When in London, Grey attended Sunday services at St. George’s, which activity consisted of a lot of socializing with a few hymns and a sermon thrown in. Sycamore had remained abed, which in theory could see him fined, but in practice would ensure a better mood later in the day.

Grey walked to and from services, not only to spare the staff having to hitch up a vehicle and loiter away the morning with the horses, but also to afford him an excuse to walk. He missed tramping his fields in Dorset, missed spending most of the day in the fresh air—not that London had any truly fresh air.

He missed stacking hay, damn it.

He missed his siblings too. The Dorning brothers improved the choral offerings of any congregation and enlivened all the conversations in the church yard thereafter. They also kept Grey company on the hike back to Dorning Hall, everybody in good spirits for having taken a little care with his appearance and enjoyed some time with the neighbors—and their daughters.

Grey left the church not in bad spirits, though the sermon on the subject of self-restraint had annoyed him. Why couldn’t the preacher have held forth about joy? About the wonders of creation in spring? About the commandment to love one another?

“Your lordship, good morning.” Lady Antonia Mainwaring offered him a businesslike curtsey from the walkway. Her Sunday bonnet was no fancier than anything else he’d seen her wear, her smile no more welcoming.

“My lady. A pleasure. I hope you enjoyed the sermon?”

“Frankly, no. We get that harangue every year as the Season reaches its peak. Somebody’s darling boy has gambled too much, somebody’s wife has run off with a footman. Then comes the sermon about self-restraint. Why does Vicar never preach on the Song of Solomon? It is unique among all Scriptures, a fascinating piece of literature, and yet, we ignore it.”

“Excellent point.” Also, perhaps, Lady Antonia’s version of casting a lure, given the focus of those passages. “Might we discuss other sermon topics while I walk you home?”

In the country, if an unmarried man and woman began walking home from church together, crying of the banns might well follow. In Mayfair, this courtesy was less portentous, though still doubtless noted.

“Perhaps that’s for the best.” Lady Antonia cast a glance up the walkway, where a maid was in conversation with a footman. “Halpern, McDaniel, his lordship will see me home.”

The maid curtseyed. The footman grinned and tipped his hat at her ladyship.

Grey offered his arm and felt like an impostor. He was executing a step in a dance, just as standing up with her ladyship for the supper waltz was a figure in that same dance. The pattern ended at the altar, exactly where he needed it to end.

But did he want it to end there with this woman? Had Addy avoided services because of him?

“I’ve often wondered,” her ladyship said as they walked in the direction of Grosvenor Street, “how services would be different if women managed them. Would the sermons be about heeding the call of adventure rather than self-restraint?”

Her ladyship’s stride would get her across any pasture in good time. “I’m not sure I take your meaning.”

“Who needs to be reminded to restrain himself? Ladies are taught restraint from when we’re in leading strings. We restrain our laughter, our voices, our opinions, our appetites. If lectures regarding restraint have any effect on us, that effect has been gained before we take our first communion.”

“Gentlemen are taught restraint as well,” Grey said, “though in my case, the lesson was a little late to take hold.” She might as well know this now.

Lady Antonia sent him a look from beneath her bonnet brim. “One wonders if you had a misspent youth. Some of the most sober-appearing gentlemen did.”

“And if I made a few errors in my younger years?”

Her pace increased. “Then I would tell you to make a few more. One wants an adventure or two to recall in one’s dotage. One is dull company otherwise.”

Did she find him dull? “Have you had adventures about which you don’t speak, my lady?”

“Of a certainty. I went out without my parasol last Tuesday. I returned a book to the lending library two days late and wasn’t even scolded. I read Bryon, which I’m told is unfit literature for a lady, though his lordship himself is accounted good company.” She came to an abrupt halt at a street corner. “Are you considering courting me, Lord Casriel?”

Am I…? She’d ambushed him, though probably without meaning to. “Why do I feel as if my dance partner from the other night has been whisked away by the fairies and a more interesting and unhappy woman has taken her place?”

She dropped his arm and fished in her reticule for something known only to her. “Your legendary good manners must be a burden sometimes, just as my contrary nature is.”

“I find you lively rather than contrary. My sister Jacaranda is contrary.”

