Grey would rest later, but for now, he needed to begin as he intended to go on. Addy sat in London in her house of mourning, which at least would keep gossip from reaching her ears.

Perhaps.

Even those who mourned attended services, and churchyards were nothing if not filled with talk. Grey had tucked a note for her among his outgoing correspondence—ostensibly a condolence, which anybody was allowed to send to the newly aggrieved—but he hadn’t had time to say much.

Off to Dorset. Back soon. Will call when I return. Ever your servant, Casriel.

He’d had more than a hundred miles to berate himself for such a pathetic epistle, but had he started on anything more substantive, he’d still be in London crossing out I love you and blotting over please forgive me.

A leaking roof waited for no earl.

He took time to change his shirt and wash off. His clean clothes smelled fresher at the Hall, because the laundresses laid his shirts on the lavender borders to dry. The cedar-paneled wardrobe was scented with sachets from their own meadow gardens, and the air was free of London’s coal smoke.

“What the hell was I about?” he asked his reflection in the mirror over the washstand. “London would destroy any man’s spirits.” Though, he’d met Addy there, a point forever in London’s favor.

He shrugged into a waistcoat and clean jacket, pulled on an older pair of boots, and joined his brothers in the estate office. An enormous plate of sandwiches sat on the desk, along with a tray bearing a pitcher of cider and five tankards.

“Am I the king,” Grey asked, taking the chair behind the desk, “that nobody can eat until I’ve been seated at the high table?”

Thorne grabbed a sandwich, Oak and Valerian followed. Ash hung back, which was worrisome. He tended to lose his appetite when the dark mood was upon him, though his clothing was tidy and he looked rested.

“What’s the news?” Oak asked, pouring a round of cider. “Are we to have a countess?”

“I don’t know about a countess, but I do know you all need to be about gainful employment.”

Uneasy glances flew about the room.

“We stay busy,” Valerian said, taking a seat on the sofa. “I have my book, Oak paints and sketches, Thorne has been overseeing the stewards. Ash…”

Ash had taken action, prying a small fortune loose from the Pletchers.

“I have a proposition for you,” Grey said. “First, take these.” The bank drafts were much creased, but the signatures were still legible. “Sycamore repaid the loans I’ve made him in recent years. The Coventry is solvent, for now, and he wanted to clear his debts. I’m dividing the sum among you lot, and you are to regard it as the last largesse the earldom can spare you.”

More uneasy glances.

“I thought…” Oak took a reading chair and regarded the bank draft as if he couldn’t place the artist. “Did you or did you not go up to Town to marry a fortune?”

“I found riches beyond imagining, but no fortune. I have a proposal for you gentlemen, which you may accept or reject, but either way, you will quit the Hall by Michaelmas and find other lodgings.”

That left the brothers more than four months to find their feet. By then, Grey would either have the countess of his dreams or a broken heart.

“You’re kicking us out?” Thorne asked, pocketing his bank draft and reaching for another sandwich.

“I am helping you to get your start in the world,” Grey said. “If you want a recommendation as a steward, I will write you the most convincing character a man has ever penned. Oak can use his funds to set up a studio in Paris, or submit his work to the Royal Academy. Valerian can finish his book, and Ash…”

Ash was studying the worn carpet.

“I’ll leave,” he said. “Oak has spoken endlessly of Paris’s charms and its affordability. I’ll be gone.”

“You are the linchpin in our new venture,” Grey said. “If you want to manage the business from Paris, that is entirely up to you, or you can leave the lot of us to muddle on as best we can, assuming you all approve of my plans. I’d take it as a kindness if you’d personally keep an eye on Sycamore, though. His head is above water at The Coventry, but with Sycamore, the calm never lasts.”

Ash’s melancholias were temporary as well. They doubtless felt eternal to him, though. Grey worried most about Ash, when he wasn’t worrying most about Sycamore, or Thorne, or Valerian, or Oak.

And yet, none of those worries came close to his concern regarding Addy. Had she received his note? Would she be angry with him? Would Tresham do as he’d promised and help settle Mrs. Beauchamp’s affairs?

“You mentioned a proposal,” Thorne said around a mouthful of sandwich.

“That involves all of us,” Oak added. “I am only good for painting and sketching and staring at blank pages.”

“I know the horticulture and livestock,” Thorne said.

“I’m handsome and charming,” Valerian added. “Not much of a skill, but there you have it.”

