or ballet a single moment the entire time.

“But you’ve always abhorred London,” Callum reminded him.

Hamish smiled. “You’re right.”

Callum had learned that when his brother smiled, it normally had something to do with some nefarious plot against himself.

He gazed warily around the room. The last time he’d been in a parlor alone with Hamish, dreadful things had occurred.

“I’m married,” Hamish said. “I thought a London townhouse would be suitable, given that she has relatives and friends nearby. I can’t expect her to change her entire life for me.”

Callum’s eyes widened. Hamish wouldn’t marry. And if he did, he certainly wouldn’t get a London townhouse. The Hamish he knew would have thought his bride would be far better removed from the Grecian facades in London which he railed against with a passion that could only belong to an architect who subscribed to a different design philosophy.

But would he marry someone whom Callum had not even met?

Callum swallowed hard.

Perhaps they truly had grown that far apart.

Callum had been so focused on protecting Hamish from Lord McIntyre’s deeds that he’d stopped confiding in him completely. He’d joined the war with barely a thought about Hamish, spurred on by dreams of glory, of vindicating himself from Lord McIntyre’s accusations. And now Hamish had married.

He glanced around the room, grateful they were in a drawing room and there was a variety of seats into which to collapse. He settled on the nearest one. “You never mentioned you were courting someone.”

“It was a quick match.”

His brother had never been apt to actions of spontaneity before, but he’d decided to exercise his first one to marry someone Callum had never met.

“I think I remember you didn’t invite me to the wedding,” Hamish said.

“Yes,” Callum said.

There had seemed to be a good reason to do that, but now he was reminded only that Hamish was his brother and the only relative still alive.

“Besides,” Hamish said. “I know you’ll approve.”

“Oh?” Callum cast his mind on if he’d ever encouraged Hamish to make a match with a particular woman. Whom would Hamish think suitable?

A horrible thought struck him.

Hamish always prided himself on his honor, a virtue that seemed to forever compelling him to do unpleasant tasks.

Hamish wouldn’t have taken it upon himself to marry Lady Isla? The woman he’d grown up assuming Callum would marry?

Callum’s heart beat an uncomfortable rhythm.

“You shouldn’t look so horrified at the thought of my marriage,” Hamish said. “I thought you would be pleased.”

“Pleased?” Callum’s voice was hoarse, and he coughed.

“Naturally,” Hamish said. “Your engagement seemed inexplicable, and mine—”

Hamish’s eyes sparkled, and Callum blinked.

Hamish’s eyes didn’t sparkle. Not for years at least. They glowered on occasion, and they were quite adept at narrowing so they seemed to bore into whomever Hamish spoke to, but they never sparkled. Was it possible Hamish was in love?

The thought seemed absurd, more even than happening upon Hamish in the Butterworth’s home.

And yet... Callum gazed at his twin brother again. Hamish’s lips could hardly be described as veering downward.

“Are you happy?” Callum asked tentatively.

“Oh, indeed.” Hamish grinned. “She’s wonderful, Callum. She’s marvelous. Divine.”

“Divine?” Callum blinked.

“Utterly,” Hamish breathed and leaned back into the sofa cushions.

“That’s splendid,” Callum said.

“Now where’s your wife?” Hamish said. “I know mine is eager to see her.”

Callum’s smile wobbled. “You still haven’t told me who your wife is.”

Hamish’s eyes widened. “I thought it was obvious. It’s Georgiana.”

Georgiana.

“You married the elder Miss Butterworth?”

“Your wife’s sister.” Hamish grinned. “Two sisters married two brothers. Quite nice, don’t you think? It will make holidays ever so practical.”

A pain moved through Callum. He didn’t want to admit that Charlotte had run away from him. He’d tried to give her everything, and at the first sign of good health, she’d bolted.

He covered his face in his hands.

“Callum?” Hamish’s voice was filled with a sympathy Callum did not associate with him. Evidently married life had changed him.

“She’s gone,” Callum said.

The statement was baffling. Wives weren’t supposed to flee. Women weren’t supposed to even travel by themselves, much less decide to make a new life.

“I suppose you had a bit of a tiff.”

