Grey had donned his finest waistcoat for the occasion of the Quinlans’ soiree—blue silk the hue of a Dorset summer sky shot through with green and gold embroidery. Those colors put him in mind of ripe wheat fields and lush hedgerows. He doubted Miss Quinlan would notice, but this was as close to shining armor as he possessed.

“My lord.” Miss Quinlan’s curtsey threatened to put the contents of her bodice on display before the whole receiving line. “A pleasure to see you.”

“A pleasure to be here, particularly on so fine an evening. You know my brother Mr. Sycamore Dorning, I believe?”

Sycamore took hold of the lady’s proffered glove and bowed smartly. “An honor, Miss Quinlan, and might I say, that is a beautiful locket? Whose images do you carry so close to your heart?”

She simpered, letting Cam keep hold of her hand. “That is for me to know, Mr. Dorning, though I might confide that secret to his lordship some fine day. Enjoy the punch, and don’t forget to admire the roses. They are coming into their full glory at such an obliging time.”

A headache started a dull tattoo at the base of Grey’s skull. “Come along, Sycamore. Roses in bloom are not to be missed.”

Miss Quinlan sent him an arch look, as if he’d meant that observation flirtatiously.

Which he had not. As the evening lumbered along, Grey was the object of more arch looks from Miss Quinlan. Drusilla Arbuckle merely smiled at him, and Lady Antonia spared him the merest nod while she gestured emphatically at Lord Dentwhistle in a corner of the terrace.

Even Lady Antonia’s philosopher nuns held more appeal for Grey than Miss Quinlan’s melting glances and simpering.

Beatitude, I miss you. He’d no sooner allowed himself that single, vastly understated thought than Miss Quinlan attached herself to his arm.

“Papa has a Gainsborough. It’s time you admired it.”

Papa also had a very forward daughter. Grey stayed where he was, amid the crowd milling on the torchlit terrace. “A sporting portrait?”

“Some skinny horse with its tail bobbed short. Come to the library and see.”

She was giving an order, not offering an invitation. Across the terrace, Sycamore watched, his gaze solemn to the point of sadness.

“I enjoy good art,” Grey said, yielding to the pressure Miss Quinlan exerted on his arm. “Have you ever taken in a royal exhibition? The array of talent we have among our English painters is impressive.” Oak should submit some of his landscapes to the Royal Academy, though such was his modesty that he’d never made the attempt.

“I dabble in watercolors myself,” Miss Quinlan said. “Oils are so intense. Give me a pretty garden scene or a peaceful landscape and I’m happy.”

She dragooned Grey back into the house, past the music room where a quartet sawed away, past the formal parlor with overdone gilt and porcelain. The library was quiet, as Grey had known it would be, and devoid of other guests.

“We should leave the door open, Miss Quinlan. I’ve no wish to cause talk.”

She turned the lock on the latch. “This is my home, my lord. I can go where I please, and nobody will say anything to it. Haven’t you a declaration to make? A speech? Something?”

She was smiling at him, but Grey was put in mind of a younger Sycamore, full of bravado and hubris, and just perceptive enough to know his confidence rang a bit false.

“How are you?” Grey asked, a gentleman’s inquiry of any acquaintance. And can I leave this library without becoming a doomed man?

“I am waiting for you to get on with it, my lord. I’ve told you your suit will be acceptable to me, and I’d very much like a big, sparkly ring to wear every time I enjoy the carriage parade. You may drive me on Tuesdays and Fridays, though I will have my other gallants attend me as I see fit on the remaining days of the week. We will walk home from services together starting this Sunday, and you will—”

Grey wanted to clap his hand over her pretty mouth. Instead, he smiled.

“I have not yet asked to pay you my addresses, Miss Quinlan.” But he would. He most definitely would. That was a Gainsborough on the wall, a Richard Wilson landscape hanging beside it. The shelves of the library were full of bound books, which in themselves attested to wealth. The carpet was Axminster. The fireplace looked to be Italian marble. A reading balcony projected over the fireplace, the railing intricately carved to match the spiral staircase that curved between floors.

