The following morning, Camellia had the day’s papers brought up with her breakfast tray.

In the event Wainwright had taken out another advertisement—or the scandal columnists had identified the fallen woman fleeing the masquerade—she much preferred not discovering the news in front of her sisters.

As she’d feared, the front page of the paper bore Lord Wainwright’s name in bold type.

To her relief, however, the article had nothing to do with her. Or anything scandalous at all. The earl had apparently been instrumental in the committee responsible for a reintroduction of the gold sovereign, this time bearing a laureate profile on one side and the slaying of a dragon on the other. According to the article, the Latin motto of the Order of the Garter was embossed along the outer edge.

Impressed, she touched her fingers to the artist’s rendering. The new coins sounded stunning. She could scarcely wait to see one in person.

She flipped through the rest of the pages, scanning for any other mention of Lord Wainwright’s name—or hers. She paused at the top of the paid advertisements.

Wryly, Camellia wondered if anyone had dared to take that wager, or if Lord Wainwright himself would be the sole recipient of the winnings.

She bit her lip. Forty days ago, she would have been one of the first in line to bet against him. Like the others, she would have been wrong. Guilt pricked at her. She had judged him far more harshly than he had deserved.

Her shoulders slumped at the unflattering realization. She had accepted society’s image of him without questioning. The image that he himself helped portray, just as she did when she pretended to be a mouse with no will of her own. Perhaps forty days ago, she could be forgiven for accepting false assumptions as the only possible truth.

But now she knew better. She knew him. He was so much more than the rakehell he’d been painted. Now that the wager was over and he was free to do whatever he wished, he was doing what he wished. His preference wasn’t seducing debutantes. He was leading committees in the House of Lords. Managing his earldom. Enjoying London. Penning love letters.

In fact, for the past several weeks, the only times Camellia had ever witnessed him flirting with anyone…

It had been with her.

She caught her breath. Her traitorous heart beat faster at the memories. The heat of his kisses. Their waltz beneath the stars. The pleasure they had found together when—

Heat flooded her cheeks. Quickly, she flipped to the next page in the paper. The center advertisement immediately caught her eye.

Camellia closed the paper with shaking fingers, then reopened it to the same page and reread the advertisement a dozen more times.

It was him. Missing her. Just as dreadfully as she yearned for him. But the future he promised was not meant to be.

They were star-crossed. An earl could never accept a mere Grenville as his countess. Phineas Mapleton had said so at the circus. But Camellia had known long before that. Earls took women of lesser standing as mistresses, not wives. And she had no wish to be his temporary mistress.

A girl like her considered herself fortunate when she received an offer from a gentleman like Mr. Bost. Twice her age, perhaps, but a solid match whose standing would not reflect badly on her younger sisters.

Although Lord Wainwright’s rakehell reputation may have been exaggerated out of proportion, any connection would still be scandalous by association. He must realize. Even if the earl were willing to make an honest woman of her now that she’d been ruined, doing so would jeopardize the reputations of her younger sisters.

The moment they appeared publicly, the troublemaking Mrs. Epworth would realize Camellia had been the disheveled young lady in Lord Wainwright’s bed. One anonymous word and gossip would fly. Camellia would be known not as a countess, but as an easy conquest. Speculation would run high that her sisters were cut from the same cloth.

And yet… she could not let him keep waiting by the river in the hopes his Lady X would arrive. They might have no future together, but the heartfelt moments they’d shared in the past had meant as much to Camellia as they seemed to mean to the earl.

He deserved an answer. Even if it was one he would not like.

After breakfast, she dressed with the same care she’d given her appearance on the nights of the masquerades. Her lips twisted with self-deprecation as she turned away from the looking-glass. This time, she would not be Lady X, but Miss Camellia Grenville. She was bound to disappoint.

The hack dropped her at a side entrance to the park at half past eleven. Pulse pounding alarmingly, she made her way from the path, to the trail, to the thicket, to the river.

He was there.

Her heart skipped at the sight.

He was seated atop the big gray rock, gazing at the river. His back was to her. Although she approached softly, his spine straightened as if he sensed her nearness.

“Lady X?” he asked quietly without turning to face her.

Her answering smile was bittersweet. She was glad he could not see it. “It is me.”

“Would you like me to turn around?”

Would she? Camellia hesitated. “Perhaps it is best if you do not.”

