The following day, Titus went to his club for luncheon before the House of Lords session. His stepmother was hosting a tea that afternoon, but he didn’t have time to attend. Nora had been at the forefront of his thoughts, and he planned to see her soon. Perhaps he’d stop in tonight after the session finished.

As he walked through the dining room, he saw Mr. Jonathan Gasper, a horse breeder with excellent stock, sitting by himself. Seeing him here, Titus was struck with the rather spontaneous urge to speak with him about a horse for Nora. Before he could make his way to Gasper’s table, a footman approached him.

“Your Grace, I’ll have your usual luncheon sent up directly.”

Titus appreciated the footman’s care. “I’m going to speak with someone first. Do wait a bit.”

The footman hesitated the briefest moment before saying, “As you say, Your Grace.” He began to turn, but Titus stopped him.

“And I think I’d prefer mutton today.”

The footman’s nostrils flared. It was a slight thing, but Titus caught the reaction. “Indeed, Your Grace.”

Titus had known this particular footman for quite a while. He knew Titus’s habits and preferences, and Titus had just surprised him. Twice.

Absurdly, Titus was amused. He felt good. Yes, for the first time in a very long time, he felt good.

He made his way to Gasper. “Afternoon, Gasper, I wonder if I might have a word.”

The gentleman looked up from his soup and blinked. “Kendal. Yes, yes, of course.” He gestured for Titus to sit. “Are you having luncheon?”

Why not eat it here instead of his private dining room? “Yes, do you mind if I join you?”

Gasper studied him for a moment. “Not at all.” It seemed he might say something more, but he took another spoonful of soup instead.

“I wanted to speak with you about acquiring a new mount—a gentle mare, something appropriate for a novice rider.” Titus signaled for the footman to come to the table.

“How may I be of service, Your Grace?”

“I’ll take my luncheon here, thank you.” He turned back to Gasper, effectively dismissing the footman, but not before registering that he’d surprised the man a third time.

Titus glanced at the footman’s departing back before returning his attention to Gasper. “I’m upsetting the order of things today.”

Gasper swallowed another spoonful of soup and set his utensil down. “Because you’re eating here?”

“It’s not expected, is it?”

Gasper blinked. “No.”

He seemed as hesitant and cautious as the footman had been. Was Titus so fearsome? No, but he’d created a wall around himself and preferred that no one breach it save his inner circle. Today, however, he felt like lowering that wall. Just a bit.

He turned the conversation back to horses, and after a while, the footman delivered his meal along with Gasper’s next course. They enjoyed a pleasant luncheon, and before Titus realized it, he needed to be on his way.

He was about to excuse himself when two gentlemen strolled by. “I can’t believe she chose Dawson,” one of them said. “My money was on Markham.”

The other man shook his head. “Why’d she choose Dawson over an earl? Makes no sense to me, but then women never do.”

Titus stood. “What are you discussing?”

The pair stopped in their tracks and slowly turned. They regarded Titus as if he had a second head. The first man swallowed. “Your Grace?”

Titus’s gut clenched. “What are you talking about? Who?” He feared he knew the answer and, like these men, he could make absolutely no sense of it.

“A wager was placed last night at White’s. About Miss Lockhart—your stepmother’s ward, I believe.” The man sounded a bit nervous, tentative. “There seems to be a competition for her hand between Lord Markham and Mr. Dawson.”

A bloody competition? A wager? The room seemed to darken, and Titus’s breath squeezed from his chest. “You said she chose Dawson?”

The two men exchanged puzzled looks. “Evidently,” the second one answered. “We just heard it down at Key’s Coffee House.”

The good mood Titus had just enjoyed, the only contentment he’d found in nine long years, evaporated like smoke.

Without a word, he turned and strode from the club, his feet devouring the ground as he made his way to his coach. He barely spared a glance for the coachman, who held the door for him. “Satterfield House.”

Once inside the vehicle, he exhaled his pent-up breath. She’d chosen Dawson? After what had happened between them the other night?

Well, why wouldn’t she, you ass? It’s not as if you proposed.

And he should have. Not because it was the right and honorable thing to do, which of course it was, and which of course she deserved. But because he loved her. He was irrevocably, hopelessly, desperately in love with her.

He had to tell her. Even if nothing came of it, he had to share what was in his heart before it was too late. He’d lost one person in his life—his father—without telling him how much he meant, and he wasn’t going to make that same mistake again.