She frowned at him. “Do you want to kiss me? Is that it? I thought you said that part of marriage holds no interest for you. I’m not averse to affection between husband and wife, I suppose. You said you have no need of an heir, and I certainly have no need to lose my figure filling a nursery.”

While Beatitude had longed for a child, just one child, to love.

“I am free of any craving for your kisses.” Grey was also making a hash of this interview, which should have been simple enough.

Miss Quinlan, I esteem you greatly and have reason to hope that my feelings might be reciprocated. Please indicate whether in the fullness of time I might aspire to be more than a friend to you, and you will make me the happiest of men.

The speech wasn’t complicated, but it did involve falsehoods. A gentleman was kind, but he was also honest, and those falsehoods… Grey did not esteem this woman, he wasn’t even her friend, and marriage would make them both miserable.

“Do you prefer boys?” Miss Quinlan asked. “I’m not supposed to know about that, but at school we had nothing to do but talk—mostly in French, so the younger girls wouldn’t understand—and Carlotta Dormioni had an uncle who consorted with a cata… cata… I forget the word. It’s scandalous.”

This conversation was going from bad to worse. “Miss Quinlan, might we admire the artwork? I’ve always thought Wilson an underappreciated talent.”

“Your job is to admire me, my lord. Now make your declaration, and then you may kiss me.” She touched her cheek with a gloved finger. “Right here. I won’t mind.”

Tap-tap-tap against her pale cheek, like the hand gestures Tresham used to communicate with his dogs.

Grey stared at the spot on her cheek and thought of his daughter, who needed a larger dowry than she had. He thought of Dorning Hall, slowly crumbling beneath a leaking roof. He thought of Oak, who by rights should have been painting up a storm in Paris. Valerian had the soul of a Town dandy. Thorne deserved his own estate.

Ash… Ash would need the Hall as his refuge, and Miss Quinlan would regard him as pathetic. Grey thought his brother heroic, for who could battle melancholia year after year and never once complain?

Grey bent near to her and closed his eyes, for he had no wish to view the treasures Miss Quinlan was determined to display. Her scent was as overdone as the gilt in her mama’s formal parlor—a cloying freesia fragrance that nonetheless held a hint of sour wine. She exuded not eagerness, but impatience, which was likely a harbinger of the emotional signature the entire marriage would take on.

You cannot make another person happy.

Beatitude had never asked him for happiness. She’d asked him for himself, the true man, the fellow who was happy to shear sheep and fork hay, the man who worried for his daughter and his family.

A gentleman was kind and honest.

“Miss Quinlan, I regret that I must inform you that we would not suit.” The admission was reckless—a challenge tossed at life that could end very, very badly—also freeing. She deserved better, but so did Grey.

He deserved a woman who respected and desired him, a woman who would support his aims and talk sense to him when sense was needed. Such a woman existed. She’d been in his arms and had taken up residence in his heart.

He might never have a future with Addy, but he deserved better than a spoiled heiress.

Grey straightened, even as a thousand recriminations urged him to take back his words. A thousand and one memories of Beatitude kept the retraction behind his teeth.

“I’ve worn blue for you,” Miss Quinlan retorted. “We will suit quite well, and we will have an understanding that begins this evening, Lord Casriel. You need my money, and I want your title.”

“But we do not want each other,” Grey said, gently, because the young lady was clearly at sea. “A gentleman is considerate of others and truthful. I cannot allow you to marry into a circumstance that will result in misery for us both.”

“Your allowing doesn’t come into it,” she snapped. “If I can’t marry an earl, what am I to do? That leaves only barons and viscounts, and they are not to be borne. My daughters must be ladies. My son must have a courtesy title.”

Her voice rose, suggesting Grey was about to be treated to a display of hysterics. He welcomed them, because the longer she ranted, the more resolved he became.

“I told you not to expect any children from me, Miss Quinlan. With you, that sort of marriage would not have been possible. I suggest you return to your guests, and I will wish you every happiness.”

“Damn you, I wore blue. I am prepared to allow you liberties. I let you have a dance. I let you maunder on about paintings, and—”

“Sarah.” A masculine voice sounded from the balcony over the fireplace. “You will excuse his lordship and me.” Charles Quinlan stood at the railing, his expression pleasant. He descended the spiral steps at a leisurely pace.