“And Ash,” Grey said, “is handsome and charming, he is thoroughly acquainted with Dorning Hall and its holdings, his aesthetic sense is that of a gentleman, and he’s good with numbers.”

Ash stared at his cider. “Not much to boast of. Money comes in, money goes out. Fairly straightforward. Sycamore has more of a head for figures than I do.”

“Sycamore has a head for figures,” Grey retorted, “but I suspect you have the better head for business. You can think on a topic for days as Oak considers a composition. You can turn an idea over in your mind until it lies in pieces at your mental feet.”

Ash brooded too, but he had powers of concentration to equal the rest of the family’s combined.

“So what is the great scheme you’re hatching?” Thorne asked, “and will it make money?”

“That aspect of the undertaking will depend on you,” Grey said. “All I know is London reeks. It stinks, it smells, it leaves a strong man gagging when a certain wind blows from the river in summertime. A gentleman is always clean about his person, but in London, that challenge is nearly impossible.”

Ash looked up from his cider. “We’re going into trade? A gentleman does not get his hands dirty. We’re gentlemen.”

“Harvesting the bounty of the land has always been a gentlemanly pursuit,” Grey said, “and I frankly do not care where polite society wants to draw lines after that. We have the most fragrant meadows in England. London has the worst stench this side of the Pit. We have enough mature medicinals to stock every apothecary in the realm, and London is the capital of illness and misery as well as the seat of government. We owe it to England to address those problems as best we can.”

Ash plucked a sandwich from the plate. “It is a fact that the stench of London has to be smelled to be believed.”

“Paris isn’t exactly fragrant,” Oak said. “We have acres of herbs and flowers, though. Casriel is right about that.”

“Don’t say that.” Valerian brushed crumbs from his cravat. “Don’t say Casriel is right about something. He’ll get a swelled head.”

“All I ask you to do is think about it.” Grey snatched a pair of sandwiches and left his brothers bickering, which they could do without any help from him. In fact, they would have to learn to bicker without him, because he had an earldom to see to, and—God and Lady Canmore willing—a countess to cosset.

Thorne trailed him into the corridor.

“What about the great heiress hunt?” Thorne asked. “We still have no dower house, the vicar is clamoring for a new roof, and the Hall needs work. We can set up a scent, sachet, and soap business, but that will take time.”

“We can have products on the London shelves well before Yuletide,” Grey said. “The salvage from the dower house can be used to construct the workshop, and the women from the village will likely be happy to earn some coin there.”

“Women?”

“They work hard, they have delicate noses, and they are less likely to squander coin on drink and gaming. Why not women?”

Thorne took a sip of his cider. “I like women well enough. What other ideas has this trip to London germinated in your fertile brain?”

“I have many ideas. What bricks and beams we don’t use to construct a workshop should be sold for coin. Our dear neighbor Mr. Bulwaring, who has enough blunt to build a conservatory with Papa’s Italian glass, can also take on a portion of the burden of repairing the church roof. With my brothers housed elsewhere—Complaisance Cottage sits empty, for example—I can demolish the family wing, which has never been quite sound. I’ll sell the salvage to any local builder and be able to undercut London prices substantially.”

Thorne studied him, and Grey had the sense his brother was seeing him anew, as Grey had been seeing anew since leaving London.

“Wouldn’t it be easier simply to marry money?” Thorne asked. “It’s done all the time and allows families with means to become families with titles.”

“Then you do it,” Grey said. “You talk yourself into plighting your troth for coin, to the point that your mind ceases to see every other opportunity for you or your family. You accept the rote answer to maintaining aristocratic standards, though it means your soul is forever tarnished and cheapened. When I finally set aside the notion of an advantageous match, only then did I see the wealth we have, Hawthorne.”

“Sycamore was right, then.”

Grey needed to soak in a hot bath, he needed to write a true letter to Addy—a love letter—and he needed to catch up on all the business of the estate.

“Sycamore is frequently right. We simply ignore him much of the time. In what particular way was he correct?”

“The young lady whom you had chosen to court must have been a true nightmare.”

That wasn’t fair. Sarah Quinlan was likely exactly the daughter she’d been raised to be, which wasn’t her fault. Grey was also the son he’d been raised to be, or he had been for too long.

“It’s more accurate to say that the lady whom I have chosen to court is the woman of my dreams. I and Dorning Hall must be worthy of her esteem, or I have no business asking for her hand.”

