Lionel tried very hard to maintain his composure, but there was simply nothing to be done. He tripped, and it was only through her quick thinking and grace that she kept him upright. Her hand moved down his shoulder to the top of his bicep, and she squeezed, while her other hand clenched his with a fierce grip meant to prevent their descent.

He clasped her waist rather tightly—too tightly for propriety’s sake. And everyone was watching them.

Bloody, bloody hell.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, once he was certain they were secure once more. He fought to focus on their outrageous conversation as well as the waltz.

“I’d rather not discuss it here,” she said tightly, keeping her gaze fixed over his shoulder. “I need to speak with you in private.”

In private. Of course. He stifled the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “That may be difficult given the attention directed at us. I’ll call on you tomorrow.”

She looked up at him then, the blue of her eyes intense. So unlike that day eight months ago. “No. It has to be tonight. It must be tonight.”

He tried to think. But it was damnably hard. She’d thrown him into the ocean, and he was swimming against the waves, trying to reach the shore where he could make sense of what was happening. She wanted him—him—to marry her. There was simply no making sense of it.

He took a deep breath and got a nose full of lavender for his trouble. Lavender and something else. Something that was likely unique to Lady Townsend. Something he was going to dream about.

She also felt good in his arms. In any other circumstance, he would think of her differently, perhaps with interest. Her thumb moved against his hand, sending a jolt of awareness along his arm. Definitely with interest.

Thinking wasn’t just hard. It was damn near impossible.

“The dance will end soon,” she said. “Are you familiar with the Tilneys’ house? Where can we meet?”

He pulled himself from his haze of shock and captivation. “We’ll have to wait a good while. After midnight at least.” Several years ago, he’d met a woman for a brief tryst in a closet on the second floor. “Two floors up, there’s a closet they use for linen. It’s in the northwest area off a servants’ passage. Will you be able to find that?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m not a simpleton.”

“I didn’t say you were. I merely asked if you could find it.” He didn’t grow irritated with her. It made sense that she would have little patience with him. Or perhaps she had a naturally short temper like her late husband.

Do not think about him right now.

And how was he supposed to keep Townsend from his mind when he was holding the man’s widow in his arms? Better yet, how could he possibly avoid tumbling into the darkness of his guilt and remorse if he were married to her?

Thankfully, the music drew to a close.

“I’ll meet you there at one o’clock,” she said. “Do not be late.”

They would need to keep the meeting brief so their absences wouldn’t be noted. “Around midnight, I will make a point of saying I’m leaving. People will think I’ve gone.”

The dance was done. She peered up at him, her lip slightly curled. “That’s hardly necessary. You see, I need you to marry me immediately. If people see us together, there won’t be a scandal. Besides, I’m no green, unmarried girl.”

It was all he could do not to gape at her. In the middle of the dance floor. With everyone staring at them. “We can’t discuss this here. I’ll meet you in the closet.”

He escorted her from the floor and managed to escape the ballroom without having to talk to anyone. He went directly to the gaming room, where he tossed back a glass of whiskey as quickly as possible.

Several gentlemen looked his way but didn’t approach him. Then West entered and stalked directly toward him. “I hear you caused quite a stir,” he said.

Lionel walked to the corner, and West followed. “In the ballroom? Yes, well, that’s going to pale as to what happens next.”

West stared at him. “What the devil are you talking about?”

Lionel immediately regretted saying anything. It wouldn’t do to spoil her plans, whatever they were. “Never mind. I do think it’s past time I go.” He’d just make his way to the closet early and await her there.

“You don’t have to. We could play a round of cards.”

They could, but he was too agitated. “Next time.”

“Are you all right?” West asked. “You seem…off.”

“I’m fine. Truly. Enjoy your evening.”

Lionel departed the gaming room and made his way toward the front of the house. Instead of leaving, however, he cut into the servants’ stairway and ascended to the second floor. He went in search of a lamp, which he found in a deserted chamber, then located the closet where he waited.

There was nowhere to sit, so he simply leaned against the shelves holding mountains of linen—and the lantern for which he’d managed to carve out a space. He had ample time to consider Lady Townsend’s demand.

Marriage.

Could he do that? He’d planned to marry, of course, and had even thought this Season might be the time to seriously search for a wife. But that had been before the duel last summer. Then everything had changed, and he was fairly sure he didn’t deserve to find happiness.

