Kate paced the halls of Ravenwood House in a cold sweat.

She desperately wanted to surprise her husband with a complete recreation of his childhood parlor, but to do so, she could neither allow woodworkers and designers and seamstresses to use the parlor as their workshop, nor could she allow them to keep the cherished portrait in their own workshop for weeks on end.

Even if the gift were not a surprise, Ravenwood would never allow the parlor to be invaded in such a way—or to allow the painting out of his possession for even a moment.

So she’d made a compromise. A risky one. She’d snuck the family portrait to her friends whilst Ravenwood was at Parliament and instructed them to return it the following night when he was away again.

Twenty-four hours for the best painter of their acquaintance to forge a copy of the canvas with perfect exactitude.

Twenty-four hours in which Ravenwood might decide at any moment to revisit his old memories…and discover them missing.

Three hours remained. Ravenwood was still at home. The portrait was not.

Kate’s fingernails were bitten to nubs.

She hadn’t stepped outside of the house since the painting had left the manor. She had to be on hand to intercept it the moment it returned. She also had to be on hand to intercept Ravenwood, should he venture anywhere near the parlor.

Distract him with what? She wasn’t certain. Something. Anything. It didn’t matter. Soon, the painting would be back in its proper place and she could breathe again. Soon after, once the parlor had been brought back to life, her husband would see how much she cared.

Their marriage might have been an accident, but it wasn’t a mistake. Not if they worked at it. Ravenwood eschewed artsy nonsense whereas she adored it, but that did not mean they couldn’t come to love each other. For them to live together, instead as two solitary souls haunting separate halves of a sprawling, lifeless manor.

Where was her husband, anyway?

She strolled by his bedchamber as casually as possible. The valet was alone. Ravenwood had not yet arrived to dress for the parliamentary meeting. Nor was he in the dining area.

His office, then. The only other room he ever visited.

Kate shook her head. She could not imagine how boring life would be if it were filled with nothing but work and duty. She knew from her cousin’s example that the other peers of the realm did not leave one eight-hour parliamentary session only to spend another eight going over the same material alone.

How Ravenwood could endure spending so much time at his desk was beyond her.

She wrapped her arms about her chest. Light spilled from the open doorway to his office.

He was seated at his desk, his head bent over one of his many ledgers, a pen poised over one of the blank pages. His chestnut curls spilled over his forehead. Concentration lined his handsome face. Her heart thumped at the sight.

She paused in the corridor to watch.

He didn’t move.

Seconds turned into minutes. If it weren’t for the occasional blink of his eyes, a casual observer might have believed him a statue carved of wax. She couldn’t even distinguish his breathing.

Suddenly, he jerked the pen away from the blank page and stabbed it viciously into a pot of ink.

For several long moments, he tapped the nub against the inkwell to remove excess ink, dipped the tip into the ink again as if too much had slid away, then started the process of tapping and dunking all over again.

At last, he returned to his original position, with his pen once again hovering over a blank page.

He didn’t move.

Neither did she.

After a long moment, something changed. His eyes softened. The corners of his lips quirked into a wistful smile. And his pen flew across the page so rapidly that he barely took time to do more than dash the tip into the ink before letting it sail across the page again and again as if he were a man possessed.

Mystified, she stepped forward. “What are you writing?”

“Poetry.” He slammed the journal closed without allowing the ink to dry. His tone was flat. His face, expressionless.

Her mouth fell open in surprise. Poetry? Him? “May I—”

“No.” He threw the thick blue volume into a drawer and turned a key in the lock. “It is private. As is this office.”

Her face flamed with heat. Not because he had chastised her for spying on his private space. But because she had judged him incapable of such an interest.

Once again, she had been wrong.

His poetry might be wonderful or terrible or anything in between, but it was sincere and it was his.

“Pray continue,” she stammered, backing into the hall. “As you may recall, I’ve the Grenville soirée tonight and ought to select my gown.”

Before he could stop her—not that he showed any sign of wishing to do so—she flung herself out of sight and pressed her back into the corridor wall. Her heart refused to slow.

Her husband was a poet.

The Duke of Ravenwood was a poet.

She squeezed her eyes shut. All this time he’d let her blather on about her creative friends, and he was one.

He wasn’t just romantic when inside the walls of his secret garden—he was expressive and imaginative in the privacy of his mind.

And he had gazed at her in his typical stoic silence when she’d casually dismissed poetry as featherbrained fops playacting at being Byron.

In horror, she clapped her hands over her mouth to bite back a hysterical laugh.

When was the last time she’d written a poem or danced a ballet or sang an operetta? Never. The last time was never. Her chest tightened.

He’d had every opportunity to throw her close-mindedness in her face. Yet he’d chosen not to do so. He was too admirable for that.

If he wanted privacy to exercise his creativity, she would do everything in her power to give him as much freedom as he required.

Heart thudding, she pushed away from the wainscoting and made her way back toward her half of the manor. Toward the empty parlor, where she would await the painting.

From now on, she would keep to the east wing unless explicitly invited to join him elsewhere. His office was his. The west wing was his. The garden was his. From now on, she would make it her duty to ensure he was never interrupted when he was in any of those places.