“I will be a countess, Papa,” Sarah said. “I don’t care what you have to do to make Casriel see reason. He and I would suit. I’ll make sure of it.”

She jerked the locket from around her neck and threw it to the floor, which display her papa allowed without a word of rebuke. She flounced out of the library, slamming the door in her wake.

“My lord, I understand your reluctance,” Quinlan said. “Shall I pour you a brandy? You’ll probably need it.”

“Thank you, no,” Grey said. “I will take my leave of you, with apologies for that regrettable scene.” He would pack for Dorset and be gone by sunup if he had to walk the entire distance. First, he’d pay a call on Beatitude and apologize to her for ever thinking that he could love one woman while embarking on a courtship of another.

What an ass, what a complete, muttonheaded—

Quinlan held up a serving of brandy. “Sarah has made her choice. My lot is to see that she gets what she wants.”

Grey didn’t touch the brandy. “A husband is a who, not a what, and I will not be that man. I’ll bid you good night.”

“You will sit,” Quinlan said mildly. “And you will marry my daughter.”

Never.

And yet, Grey did not spin on his heel and bolt from the room either. Quinlan had the physique of an ironmonger, despite his fine tailoring. His shoulders and chest were burly, and he had height as well. He was built to wrestle heavy loads in stifling heat, and his demeanor said he was utterly confident that he could manage one polite earl.

“I cannot marry your daughter,” Grey said. “I would make her a terrible husband. She would make me an awful wife, meaning no disrespect. All the snug roofs and fat dowries in the world cannot compensate a couple for knowingly making a bad match.”

“Sarah wants a title, and a title she will have.” Quinlan took a sip of the brandy he’d poured for Grey. “I cannot ruin you—you’re a peer and a decent sort. Your kind take more ruining than my kind can accomplish. You don’t gamble, you don’t drink to excess, you have no family members courting disaster at present, though Mr. Sycamore Dorning bears watching. You do, however, care for a certain widow.”

Another slow sip of brandy followed that observation.

“Lady Canmore and I are friends. Why should that interest you?”

“I can ruin her,” Quinlan said. “Polite society is vicious toward its womenfolk. In the villages and towns where I come from, we don’t expect women to be kept like so many porcelain shepherdesses in a glass case. They work alongside their menfolk. They toil in their way as much as any man, half the time with a babe at the breast, another clinging to their skirts. We don’t cast them out for being human. You lot…” Quinlan finished his brandy and set the glass on the sideboard.

“Sarah wants to be the porcelain lady,” he went on, “so I’ll buy her an earl. If I have to ruin a countess to make him come willingly to Sarah’s side, I’ll ruin a countess. I look after my own, Casriel.”

“You condemn your daughter to a fate you abhor,” Grey said, stalking across the library. “You think she’s lonely here, surrounded by other young women, some of whom she met at school. In Dorset, she’ll know not a soul. They will criticize her finishing-school accent, her affected French, and her too-fancy gowns. She cannot shoot, cannot manage a country dance. She likely tires in the saddle in the first five miles of a morning hack. The smell of raw wool will make her bilious, while to me and mine, that is the scent of success. You cannot do this to your own daughter and claim it’s for her benefit.”

And yet, what had Grey been doing with his brothers? Keeping them half imprisoned at Dorning Hall in the name of protecting them from… what? Failure? Every man fell on his arse at some point, and a brother’s job was to commiserate, not to make sure the ground was strewn with satin pillows.

“She’ll adjust,” Quinlan said. “I’ll hold you responsible for seeing to it that she adjusts happily.”

Grey swiped the discarded locket from the carpet. “You haven’t been able to make her happy in eighteen years of trying. What makes you think I’ll have any greater success?”

“She wants a title,” Quinlan bit out. “You can give her that, and no, she probably won’t be happy, but her daughters will be ladies, and perhaps they can be happy. You will offer for Sarah, my lord, or I will make you regret the decision not to.”

Quinlan’s reasoning was flawed. Grey could grasp that much, but working out the fallacy would have to wait for another day. Something about unhappy parents seldom raising happy children.