Which didn’t mean he couldn’t marry. Plenty of people married for reasons other than happiness. It seemed he and Lady Townsend might be two of those people.

He couldn’t imagine she wished to wed him for any sense of joy. In fact, he couldn’t imagine why she wished to marry him at all.

At last, he heard footsteps. The latch clicked, and the door opened. Lady Townsend quickly stepped inside, closing the door firmly behind her.

She took in the small space and positioned herself as far away from him as possible. That still only allowed maybe four feet between them. “This is rather close.”

He straightened to his full height, pushing off the shelves behind his back. “It’s also out of the way.”

She elevated her chin. “I suppose it is.”

“Forgive me, but I’ve been trying to reason why you’d want to marry me, and I’m afraid I’ve come up with absolutely nothing.”

“I admit it’s a severe plan, but I’m at my wit’s end. I’m destined for a marriage I don’t want, and it’s all your fault. You did say you would do anything to help me. Didn’t you mean that?”

“Of course I did. I’m a man of honor, for better or for worse.” Often for worse, it seemed.

She looked away from him, her jaw tightening. When her gaze found his once more, her eyes were fire and ice, a mixture of hot anger and frigid determination. “Your honor has definitely been worse for me. Which is why I am seeking your help—you owe me.”

“I do.”

“Yes, and I’d planned to demand money to settle Geoffrey’s debts. After I gave you the cut direct. Which I didn’t get to do.” She folded her arms across her chest, and he felt her frustration fill the small space. “Things are not going the way I’d planned.”

“I’m sorry things aren’t progressing as you wanted.” His chest squeezed, and he fought to take a breath. “Your life isn’t at all what you’d expected it would be, and that’s entirely my fault,” he said quietly. “I will give you the money you need and anything else you require.”

“Anything. Yes, you said that last summer too.” Her gaze locked on to his. “My parents have decided I should marry someone I don’t want to. They have already set things in motion. I need you to marry me instead.”

“Forgive me, Lady Townsend, but I find it difficult to comprehend there is anyone you’d rather marry less than me.”

She laughed, a dark, hollow sound that made his guts twist. “Yes, I can see why you’d think that, and if we were to have a true marriage, it would likely be accurate. However, to save me from marrying Sir Duncan, we will wed, and it will be a marriage of utter convenience—for me. I shall be independent to do as I please, you will provide me with ample pin money, and there will be absolutely no intimacy.”

“You want me to accept an agreement of marriage in which I have no children, not even an heir?”

Her icy gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”

Bloodiest of hells. How could he possibly agree to that? He had a responsibility to his title, his family. Yes, there was someone—his second cousin’s son—who could inherit, but that wasn’t the point. His father, if he were still alive, would be devastated to think that Lionel would trade away their legacy in such a fashion.

And yet…he owed her. He’d promised her. And if he was nothing else, he was, above all, a man of honor.

“You are asking quite a lot. I have a responsibility to my title.”

She didn’t blink. “I looked you up in DeBrett’s—you have a cousin.”

“I should like to have children,” he said.

“Then take a mistress who will provide them for you.”

By God, she was cold, but then he’d likely made her that way. He vaguely recalled a charming, vivacious young woman from that house party. She was currently nowhere to be found. “You don’t wish to have children?” he asked.

For the first time, she seemed to falter or at least hesitate. She glanced away, but when her gaze moved back to his, the fire was back along with the ice. “Not at present. If I change my mind, I shall notify you, of course.”

He leaned back against the shelves, his frame slumping a bit. This was so absurd as to be almost incomprehensible. He’d killed her husband, and now she wished to marry him?

Only to save her from something she wanted even less than being leg-shackled to her husband’s murderer.

“If you’ll permit me to ask, what is so wrong with marrying Sir Duncan?” Lionel didn’t know the man.

Her expression changed to one of intense disgust. “Many things. Many, many things. I hardly think it should matter to you.” She tipped her head to the side. “You offered your assistance, and I am asking for it. Are you a man of your word?”

Any doubt or reservation he possessed disintegrated beneath the weight of her query. “Of course I am.” The matter of an heir distressed him, but not nearly as much as the fact that he’d killed her husband and left her vulnerable to a marriage she didn’t want. “You said things with Sir Duncan were already in motion. What does that mean?”