Thorne shoved Grey’s shoulder and offered a rare smile. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

“She hasn’t said yes. In fact, I haven’t even asked permission to pay my addresses.”

Though he soon would, provided Addy was willing to receive him.

Day by day, Jason and Clarinda were less careful around Addy. The children, bless them, had accepted her as Aunt Addy from the moment she’d stepped down from Tresham’s traveling coach. She was required to read fairy tales by the hour, play catch and blind man’s bluff, roll down a hill with her skirts twisting about her legs, and generally impersonate a hoyden.

The family also left her alone to wander Canmore Court’s grounds, or to retreat with a book to some secluded stream bank, where she took off her boots and trailed her toes in cool water.

Grey had been right. The company of the children was a much-needed tonic. The fresh air helped, and mad gallops still had the power to raise her spirits.

As Tresham’s traveling coach had swayed through London’s crowded streets, Addy had considered chasing Grey to Dorset. That, alas, would have provoked scandal. While a gentleman could not cry off, a lady could. If Miss Quinlan backed out of the engagement, Grey would be disgraced and impoverished.

He deserved better, and if his heiress did not exert herself in every regard to make him happy…

Addy would do nothing, for Grey would not want her to meddle.

She turned a page of Theo’s book about women’s health, though the point of escaping to the porch of the estate’s fishing cottage was not necessarily to read. The point of all Addy’s idle time at Canmore Court had been to miss Grey, to concoct letters to him that would never be sent, and to be furious with Roger.

The missing Grey felt awful. The anger felt… right.

“I was told I’d find you here, though the current Countess of Canmore nearly inspected my back teeth before she parted with that information.”

Grey Dorning stood on the steps of the porch, his hat in his hand.

Addy set aside her book, slowly, lest she blink and he disappear. “My lord, good day.”

“May I have a seat?”

Always polite, always dear. “Not if you are an engaged man. If you have plighted your troth, you will do me the kindness of leaving and staying gone.”

Where had she found the strength to say those words?

“As it happens,”—he came up the steps—“I am not yet engaged.” The swing creaked as Grey took the place to Addy’s right. “How are you?”

Not yet engaged? Hope and despair battled in Addy’s heart. “You aren’t wearing a blue waistcoat. You always wear a blue waistcoat, but that one matches your eyes.”

Almost blue, nearly blue, but veering toward lavender or periwinkle, and beautiful. The change was subtle, though it complemented his coloring marvelously.

“I used to wear blue because my father wore blue, and nobody dislikes it. Sarah Quinlan has taken me very much into dislike.” He set the swing to gently rocking.

Addy closed her book around a scrap of silk. “I will not believe you offended her on purpose.” But he had offended the most eligible heiress in London. Why, and was the insult permanent?

“She ordered me to kiss her cheek. I could not oblige. Not very gentlemanly of me.”

His smile wasn’t gentlemanly either. It was mischievous, pleased, a touch arrogant. He looked like Sycamore when he smiled like that.

“Grey, please be honest with me. What have you done?”

“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? A gentleman is honest. I honestly could not commit my future to a woman who sees me as only a title. I could not vow to love and honor her, to be a true husband to her. Miss Quinlan was not appreciative of those admissions when I conveyed them to her, but in time, she might be.”

Addy set her book aside. “I am appreciative of them.”

Grey rested an arm along the back of the swing. “Her papa was a bit put out.”

“An enraged father is nobody to trifle with.”

“An enraged earl is even more formidable. Quinlan threatened to tarnish your reputation if I failed to marry his daughter. He did me the very great service of reminding me that wealth isn’t the only resource that matters, and that we sometimes go astray when attempting to do our best for our loved ones. Will you marry me, Beatitude?”

The words ambushed Addy’s thinking mind. “I beg your pardon?”

“That came out wrong, or too soon. I was an idiot to embark on a liaison with you that was anything less than honorable, but I cannot regret being that idiot. I love you, I will never love another, and if that makes me an idiot in love, so be it. Money can be earned and made and inherited, but you… You are all the treasure I will ever need.”

She scooted closer and rested her head on his shoulder. His arm came around her, and the moment was perfect.

“I am an idiot in love too, Grey Dorning. I went to your town house to tell you so, but you had left for Dorset. I assumed your course was set, and was prepared to hear an announcement.”

“So you will marry me? Be my countess? Holler at me when I track mud into the Hall? Bring me a nooning when I’m in the shearing shed impersonating a farmer?”