“It was no tiff.” Callum almost laughed. Bits of tiffs were generally supposed to be about different tastes in household decor. Bits of tiffs certainly did not describe Charlotte’s actions.

The thing was... They hadn’t even argued. There’d been no sign she was unhappy. If there had been...He would have rectified it. Instead he only had her note, in which she distinctly expressed the fact that she didn’t want to see him again.

Callum gave his brother a tentative smile. “Just why are you married to Charlotte’s sister? I seem to remember you heading off to Scotland.”

Hamish smiled. “It’s a long story.”

“You despised her.”

“I hardly knew her.”

“That didn’t stop you from criticizing her.”

“I was a fool,” Hamish said. “And now—”

“—You’re buying a home in London.”

“We don’t have our castle anymore,” Hamish said. “After your marriage—”

Oh.

“I told you that you shouldn’t move out.”

“The mortgage belongs to the Earl of McIntyre. Duty—”

“—Blast duty,” Callum said, and Hamish blinked. “You should have told me.”

Hamish was supposed to stay in their home. Lord McIntyre wasn’t supposed to secure a brilliant home for his descendants. Not if the method of securing the home had involved murder and deceit.

Callum paced the room. He had to fix this.

He swung around. “I’m getting that castle back.”

“Now?” Hamish stammered.

“Naturally not,” Callum said. “First I have to get my wife back.”

*

CHARLOTTE KNOCKED ON the door of her parents’ townhome, wrapping her cloak tightly around her. Flora opened the door. The maid widened her eyes, and Charlotte darted inside quickly.

It seemed odd that everything would look the same. Everything in the world had changed. She’d eloped and lived life briefly, albeit blissfully, as a married woman.

But the same thin Persian carpet was on the floor, and the same small mirror hung over the same sideboard.

“Are my parents in?” Charlotte asked.

Flora nodded rapidly. “They arrived back recently. They’re in the drawing room.”

“Good,” Charlotte said, even though good wasn’t quite the appropriate word when one was about to forever disappoint one’s parents.

This was the moment she’d been dreading. Nothing surpassed this in discomfort.

“Dearest!” Her mother’s voice sailed through the drawing room and into the entrance. Footsteps quickly followed, and soon the door swung open, slamming against the sideboard, and her mother strode out, the ribbons on her cap bouncing from the recent expulsion of energy. “It’s you!”

“Yes,” Charlotte said, and her mother narrowed the distance between them and crushed her against her chest before Charlotte could stammer further confirmation of her existence.

“And where is my son?” Mama jerked her head in the direction of the door.

The closed door.

The door that was not going to open anytime soon, and certainly not to reveal the duke.

Charlotte swallowed hard. “He’s not here.”

“Well, obviously not, my dear,” Mama said. “But when is he arriving?”

The tension in Charlotte’s body soared. Speaking might be something she’d long ago mastered, but at the moment the exact process seemed complex and unwieldy. Her tongue was too thick, and her throat too dry to attempt to speak properly.

Mama glanced at the door, and she relaxed her features, prepared to smile at her son-in-law.

Mama had always been fond of the duke, satisfied of his good intentions even as the rest of London seemed to whisper at the suddenness of his engagement, whispering whether she might have found herself impregnated by him, though the fact he had chosen her of all women to bed seemed to befuddle them.

Footsteps padded through the room.

Papa.

Relief at seeing him, relief she was no longer traveling by herself, fought with her shame.

Georgiana would understand, and she headed upstairs.

“Where are you going?” Mama called.

“I’m going to see my sister.”

“You have been gone for very long,” Mama said.

“Y-yes.” Charlotte paused. “Is she not here?” She turned toward the window. The rain was quite strong.

It was unlikely Georgiana had decided to go to Hyde Park in this weather, but perhaps she was calling on someone.

“Georgiana doesn’t live here anymore,” Mama announced.

“Excuse me?”

There was no reason for Georgiana to not live at home. Where else could she go? Was she visiting one of Mama’s relatives? The thought was odd. Georgiana got on well with their parents, particularly Papa. There was no reason why she would want to go to some far off place, unless—

No.

She couldn’t be married.