I will regret ever allowing Beatitude to send me on my way.

“I shall not, ever, offer for Miss Quinlan.” A gentleman did not engage in falsehoods, but for the love of his life, he could bluff. “And if you think to threaten me into revising that decision, be assured that I can, thoroughly, politely, and with every evidence of good manners, ruin your daughter if her headstrong foolishness doesn’t accomplish that aim before this evening is concluded.”

Grey would never ruin another person on purpose—Beatitude would be ashamed of him, and he’d be ashamed of himself for abusing his station like that—but Sarah and her father had to be dissuaded from pursuing a disastrous course. Quinlan thought he was being a conscientious papa, but he was consigning his beloved offspring to a wasted life.

The locket in Grey’s hand was open, the clasp having come undone. Inside, two plain gold surfaces lay facing each other like the interior of a clamshell. No miniature portraits beaming at each other, no pleasant pastoral scene, no wise saying embellished with tiny flowers.

“Think carefully before you make your choice,” Grey said, tossing the locket at Quinlan’s chest. “A gentleman does not make idle threats, nor does he tolerate them from others.”

He left the library at a dignified stroll, finally free of the urge to kick something. Instead, he wanted to leap for joy, find Beatitude, and hug her until harvesttime. The Dornings might be headed for ruin, but that ruin would be honorable.

First, however, he had siblings to sort out and an estate to rescue.

Even an earl could not court the love of his life without having something to offer her besides a leaking roof and a lot of smelly, bleating sheep.

“He was at the Quinlans’ soiree last night,” Theodosia said. “Lord Casriel, I mean. Your earl.”

Addy had received her friend in the garden, and they sat in the sun along the lavender border. Since Grey’s final parting, Addy had avoided the shady bench beneath the maple.

“He is not my earl. If he went to the Quinlans’ soiree, he will never be my earl.” No peace followed that admission, no sense of wishing a friend well, despite all.

“So you are dodging off to Bath,” Theo replied, plucking a sprig of lavender. The tiny purple flowers would not appear until summer had fully arrived, but even the foliage gave off a pungent fragrance. “You will embark upon the path your aunt trod, half out of step with polite society, never complaining, always gracious.”

What mood was this? “You trod that path with me for years, Theo, and we don’t embark upon it. Society grabs us by our widow’s weeds and shoves us onto it.”

Theo twirled her lavender sprig. “How will you settle Aunt Freddy’s affairs if you nip off to Bath? Jonathan says estates can be complicated, even simple estates, and he’s ready to assist in any manner.”

In the corner of Addy’s mind not overcome with grief, she knew what Theo hoped to accomplish. She was trying to keep Addy in Town, trying to keep hope alive. Losing Aunt Freddy had been inevitable and sad.

Losing Grey… I never really had him. I was not enough for him.

“Aunt had money in the funds, and she had her house, nothing more. Mr. Ickles has assured me the house is mine to sell, rent out, or maintain for my own use, and he’ll manage whatever disposition she made for her funds. I’ll likely sell her house and this property as well.” And never come back.

“A London town house in a fine neighborhood would make a nice little dowry, Addy. If Casriel is short of funds, that might be a consideration.”

Oh, Theo. She’d been married to a mere mister, albeit one in expectation of a title. Her marriage to Tresham was recent and hadn’t even involved a visit to the Quimbey family seat yet.

“My husband was an earl, Theo. I know what thousands of acres, multiple houses, tenant farms, an ancestral pile, and pensioned retainers do to a family’s means. One modest house in a decent neighborhood won’t make much difference. I’ll likely sell both of my London properties and travel for a time.”

“Why are you doing this?” Theo asked, tossing the lavender into the bed from which she’d plucked it. “Why are you turning tail and giving up? Casriel is a decent fellow. He’s done what nobody else could do and tempted you away from worshipping at Roger’s grave. Now, you all but shove Casriel into the arms of a hopeless gudgeon when you know she’ll make him no sort of countess.”

Theo meant well. She always meant well.