“My parents have negotiated the union, and he is calling tomorrow to sign a marriage contract. The banns will be read on Sunday.”

No wonder she was desperate. “You must really not want to marry him if you would ask me to do this instead.”

She inclined her head but said nothing.

“It seems we must act quickly. You strike me as rather organized. Do you have a plan?”

“Er, no.”

Gretna Green crossed his mind immediately, but she’d already eloped there. He flinched inwardly and pushed away from the shelving once more, squaring his shoulders. “I can procure a special license at the Doctors’ Commons first thing in the morning. We can wed any time after that. Just tell me when.”

She thought for a moment, her gaze slightly narrowed as she appeared to study one of the shelves. “You’ll come to my parents’ house at noon. Is there any chance we can have the ceremony then?”

“I’ll need to secure a clergyman, but that shouldn’t be a problem.” He’d find one tonight, as soon as they were finished.

Her entire frame sagged a bit. Her relief was evident. “That will suffice.”

This businesslike arrangement wasn’t at all how he’d expected to propose marriage. “What will your parents say, given they’ve already promised you to Sir Duncan?”

Lady Townsend regained her earlier stoicism. “I don’t care. I’m marrying a marquess with more than adequate wealth. If that doesn’t please them, nothing will.”

He heard the disgust in her tone. Her marriage to Townsend hadn’t pleased them. She had eloped with the man, after all. It was a romantic notion—running off to marry for love. That he’d robbed her of that stung him to the core. How in the hell would they get on?

“How do you imagine this—our marriage—progressing? Do you plan to live with me?”

She blinked at him. “I haven’t quite worked that out. For now, I expect your town house here in London is large enough to accommodate me having my own quarters.”

“Certainly.”

“Then that shall suffice.”

Yes, it was all rather sufficient. Nothing more and nothing less than was absolutely required. “Does this make you…happy?”

She speared him with a dark, empty stare. “Nothing makes me happy. I should think you would know that. I will see you at noon.” She spun and opened the door, leaving him alone in the closet.

Nothing made her happy. Well then, on that score, they were equal.

* * *

After a fitful night of barely any sleep, Emmaline had managed to choke down a slice of toast and half a cup of chocolate. She looked at herself in the glass. At least the purple beneath her eyes matched the lavender of her gown.

She turned away, her stomach churning. What on earth had she done?

Nothing yet, but the alternative was horrifying. She’d danced with Sir Duncan last night, much to her parents’ delight. He’d expressed his enthusiasm—to borrow her mother’s description—for their courtship, saying he was incredibly fortunate to have another opportunity for marital bliss. But then he’d gone and ruined what could’ve been a lovely sentiment by saying how he looked forward to a bride who wasn’t a simpering virgin. He’d tittered, winking at her as if they were sharing a joke. Then he’d gone on to detail the ways in which he pursued athletic endeavors. He’d concluded by saying he was in excellent physical condition. She’d stared at him, unable to find any suitable response.

Then she’d remembered that she didn’t have to marry him, that she had a plan of her own to avoid her parents’ scheme. Except it required her to marry a man she’d vowed to hate.

Since that moment, she’d worried that she’d made a rash decision. Another rash decision. Eloping with Geoffrey had been her first, and while she hadn’t immediately regretted it, she’d grown to question her actions. Only because Geoffrey hadn’t turned out to be the man she’d thought he was. With Axbridge, she knew he was a scoundrel and a killer. He was precisely the man everyone knew him to be—the Duke of Danger.

It wasn’t too late. She didn’t have to marry him. But then she’d marry Sir Duncan. Couldn’t she just run away? Surely Axbridge would fund her escape.

And where would she go? She’d have to start over somewhere, utterly alone. After the last eight months of relative isolation while she was in mourning, she didn’t want to do that. Marrying Axbridge gave her everything she wanted: a respectable position, adequate financial support, and the ability to remain in the world she knew.

To do what exactly? She wouldn’t have children with him. She couldn’t. What, then, would she spend her time doing?

Anything you bloody well please! Stop this nonsense and go downstairs!

Indeed. She stiffened her spine and went down to the drawing room. Her mother was seated near the windows embroidering something for one of her grandchildren. Emmaline had four much older siblings who were married with children. She had come to her parents later, as a surprise, and not an entirely welcome one. They’d mostly ignored her in her younger years and she’d never been close to any of her siblings. She’d always felt as though she’d missed out on having a family.