How prosaic his version of wedded life was, and how precious. “Of course, and you will read to our children, flirt with me before our neighbors, and host noisy holiday gatherings for your whole family.”

His embrace became more snug. “We don’t need heirs, my love, and to be truthful, I’d rather you never faced the risk and ordeal of childbed.”

Addy closed her eyes, the better to revel in Grey’s warmth and scent. “I’ve learned something.”

“Tell me.”

“Roger’s physicians were absolutely, unequivocally wrong in the advice they gave me. I’ve been reading a book Theo lent me, and the midwife is very clear about when conception is most likely and that English physicians have it all backward.”

“Truly? Backward?”

“Any farmer could probably have puzzled that out, but who was I to contradict Roger’s learned physicians? We might well have children, Grey.”

“Then we have children, and because they are our children, we will love them endlessly.”

She had to kiss him for that, which somehow led to straddling his lap and kissing him some more.

When she had kissed him almost enough—for now—Addy looped her arms around Grey’s neck and pillowed her cheek on his shoulder.

“Roger was threatening to set me aside because I was barren.” She hadn’t meant to say words, or hadn’t meant to say them at that precise moment. Even here, amid the bucolic splendor of Canmore Court, even in Grey’s arms, the betrayal was infuriating.

What peer would so disgrace his own wife?

Grey gathered her close. “And then he died, and you were expected to mourn a man who sought to cast you off. How did you ever…? I know how. You are a lady, and you allowed his memory to rest in peace.”

“He offered me a quiet dissolution of the marriage, an annulment if the bishops were amenable. The notion was raised as a jest at first, but with increasing frequency. I don’t know if he would have followed through, but I do know that being set aside was increasingly appealing. Jason was privy to most of this—men gossip, and the brothers had a few mutual acquaintances—but Jason hasn’t known quite what to say.”

“He should say, ‘Roger was a wretched scoundrel who didn’t deserve you.’”

“Roger was an earl, well liked, wealthy, charming… but he was no gentleman. I lacked the sophistication to see that. I spent my first three days here marching around by his grave, shouting at him, and airing vocabulary no vicar’s daughter should know.”

Grey stroked her hair. “Good. I hope wherever he is, he heard your tirades and was shamed by them. He did not deserve you. I hope I do deserve you—you must be the judge—and I promise, should you look with favor upon my suit, I will bend all of my being to maintaining your regard for me.”

“I love it when you turn up all speech-y and earl-ish.”

He framed her face with his hands. “I am an earl, I can’t help that, but these speeches come from a man who’s in love with you. Will you marry me, Beatitude? I’ve given my brothers a deadline for leaving the nest—should have done that years ago—and set them on a commercial venture that has a good chance of success. I’m planning on reducing the size of the Hall, both to sell the salvage and because we’ll need a smaller staff that way. I’ll pass responsibility for the local living on to a wealthy neighbor, and thanks be to Providence, I’ve made a start on Tabby’s dowry. I wrote to you about that.”

“I did not receive your letter. I left Town shortly after you did, which suggests you did not get my letter either. Aunt left her funds to your Tabitha and her harps to you. The sum is quite respectable, to my surprise, and Aunt’s man of business said the harps are worth a fair bit as well.”

Grey kissed her, and amid all of this discussion, Addy was aware of rising desire on his part—also on hers.

“Tabby inherited from Mrs. Beauchamp?”

Addy whispered an amount into his ear, because whispering in his ear was lovely.

“Ye gods, my daughter will soon be an heiress.”

“And she will have a double countess for a step-mama,” Addy said, nipping at Grey’s earlobe. “There’s a lovely little bedchamber inside this fishing cottage, my lord. Might we celebrate our engagement privately?”

Grey rose with Addy in his arms. “You will soon be a double countess. I am a peer of the realm, and you suggest we tryst in a lowly fishing cottage. Madam, have you no thought for the consequence of our station?” His smile would have outshone the Dorset summer sun.

“I love you. That’s all I can think about, Grey Dorning.”

“I love you too, and thank the heavenly powers that a gentleman never, ever argues with a lady.”

He dipped his knees so Addy could manage the door latch, and for the next two hours, nobody in the fishing cottage argued with anybody about anything, at all.

Nine months to the day after the happy couple’s nuptials, Lady Fredericka Gardenia Dorning made her appearance in the Dorning Hall nursery. She argued with everybody about everything, but then, a lady with three younger brothers and six protective uncles was entitled to be a bit contrary.