“You set Tresham aside when your differences seemed insurmountable, Theo. And I do not worship at Roger’s grave. I thought my marriage to him ruined me for all other entanglements, but Casriel…”

“You and Roger were a love match.” Theo patted Addy’s arm. “Of course you feel disloyal to his memory when Casriel attaches your affections, but Roger would be the last person to begrudge you a chance at a future with Casriel.”

Roger again. Roger, always Roger. “Theo, by the time my husband died, I nearly hated him. We argued constantly, then we barely spoke. When he passed away…”

I was relieved. Not the sad relief Aunt Freddy’s death engendered, not an acceptance that a loved one was at peace. The relief of a soldier at the end of a long, hard march.

“Every marriage hits rough patches,” Theo said. “You would have come through it, I’m sure. You loved your husband, that was plain to anybody.”

But he did not love me. The words emerged from Addy’s mind with the clarity of a tolling bell. Maybe at the beginning of the marriage, Roger had regarded her affectionately, but by the end… He’d been willing to sacrifice her happiness, her very place in the world, for his own ends. Casriel was willing to sacrifice his happiness for the sake of others.

The contrast was stark and freed Addy of the last, lingering need to dissemble where Roger was concerned.

“I tried to love my husband,” Addy said. “I was not equal to the challenge.” And now she’d all but heaved Grey Dorning into an equally hopeless match.

He was not married yet, though. Not quite.

“Perhaps Roger was incapable of fidelity,” Theo said, “but he was loyal to you, Beatitude. He maintained his households with you, stood up with you for the occasional dance, flirted with you in public. Many husbands can’t be bothered with that much.”

Addy sat very still, because this conversation was shifting the foundations of mental edifices she’d been building for years. She felt as if, should she move, some arrow of insight would land two inches off the mark, and she was long overdue for insights.

“If your dear Mr. Tresham limited his dealings with you to an occasional dance, some public flirtation, and sleeping under the same roof most nights—punctuated with hasty couplings any time and place he chose—would you consider that loyalty?”

Theo’s brows drew down. “I’d consider that… I’m sorry. If it was like that, I’m sorry.”

Addy was sorry too. Sorry she’d ever married Roger, sorry she’d sent Grey away. Regrets solved nothing, though, and time was of the essence.

“I have a call to pay,” Addy said, rising. “I can walk you home.”

“The hour is early for paying calls. I didn’t want unkind talk to bring you word that Casriel was at the Quinlans’ last night.”

“I can hear about it from the earl himself,” Addy said. “You didn’t see an announcement of any engagement in the morning papers?”

“I doubt matters have progressed that far, but there’s something else you should know.”

Addy was in a tearing hurry to see Grey Dorning, to let him know that a lady had changed her mind, and a gentleman was not to argue with her. They’d muddle through the financial mess, put Aunt’s little bequest to work, economize, spend a few years living cheaply in Paris…

“What else do I need to know?”

“Casriel was alone with Miss Quinlan in the library behind a closed door, and the young lady rejoined her guests at the end of the interview smiling like a cat who’d puzzled out how to open the birdcage. Her father and Casriel apparently had some discussion thereafter, though nobody knows whether any agreements were reached.”

“Then there’s still time,” Addy said, striding for the back door. “I still have a little time, and I must call upon Grey this instant. May I borrow your traveling coach if the need arises?”

Theo stopped her at the door to the house and wrapped her in a tight hug. “Of course you may. You absolutely may take every vehicle in my carriage house.”

When Addy arrived to Casriel’s town house, she was received by Mr. Sycamore Dorning, who ushered her into the same cozy parlor where she’d called upon Grey weeks ago.

“He’s not here,” Mr. Dorning said. “I can ring for tea, I can offer you biscuits, and discuss the weather if you insist, but Casriel left at first light.”

“Left?” Now? Where would he go and why? “He left Town?”

“He was in a tearing hurry to get back to Dorning Hall.” Mr. Dorning studied the parlor’s molding, which could do with a good dusting. “You know he attended the Quinlan soiree last evening?”

Such kind eyes he had, much like Grey’s, and how that gaze hurt Addy’s heart. “I’d heard as much. And now his lordship has quit Town?”

Mr. Dorning looked as if he longed to offer confidences but he refused to betray his brother. “I doubt Casriel will return here in the immediate future, my lady. Mind you, he didn’t confide the whole of his plans to me, but I gather his reasons for tarrying in London no longer apply.”