“There you are, dear,” her mother said, briefly looking up from her project. “I hope you slept well.” Clearly she hadn’t seen the bags under Emmaline’s eyes.

“Well enough.”

“Father was so pleased to see you dancing with Sir Duncan last night. This will be an excellent match—you’ll see.” She lifted her head then, her eyes widening briefly. “My goodness, I meant to ask you about Axbridge. Why on earth did you dance with him?”

Emmaline had been relieved when her mother had fallen asleep immediately after getting into the coach last night. And Father had left the ball earlier to go to his club. That meant Emmaline had been able to avoid any sort of interrogation about the marquess, as well as enjoy some peace.

She sat down near her mother and arranged her skirts around her feet. “Because he asked me to.”

Mother stared at her. “That makes no sense. You can’t stand him.”

“He feels guilty.” That much was true. Not only had he said so, but she could see the darkness lurking in the depths of his eyes.

Mother clucked her tongue. “It is not your duty to assuage his guilt.”

“No, but I am not a vengeful person.” She nearly choked on the words. She’d absolutely planned revenge, or at least to deliver a blow by making a spectacle last night and giving him the cut direct. She had succeeded in making a spectacle, even if she hadn’t publicly humiliated him. And the scandal their marriage would create would resonate through Society for perhaps the entire Season.

Would it be a scandal? Not in the true sense of the word perhaps, but it would be on everyone’s lips. She and Axbridge would either be celebrated and invited everywhere or utterly reviled and ostracized. Given that he was a marquess and still rather popular despite his murderous background, she doubted it would be the latter.

“Well, it was certainly the talk of the ball last night,” Mother said. “Axbridge has been gone for months, then he shows up and dances with you of all people. It seemed rather audacious. But then I suppose that’s to be expected from him. Doesn’t he have one of those silly duke nicknames?” She glanced out the window and straightened. “There’s a coach outside. But it’s too early for Sir Duncan to be here.”

Emmaline’s heart began to beat faster. “Perhaps it isn’t Sir Duncan. Perhaps it’s some other gentleman paying a call.”

Mother cast her a dubious glance, her mouth clenched tight. Then her expression softened, turning sympathetic. “I know Sir Duncan isn’t necessarily the man you would have chosen, but when you did choose, it wasn’t the best you could have done, as we both know. You didn’t talk to me about your marriage, but I could tell that you were growing increasingly distressed.”

Distressed seemed a strong word, but she wouldn’t quibble. No, she hadn’t been happy. But did that mean she could never pick anything for herself? That was an absurd argument.

“Have faith, Emmaline,” Mother said brightly. “Your father and I only want the best for you, and Sir Duncan will provide it.”

Obviously their definitions of “the best” were not the same.

Cutworth, their butler, stepped into the doorway. “The Marquess of Axbridge is here.”

“Show him in, and please fetch my father,” Emmaline said, rising. Her pulse sped even faster.

“What is going on?” Mother set aside her needlepoint and stood. “Emmaline?”

Emmaline strolled away from her, clear to the other side of the room, and didn’t respond.

A moment later, Father came in, followed almost immediately by the marquess and another gentleman—the clergyman, Emmaline presumed.

Axbridge offered a bow and looked to Emmaline’s mother, then her father. “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Forth-Hodges.” He turned to Emmaline and made an even deeper bow. “Lady Townsend.”

“Lord Axbridge,” she murmured. He looked as handsome as he had last night. He didn’t have purple bags beneath his eyes, the rogue.

Father’s brow creased as he frowned, first at Axbridge and then at the clergyman. “What is this about?”

Axbridge pulled a paper from the interior of his coat. “I’ve a special license that allows your daughter and I to wed. Mr. Smithson here will perform the ceremony.”

Mother turned, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. “What have you done?”

“Yes, gel, what have you done?” While Mother sounded aghast, Father was clearly annoyed.

“I’ve decided to marry Axbridge instead of Sir Duncan. I do not care to be dictated to—I’m a widow with a mind of my own.”

“You’re a widow with extensive debts,” Father said icily. “Is Axbridge aware of that?”