There was no one whom Georgiana would marry, was there? Georgiana was a wallflower. She didn’t have any prospects. Men were wary of her red hair, and the supposed poor qualities that went along with it and could be passed on to children. Even if people took on a less medieval opinion on redheads and inquired about her, they would be informed about her poor position.

That’s why Charlotte had desired to marry Callum. She’d known that Georgiana had no prospects, and she’d wanted to give her parents some bliss.

“I don’t understand,” Charlotte said.

Unless—

Her shoulders sank. “She didn’t marry the curate?”

The curate had been Georgiana’s one caller. He’d been a nice enough person, but hardly equal to her sister. His prospects would lead to an even lower standard of living than Papa’s.

“Oh, no. She’s not married to a duke, of course, but I assure you, she is very well married.” Mama gave a secretive sort of smile.

“Whom did she marry?” Charlotte asked.

“You must know!”

“I don’t,” Charlotte said.

“Oh, dear. The mail must be horrid in Guernsey. Well, she married your husband’s brother of course.”

“Of course?” Charlotte’s eyes widened.

There was nothing natural about that occurrence. Georgiana had been very wary of Hamish.

“It’s possible Georgiana is in your husband’s townhouse,” Mama said. “Perhaps they’ll all visit together.”

Charlotte flinched. Now was the moment to tell them. Now was the moment to say that the marriage they had been so proud of, was nothing like what they’d thought.

“He’s not coming,” she said.

“I expect he has much to do at that club.”

“I expect he has much to do too, but he’s not coming. Here.”

“You mean he’s dead?” Papa widened his eyes, and his fingers moved to his forehead.

Papa was a vicar, and he was no doubt likely to quote some Biblical passage. But it wasn’t necessary. Callum was very much alive—just not with her.

Charlotte shook her head. “We should never have gotten married. It was all a lie.”

“But you did elope in Guernsey?” Papa said sternly. “He didn’t run off with you and then not marry you?”

“No, no, no,” Charlotte said quickly. “He is a man of honor. I’m afraid he’s not ever arriving.”

“Was he taken ill?” Mama clutched her hand to her chest. “That poor sweet boy. It was food poisoning, wasn’t it? Heavens, you were in the Channel Islands! Think of the possibility for food poisonings! All that fish. So many varieties. And how many are venomous?”

“We did not encounter any,” Charlotte said. “He does not suffer from food poisoning.” She paused. She hadn’t seen Callum in days. “At least, he does not suffer from food poisoning that I know about.”

“Then he’s still alive?” Mama asked sharply.

Charlotte nodded. “I would assume. The man is in good health, and statistically he should still be alive.

Her cheeks flamed as she considered how easily she’d been persuaded to believe that her health was poor.

“In fact I left him.”

“You left a duke?” Mama’s voice wobbled.

“I did,” Charlotte said miserably.

“And people call me the unsensible one in the family,” Mama huffed. “Am I to understand you traveled here by yourself?”

“I took a mailing coach with...friends,” Charlotte said. “I know it must seem undignified.”

“Undignified?” Mama exclaimed. “It is utterly unlike you. It is difficult enough to persuade you to attend a ball. Guernsey must have changed you.”

Charlotte blinked.

Mama was correct.

She would never have ventured on her own otherwise. The fact she had changed in Guernsey due to the duke’s influence only steadied her resolve.

Voices ushered through the door accompanied by the definite sound of banging.

Charlotte frowned. No one was in the habit of banging on the front door. Papa was a vicar, and hardly in the habit of going about upsetting people, and even the most stringent parishioners were unlikely to desire to see Papa urgently for their eternal salvation. They were hardly Catholics.

“Charlotte! Charlotte!” Callum’s pleasant tenor voice barreled through the thick door. The pitch he’d chosen might not be the most elegant, but it still sent a rush of longing through her. The rough sound had an air of desperation entirely uncalled for.

Callum wasn’t supposed to be here.

Flora dashed toward the door.

“You don’t have to open that,” Charlotte called out.

“Of course she has to,” Mama said. “It’s your husband. And my son.”

Mama rushed to the hallway, as if there was a possibility Flora might not open the door. Charlotte stood up and darted her gaze about the tiny room. If only she could leave.

She couldn’t face Callum.