Grey was engaged then, or as good as. Hope died, for no gentleman would ever, ever cry off once his suit was tendered.

“I am too late,” Addy said, rising. “Thank you for receiving me.” The heartache was spreading through her again, more painful and heavier than before. Grey was lost to her, truly and forever.

“Shall I escort you home, my lady?”

The youngest Dorning brother had learned from Grey’s gentlemanly example after all. “No thank you. I came by carriage, and can see myself home.”

Addy didn’t even cry after Thiel had handed her up into her town coach. There was nothing left to do, but return home and resume packing.

“He’s come home,” Oak said, pushing aside the curtains in the study. “That’s Casriel galloping up the drive, or Sycamore has stolen his lordship’s horse this time instead of his coach.”

Sycamore had descended from London like the wrath of Boudicca and put the fear of a certain prospective countess in his brothers. The sum Ash had produced from the Pletchers wasn’t likely to have warded off disaster, but perhaps it had given Casriel some time to develop alternatives.

Ash had racked his brain for what more they could do, but every scheme and plan required Grey’s imprimatur, and he was off waltzing to his doom in London.

“That is Grey,” Valerian said, joining Oak at the window. “Sycamore hasn’t as good a seat. I do hope our brother has not been sent packing by the fair heiress.”

“I hope he has,” Ash retorted. “Cam described her as a horror of the first water.”

“Casriel would not comport himself in any manner a lady could object to,” Thorne said. “Not on purpose.”

Perhaps Grey hadn’t had a choice. Ash kept those words to himself, because he well knew the guilt that came with disappointing a woman who’d done nothing to deserve it. Lady Della Haddonfield had written to him—not quite a breach of propriety, given the family connection—and hoped he was well.

He was not well, though his affliction was of the mind rather than the body. Perhaps he should simply tell her that.

“Casriel’s been riding hard,” Oak said as the horseman cantered into the circular driveway. “Dusty from head to foot, the horse lathered. I suspect he has an announcement, and the Hall is about to get a thorough cleaning in anticipation of the nuptials.”

“We can’t clean away a leaking roof,” Thorne muttered.

A groom scampered out of the stables and took Casriel’s horse, which would require walking for some time. The day was warm and sunny, and the plume of dust Casriel’s arrival had raised on the drive drifted in a mild breeze.

Dorning Hall was so pretty, and yet, it was also beginning to feel like a prison. Did the other brothers feel the same way? Would they admit as much even to themselves?

“Let’s greet the prodigal,” Thorne said. “He doubtless has news for us.”

Did he have news of Lady Della? Another letter, perhaps? Ash followed his brothers down the main staircase and out onto the drive. Grey sat on the mounting block removing his spurs, for a gentleman did not wear spurs indoors.

“Welcome home,” Thorne said, whacking Grey on the back. “We left the Hall standing despite all temptation to the contrary. The corn’s doing well after all that rain, but the hay came in on the stemmy side.”

“Have you news?” Oak asked, taking the dusty hat Grey passed to him. “Sycamore dispensed all manner of doom and gossip, then tore back to London without so much as a by your leave.”

Grey rose, for once looking less than dapper and well turned out. His face below where his hat had been bore a fine coating of dust, as did the creases of his riding jacket. His boots were a disgrace—even for him—and his linen was positively wrinkled.

“I have news,” he said. “Give me five minutes with a basin and a towel, and let’s meet in the study. I’m exhausted, famished, and filthy, but it’s wonderful to be home with my family.”

He passed Ash his spurs and strode into the house, bellowing for Rawley to send enough sandwiches for an army up to the estate office, then draw a bath, and for pity’s sake lay out clean clothes before a man expired from his own stink.

“He’s back,” Valerian said, staring at the front door. “He’s back for two minutes, looking like he’s been dragged through a hedge in a high wind, and already, the Hall feels more lively. How does he do that?”

“He loves this place,” Ash said. “He loves us. He meant what he said. For him, it’s wonderful to be here.”

Thorne started up the steps. “Let’s hope his countess feels the same way, for increasingly, I do not.”