“Indeed I am, and it’s not an issue.” Axbridge’s tone was even and warm, almost congenial, as if he sauntered into drawing rooms and told men he was going to marry their daughter immediately all the time.

Father strode toward her. “We have an agreement with Sir Duncan.”

“It hasn’t been formalized,” Emmaline said. “I am free to marry Axbridge, and that is what I will do. Now. You are welcome to stay and witness the ceremony. If not, I shall ask Cutworth and my maid to attend us.”

Mother rushed across the room to her side. “Emmaline,” she whispered. “Think of what you are doing. This man killed your husband. What kind of marriage will you have?”

“One that is based on clear expectation. I have negotiated precisely the kind of marriage I want—something I could never do with Sir Duncan.”

Mother blinked at her. “You will regret this just as you regretted marrying Lord Townsend.”

“Regret is a harsh word, Mother. If I were unhappy with Sir Duncan, as I fully expected to be, would you have regretted forcing me to marry him?” Emmaline didn’t wait for an answer. She walked toward Axbridge and greeted Mr. Smithson. “I am ready whenever you are.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Smithson said. He looked toward Emmaline’s father in question.

Father cleared his throat. “Come, let us stand in front of the hearth.”

He didn’t mean to try to stop her?

They moved into position, and Mr. Smithson opened his prayer book. Emmaline stood opposite Axbridge, and her pulse beat even faster. She felt as though she’d run up three flights of stairs.

He looked down at her—he was considerably taller than she—with a placid, near-pleasant expression. The darkness was gone from his gaze. Did he think things were settled between them, that this ceremony would somehow right the grievous wrong he’d done her? She had a lifetime to find out. And to disabuse him of such nonsense.

Mr. Smithson began the ceremony. Emmaline had heard it all before, of course. How different that had been. She’d been joyously happy as she’d gazed at Geoffrey in anticipation. They’d followed the rules of propriety on their journey north, in part because the Duke of Clare had caught up to them and ensured the wedding occurred without incident. Clare’s wife had become one of her closest friends, despite the man’s involvement in the duel that had killed Geoffrey.

Emmaline didn’t blame Clare. He was a man of honor, as evidenced by his behavior when she’d eloped with Geoffrey. He hadn’t tried to stop them. On the contrary, he’d made sure she was safe and that no one changed their mind.

Wasn’t Axbridge a man of honor? He’d challenged Geoffrey over a matter of honor. The exact reason still wasn’t clear to her. Geoffrey had only managed to say a few things to her before dying. He’d apologized and told her she’d deserved better. Then he’d damned Axbridge to hell.

“I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it.”

Mr. Smithson’s recitation broke into her thoughts. The secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed… Emmaline didn’t think her heart had any secrets. She’d loved Geoffrey openly and without hesitation. Maybe secret love was better. That way no one knew if it caused you pain.

After a brief pause, Mr. Smithson continued. He addressed Axbridge, asking him to recite the vows that would bind them. After promising to do his part, Mr. Smithson turned to Emmaline and asked the same of her. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony.” He barely hesitated before continuing, but Emmaline quashed a sense of blasphemy given that she had no intention of living “together” with this man. “Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as you both shall live?”

“I will.” Again, a sense of unease crept over her, but she quickly shrugged it away. These were pretty words, and plenty of people ignored them. She was all but certain Geoffrey hadn’t been faithful.

Mr. Smithson asked who gave her to Axbridge to be married, and her father said, “I do” in a clear and robust tone. He must’ve completely gotten over any reservation he’d had.

It was time to pledge their vows to each other. Mr. Smithson indicated for Axbridge to take her hands in his.

His fingers were bare, as were hers, and she realized it was the first time they had ever touched skin to skin. He was warm and firm, almost reassuring. She didn’t want to be reassured by him.

Axbridge repeated after Mr. Smithson, promising to have and to hold her from this day forward, for richer for poor, and all the other nonsense, including loving and cherishing each other until death. His gaze was intent, and she could almost believe he was in earnest.

When it was her turn, she dutifully said her part, but she stared at his ear while doing so. As soon as she was finished, she snatched her hands away.

Mr. Smithson withdrew a gold band from his pocket and set it on the open prayer book lying across his palm. “Bless this ring and this marriage,” he said.

She didn’t remember that part from Gretna Green.