The man would be honorable and state things he didn’t mean, things she wanted so badly to believe.

No.

She had to leave. She ran toward the window. If only people in past decades had thought to make windows larger. She glanced at the door, but thankfully no one had entered. Yet.

She took a deep sigh, drew the curtains, pushed the window pane open, placed her knee on the ledge and ducked her head through the opening and—

“Charlotte!” Her mother’s voice soared through the room. “Are you climbing out the window?”

Her mother’s surprise and disapproval was evident.

“I—er—” She glanced around, and her mother’s eyebrow arched upward. “The door functions quite well.”

“Charlotte?” Concern emanated through Callum’s voice. The man’s eyes were round.

No disapproval was in it, just worry.

He’s sorry for me.

The man had always been. He’d been concerned when he’d thought she was dying, and even now that he did not think she was bound to spontaneously collapse and be placed into a coffin, he still thought her so awkward, so lacking in the grace common in most debutantes, that he continued to feel sympathy for her.

Her cheeks flamed, and heat pricked the back of her neck. She removed her foot from the ledge and hastily placed it on the floor.

“Sweetheart!” Callum said.

She tried to smile, but her lips wobbled.

“I’m not—not that anymore.” She stopped. Reminding him they were no longer together was hard. It went against everything she most desired.

His face sobered, and he dropped hold of her hands. Her heart ached, but his gaze didn’t leave her face.

“Forgive me,” he said.

Her heart ached further. “You have nothing to ask my forgiveness for.”

“I want you to be by my side. Forever.”

She shook her head. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. We’re married.”

She smiled sadly. “I’m—I’m so sorry about this. Forgive me.”

“You love me,” Callum said.

She blinked. “That’s a pompous thing to say.”

“Did you only tell me that because of the storm?”

She swooped her eyelashes downward. She was sure she had been taught some rules of eloquence, but clearly nothing had lingered.

“I hope you love me,” Callum continued, “Because I bloody well love you.”

She blinked.

He sighed. “And perhaps I should apologize for swearing—but honestly, that’s the least of my concerns.”

“What’s your main concern?”

“Trying to get you to see that I want to live with you... Forever and ever.”

“No.” She firmed her jaw.

Something gnawed at her heart, but she stayed firm. “I didn’t mean to manipulate you. I didn’t mean to do any of that,” she said. “But clearly I did. And I won’t let you ruin all your wonderful plans by marrying me.”

He scrutinized her. “You would do that for me?”

“Naturally.”

Callum smiled. Most likely, the man thought that Charlotte would succumb. How could she resist him? It wasn’t just that he was incredibly handsome. It wasn’t just that he was a duke. No, he was kind and wonderful.

But it was for that reason that she couldn’t accept his plea.

*

“YOU MUST LEAVE.” CHARLOTTE’S expression was cold.

Charlotte’s expression wasn’t supposed to be cold.

Not now.

Not now that they’d grown to know one another.

Her demeanor was as stiff and uncertain as when they’d first met.

But then he was fairly certain he wasn’t supposed to be at a loss for words. That hadn’t been an affliction which he’d ever suffered from.

“How lovely to see you both married.” Mrs. Butterworth beamed, darting her eyes from Callum to Charlotte with evident delight. “It’s so romantic. You had a tiff, and now here he is again, begging you to return to him.”

“Then you’ll say yes?” His voice quivered.

“I should have known that you would come after me. I am afraid I must apologize to you.”

“No need to, sweetheart,” he said.

“I must apologize, because I am afraid you have journeyed a great deal for no purpose.”

“No purpose?” His eyes widened.

She reflected. “Perhaps you will be able to see to your business at Hades’ Lair.”

“That’s not why I came here.”

“You came to see me,” she said. “Because you are good and honorable and magnificent.

But I cannot return to you.”

“Charlotte Eliza Butterworth!” her mother screamed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Setting him free.”

“But he’s your husband!”

“Dukes are known for debauchery. Perhaps he can get an annulment. Perhaps Papa can say the man absconded without his consent—”

“Absolutely not,” Papa said. “That man is your husband.”

“He shouldn’t be tied to me for the rest of my life. It would be unfair.” Tears flooded her eyes, and she rushed upstairs.