She had asked him to sponsor an artist at her inaugural event. Well, she would sponsor him.

He didn’t lack for money, or materials, or a workspace. What the overworked, under-appreciated Duke of Ravenwood most needed was time to himself. Time to be himself. The luxury of a few hours here and there where his presence or signature or advice or leadership was not required by someone else.

A chance to be a poet. To enjoy his garden. To experience a moment of freedom. To just…be.

“Your grace? A package has arrived for you.”

Her pulse skipped. She whirled around to see a footman bearing a large, flat crate. Thank heavens!

“Please place it outside my aunt’s bedchamber.” That sounded innocuous enough. A heavy sigh of relief escaped her lungs.

Now the only trick would be smuggling the portrait out of the crate and back onto the wall.

She had asked the maids who cleaned that corridor not to enter the parlor for a few days, just in case the painting hadn’t returned in time, but that was no guarantee that curiosity at the strange request wouldn’t propel one of them to peek around the corner.

She hung back just long enough to give the footman time to drop off the crate and walk away before rushing to Aunt Havens’ guest quarters to retrieve the package.

With the aid of a small knife she’d sequestered just for this purpose, she was able to pry off the lid and slide out the linen-wrapped frame.

Her nerves jumped. Before anyone else could chance upon her, she hurried straight to the back parlor. She didn’t unwrap the frame until she was standing directly in front of the empty nails where the portrait had once hung.

Carefully, she placed it back on the wall then stood back to rake it over with a critical eye.

It looked the same. No visible nicks in the gilded frame, no dirt or stains upon the cracked canvas.

She narrowed her eyes as an insidious thought occurred to her. This had better be the original portrait and not the forged copy. A painter like her friend would be talented enough to duplicate every brushstroke, cracks and all.

No. She shook her head. Her friends would not have done that. Their artistic fingers might be capable of such deception, but their kind hearts were not. They wanted Kate’s gift to succeed as much as she did.

She folded up the empty linen as if it were no more than a bit of mending and slipped back through the corridors to her aunt’s bedchamber.

The empty crate had been removed from the hallway. In its place stood an extravagantly coiffed Aunt Havens, outfitted in canary yellow silk from neck to toe.

“What time are we leaving?” she asked. “Aren’t you going to put on a proper gown?”

Kate blinked. The Grenville soirée. She’d nearly forgot.

Aunt Havens had not, of course. She loved parties as much as Kate did, and had attended them all as her chaperone since the moment of her come-out.

Kate grinned back at her aunt.

Now that she was married and no longer required chaperonage, she still couldn’t imagine going anywhere without Aunt Havens.

Her aunt had never been a simple duenna, but rather Kate’s favorite person and closest friend. The most amusing rout was made even more fun by having Aunt Havens at her side to make jests to and confide secrets.

“Of course I’ll wear a proper gown,” she said gaily, looping her arm through her aunt’s. “Come help me choose one that won’t clash with yours. I had thought cobalt at first, but now I’m starting to think, why not a mint green?”

Now that the portrait was back and she and Aunt Havens had diverting plans, Kate’s spirits lightened considerably. No more risks. No more prejudice. A heightened sense of responsibility. She was New Kate. Duchess of Ravenwood, in fact. From now on, she would act like it.

The moment she was bathed and dressed, she and Aunt Havens set off for the Grenville soiree.

Kate had intended to take her husband’s practical advice to heart, and started to woo potential patrons to her opening gala with the same enthusiasm and respect she’d given to the performers and artists.

“Miss Grenville,” she said when she caught up with the eldest Grenville sibling. “I quite enjoyed your family musicale a few months back.”

“That’s fortunate,” Miss Grenville said with a wry smile. “I am pleased to inform you that it was our last.”

“Pleased?” Kate stared at her, disappointment curving her shoulders. “I thought you loved music.”

“I adore hearing it far more than performing it,” Miss Grenville confessed. “Now that I am of age, I shall spend as much of my time as possible watching the stage, rather than standing on it.”

Kate’s spine straightened. “If that is the case, you and your family may be interested to take part in the upcoming Society for the Creative and Performing Arts.”

Miss Grenville shook her head. “I meant what I said about no longer singing for a crowd.”

“Nor would you have to. This society will bring together art enthusiasts with practitioners. You would be able to sponsor the singer or singers of your choice, and become a patron of the arts, rather than a performer.”

Miss Grenville frowned. “Do you mean…sponsor an opera singer like Angelica Catalini?”

“Not a famous one,” Kate corrected. “A soon-to-be famous one. Someone extremely talented who, without your help and patronage, would never be destined for greatness. Years from now, when audiences are clamoring for tickets to hear the greatest soprano in London, it could be because you discovered her at the Society for Creative and Performing Arts and paved her way to fame.”

“Me, a patron of the arts?” Miss Grenville’s eyes shone. “What a lovely idea! I cannot wait to tell Mother. I am certain every member of our family will wish to sponsor an artist. Is there any limit?”