Axbridge picked up the ring and slid it onto her finger. “With this ring, I thee wed.” His eyes bored into hers. The darkness hadn’t returned, but there was an intensity that unsettled her. “With my body, I thee worship.” A shiver shot up her arm from where he touched her. She’d expected this to sound like a transaction, and yet with every word Axbridge uttered, she was ensnared in something she hadn’t expected—and didn’t want: anticipation. “And with all my worldly goods, I thee endow. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.”

He withdrew his hand. The ring fit her perfectly. She could hardly wait to take it off.

Wait, was that what she planned? Emotion rioted inside her.

Mr. Smithson pronounced them man and wife, and the remainder of the ceremony droned on, giving her a headache by the time he produced a register for them to sign as well as a copy of the lines for them to sign and for Emmaline to keep.

“I offer my heartiest congratulations to you both,” Mr. Smithson said, smiling at first Emmaline and then Axbridge.

The marquess looked as calm and serene as he had when he arrived, while Emmaline was near to bursting with…with what? Apprehension? Anxiety? Unease? All those things and so much more.

“Thank you,” Axbridge said. “If you’ll wait for me downstairs in the hall, I will be along shortly to convey you back to the church.”

Mr. Smithson nodded before bidding everyone good day and leaving.

“This requires a toast at the very least,” Father said.

Axbridge glanced at her briefly, then shook his head. “You don’t need to go to the trouble.”

“It’s not every day my daughter marries a marquess.” Father grinned at her, his eyes animated with enthusiasm. “Emmaline’s done better than any of her sisters.” He called for Cutworth, who was lurking outside the door. “Bring wine.”

The butler took off with alacrity. Emmaline noticed Axbridge’s mouth tensed—just slightly, but she caught it. He turned to Emmaline. “Would you care to accompany me now, or should I send my coach later this afternoon?”

“I need to pack my things. I would appreciate you sending the coach back.”

“Your every wish is my fondest desire.”

She narrowed her eyes at him slightly. Did he need to talk like that? Maybe he was just trying to impress her parents. Ha! He’d apparently already done that by the sheer nature of his title.

“In that case, I agree that we don’t need a toast,” she said, referring to his wanting to satisfy her wishes. “Father, you and Mother can celebrate while I pack my things. I’m sure you’ll be delighted to have the house to yourselves again.”

Mother’s lips pursed, and she blinked before narrowing her eyes for just a moment. “We will miss you, Emmaline.”

“You were expecting me to go—this is just a bit sooner.” Emmaline pulled her mouth into a fake smile.

There was a beat of awkward silence in which everyone looked at each other. Axbridge coughed delicately and turned to Emmaline. “I will see you later this afternoon, then.” He executed a neat bow, then offered the same to her parents.

Father slightly frowned as he shook Axbridge’s hand. “You won’t stay for wine?”

“I’m afraid not. I have other matters to attend.”

Mother didn’t hide her dismay as she practically glared at the marquess. “I daresay marrying our daughter should be your most important matter today.”

Father patted her shoulder. “Don’t bedevil the man. He’s our son-in-law now.” He turned a wide smile toward Emmaline’s new husband. “Welcome to the family, Axbridge. I daresay Emmaline has chosen better this time around. In fact, I would almost thank you for ridding her of that rogue she chose first.” He had the callousness to laugh.

Axbridge, however, had the sense to say nothing. His face was an impassive mask as he turned and took his leave, passing Cutworth carrying a tray.

Emmaline scowled at her father. “And I will thank my husband’s murderer for delivering me from your machinations.”

“Former husband, my dear.” Father gave her a meaningful glance tinged with warmth. He was happy with how things had turned out, and she was fairly certain nothing she could say or do would alter that.

Emmaline quashed her anger and disappointment and started from the room.

Mother caught up to her just inside the doorway. “I truly want you to be happy, Emmaline.” Her expression was tentative, even soft.

Emmaline knew her mother was genuine, that she loved her, even if she often had a frustrating way of showing it. “Axbridge will give me the autonomy and position that I require. I’ll be far happier with him than I would have been with Sir Duncan.”

She lingered a moment before turning and quitting the room. To say she’d be far happier was laughable when she doubted there’d be happiness involved at all. But perhaps she’d be content.

With your husband’s murderer?

Her step faltered as she reached the stairs.

What had she done?