He inclined his head as if he had anticipated her reply, then gestured toward a small package at the base of the rock. “Your earring.”

She bent to scoop up a parcel wrapped in brown paper. It was too large to merely be her lost earring. The box nearly spanned the width of two palms.

“Lord X…”

“Open it.”

She tugged at the bow to unwrap the string. The paper fell loose as well. Carefully, she lifted the lid of the wide, flat box.

Inside was her missing earring. And a matching necklace made not of cut glass, but teardrop shaped emeralds with matching diamonds.

“Wainwright,” she gasped, her heart hammering at the thought of wearing such beautiful jewelry. “I cannot accept this.”

“It is a gift.” His tone was wry. “Surely you’ve no wish to offend my tender sensibilities. Men are remarkably fragile creatures.”

“I’m not who you think I am,” she stammered.

“Is anyone?” he asked softly. Even without being able to see his face, sunlight bathed him in a warm glow, making him seem larger than life. “I’d like to know you. I’d like your permission to call on you formally.”

So would she, more than anything. Camellia forced herself to be strong. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

“Then something less formal,” he suggested quickly. “Vauxhall Gardens. Piccadilly Square. A stroll somewhere public so we won’t be tempted to tear each other’s clothing off.”

She grinned despite herself. “Who says I’m tempted?”

“Aren’t you?” His words were light, but his voice was defeated. “Was our time together not as meaningful for you as it was for me?”

Silence stretched between them as she fought for words she could say.

“It was temporary,” she managed through the stinging in her throat.

“It doesn’t have to be.” He hunched his shoulders, then straightened. “Say you’ll meet me face-to-face. Not as clandestine lovers, but at least as friends. Perhaps tonight?”

She bit her lip. “I cannot.”

“Tomorrow night?” he asked quietly.

“I can’t. I am… expected at a Grenville musicale.” Perhaps the biggest understatement of all time.

“I’m afraid I won’t be attending the show,” he said, his tone more sad than droll. “I am not welcome in the Grenville household. I don’t suppose I can talk you into coming away with me instead?”

“I cannot.” She took a deep breath. It was past time he knew the truth. “I’ll be on stage.”

When he turned around to face her, his countenance held a crooked smile rather than an expression of surprise. “I would love to hear you sing.”

He knew.

She stared back at him, light-headed with shock. “How long have you known?”

“Since I found this paradise.” He gestured at the lush beauty about them. “And recalled it was not Lady X, but Miss Grenville whom I had crossed paths with not ten yards away.”

Camellia grimaced drily. She could only imagine the shock on his face when he realized he’d fallen for none other than mousy Miss Grenville, even for a whirlwind candlelit moment. “And you still wished to meet me?”

“I want a lot more than that.” He slid down from the rock. “Did you not see my advertisements?”

She took a step in retreat. “I won’t be your mistress.”

He choked in horror. “I’m not asking you to be my mistr—”

“And I won’t be your wife,” she finished firmly. For his sake. For her sake. For her sisters’ sakes.

His soulful green-brown-gray eyes gazed back at her, hurt.

She glanced away, unable to speak.

“May I ask why?” he asked.

“You might have won your wager,” she said when she had regained her voice, “but you lost your reputation long before. Any romantic association with you brings gossip and scandal my family can ill afford. I am sorry.”

“No,” he said, his beautiful eyes full of regret. “I am sorry. The fault is mine.”

He was trying to do the right thing, she realized. He had taken her virginity. For a gentleman, such an act required a trip to the altar.

But she didn’t want him to fall upon his sword for her. She didn’t want anyone to marry her just because it was the “proper thing” to do.

Especially not in this case, when it would all go so wrong. Instead of saving her reputation, he would tarnish two more in the process.

Bryony and Dahlia would never find husbands once the caricaturists printed etchings of their sister fleeing the bed of the Lord of Pleasure.

Camellia’s chest ached with sadness and frustration. With their masks on, she and Lord Wainwright could be themselves. But without them… they could not have each other at all.

She removed her lost earring from the jewelry box and placed the lid back atop the necklace. “Here.”

He shook his head. “It’s yours.”

She tied the brown paper around the parcel and nestled it back beside the rock.

“Thank you for the gesture,” she said quietly. “And the memories.”

Without giving him a chance to say anything that might make her foolish heart change its mind, she strode out of the hidden clearing and onto the path that led back to her real life.

Lord X was the dream she would have to leave behind.