“No limit at all. Please spread the word to anyone you think might be interested.” Happiness soared through Kate’s veins. “With everyone’s help, London’s arts and theatre will be the envy of the world.”

Miss Grenville clapped her hands. “I cannot wait!”

“Pardon the interruption, your grace.” Mrs. Epworth, a recent widow, stepped into the conversation. “Can you tell me more about this Society for Creative and Performing Arts? I would love to be a patron.”

“Absolutely.” Kate grinned back at her.

In no time, the idea had caught on and the partygoers began to tease each other about whether they would attend as sponsors or as performers.

Joy filled Kate’s heart. She would spend every moment over the next few weeks continuing to spread the word, but she no longer held any doubts. Her idea was going to work. She could feel it. The energy pulsed everywhere around her.

Lady Grenville swooped into Kate’s path with a frown. “His grace didn’t deign to join us?”

“You know Ravenwood,” Lord Grenville said with a laugh before Kate could reply. “Wed to his work, he is.”

“Well, now he’s wed to his duchess,” Lady Grenville insisted petulantly. “One would think he could at least accompany her on her outings.”

Kate’s cheeks heated at the sound of her earlier unfair thoughts echoed by those around them. She kept her tone casual, but enunciated her reply. “Unlike me, my husband has more important things to do with his time. I’m always well accompanied, however.” She nodded toward the refreshment table, where Aunt Havens hovered near a plate of biscuits. “My aunt is the perfect person to attend parties with me.”

“A perfect person to be checked into an asylum, you mean,” came a nasal sneer from just behind her.

She spun around to find herself face to face with Phineas Mapleton, the ton’s most outspoken gossip.

“There is nothing wrong with my Aunt Havens,” she snapped.

Mapleton’s cruel laugh rang loud. “Nothing except she’s been eating off the serving dishes as if the refreshment table were her own private breakfast tray.”

Kate jerked her head toward the refreshment table just in time to see Aunt Havens replace a half-eaten biscuit back onto a platter.

“She’s fine,” she managed hotly, before turning and marching through the crowd to rescue the refreshments from her aunt.

Mapleton followed. “She’s old. You should send her somewhere else to live out her last days.”

Kate’s eyes stung and she curled her fingers into fists. “She’s not going to die.”

“We’ll all die someday,” Mapleton corrected with a smirk. “That old biddy is just closer than most.”

Kate turned her back on him before she stabbed his eyes out. She hurried over to Aunt Havens. As casually as she could, Kate looped her arm through her aunt’s and gently steered her away from the refreshment table.

“Aunt,” she said softly. “You can’t use serving dishes like plates. Remember?”

Aunt Havens stared at her blankly, her mouth and bodice littered with telltale crumbs.

Kate’s throat tightened. “Aunt Havens? Can you hear me?”

“You’ve lost her,” came Mapleton’s laughing voice from behind her. “Bats in the belfry.”

She tightened her grip on her aunt’s hands to keep from whirling around and leveling him a facer. The Earl of Carlisle had done it once. Kate was willing to pay good money for him to do it again.

“I haven’t lost her,” she bit out through clenched teeth. Her skin itched with a cold sweat. She would never lose Aunt Havens. She couldn’t. Swallowing her fear, she bent to her great-aunt’s eye level. “Aunt, it’s Kate. Do you hear me? Can you see me?”

Aunt Havens blinked and her entire face animated again. “Why are you holding my hands, Kate? This isn’t an appropriate venue for us to dance together.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Mapleton hooted. “Her scolding someone else about proper behavior!”

Aunt Havens frowned. “What on earth is that young man babbling about?”

“Nothing,” Kate said quickly. Her heart still beat too quickly from the terror of seeing her aunt unresponsive. “Pay him no mind. He’s an imbecile.”

“And she’s nothing more than a great baby,” Mapleton shot back. “Do you bathe her and change her, too? She’s as helpless and as useless as a child.”

Aunt Havens stiffened. “I am not a baby.”

“A dog, then.” Mapleton’s lip curled. “Eating off the serving trays with no more manners than a mutt. You ought not bring her back without a leash. If she’s too old for the nursery, you can keep her in the stables.”

Kate dragged her away from Mapleton before the blackguard could make any more disparaging comments. She found a private corner behind a painted partition and pulled her aunt out of sight of the crowd.

“We should go, Aunt,” she said quietly. “Perhaps you’re tired.”

“I’m not tired,” said Aunt Havens stubbornly. She jerked her arm from Kate’s grip. “I’m not a baby. I’m not useless.”

“I just…” Kate’s heart pounded and she swallowed hard. “You weren’t yourself for a moment, Aunt. I think perhaps you shouldn’t be alone. I would hate for something to happen.”

Aunt Havens drew herself up tall, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Don’t patronize me. I am not a danger to myself. And even if I were, I’d rather die as an independent woman than be treated like a child by you.”

Kate’s chest tightened with guilt. She wrapped her aunt in her arms. “I’m sorry, Aunt. You’re right. You’re a woman, not a child. I promise never to treat you like one. I swear it.”

Only then, finally, did Aunt Havens hug her back.