Her ladyship produced a large iron key and started across the street. “She married Worth Kettering. They were said to be a love match.”

“They very much are a love match, but first she kept his country house for him. An earl’s daughter ran off to take a position in service, because in her words, if she must drudge all day on behalf of a lot of ungrateful males, she’d at least get paid for it.”

Lady Antonia came to a halt before the wrought-iron fencing around Grosvenor Square. “You consider that contrary?”

Grey took the key from her. “You don’t? I corresponded with her, I kept an eye on the situation, I intervened when the matter required a show of family concern, but had not Kettering fallen arse over teakettle for her, she’d be drudging still out of sheer fixity of purpose.”

He opened the gate and bowed the lady through, then gave her back the key. “You asked if I’m courting you. Manners cannot inform my answer, for if I say no, and you were hoping for an affirmative reply, I have hurt you. If I say yes, and you were hoping for a negative reply, I have put you in a very awkward position. As a gentleman, I desire your happiness above my own, so what answer would you prefer?”

“I think I followed that. Shall we sit?”

He did not want to sit beside her and watch the other residents of the square whiling away their day of rest. A dandy with a large dog was allowing his canine to investigate the hedges. A little girl trotted along beside her nurse. All very safe, all fenced in with iron railings to keep out the people truly in need of respite.

Now was too soon to embark on a courtship. Doing so would mean Grey could not call on Addy in the capacity of a lover. He wasn’t ready to give up the hope of some intimacy and companionship with her before he consigned himself to being his intended’s dutiful swain.

And yet… Sycamore was apparently in difficulties, or soon would be.

Ash’s silence from Dorning Hall boded no good for the hay crop.

Fraternal correspondence that went around Grey rather than through him suggested more bad news was on the way—another leaky roof, another draft team gone lame.

He had given up rental income on the town house to facilitate his fortune-hunting, and now he’d lose the rental income from the dower house as well.

“I should marry you,” Lady Antonia said, taking a seat on a bench beneath a maple.

Grey’s heart physically ached at her words. “Any man would be honored if you looked with favor upon his suit.” Just please, not quite yet. Another week, a fortnight…

Three days from now, but not yet. His longing was foolish, because parting from Addy after another encounter would be harder than parting from her now. And he would part from her.

“Any woman with sense would be pleased for you to pay her addresses, my lord. Any reasonable woman.”

Lady Antonia was more rational than most men Grey knew, including at least three of his brothers. He tried for a pleased tone. “Shall I court you then, your ladyship?”

Beatitude, my love. I miss you. I will always miss you.

“I am not only contrary,” Lady Antonia said, “I am a romantic.”

God have mercy on an impecunious bachelor. Poetry and flowers, then. Moonlit strolls… and beyond that, Grey could not think. Even waltzing with her ladyship was more an athletic undertaking than a pleasurable dance.

“I have not the luxury of a romantic choice,” Grey said, “though I will make every effort to show my intended that I esteem her.” He did esteem Lady Antonia. He esteemed Mrs. Beauchamp too.

“The realization that I am a romantic is recent and unwelcome,” Lady Antonia said. “I would rather be an eccentric. I am too homely to be an original and too ancient, but an eccentric is granted a certain latitude that a Long Meg of a spinster is not.”

The dandy with the dog went mincing past, his collar points so high they prevented him from turning his head.

“You are neither homely nor ancient, and I will pummel any man who says otherwise.”

“That is precisely the problem. Shall we take a turn around the square?”

“I would rather we remain here, my lady, and conclude our discussion. Perhaps you might explain this problem to me?”

In small words, so that a man more upset than he had a right to be could follow them. Grey liked Lady Antonia, he’d exerted himself to charm her, and now they were to court. No giggling Arbuckles, no mercenary Miss Quinlan. He should be pleased and grateful that his aims had been accomplished so easily.

He was, instead, on the verge of shaking his fist at the sky and roaring profanities in public.

“The problem is, you are a good, decent man, and I like you.”

“I enjoy your company too, which bodes well for our—”

She touched his arm and shook her head. Because of her blasted bonnet, Grey could not read her expression.

“You frighten me, Lord Casriel.”

While she baffled him. “I would never, ever raise my hand to a woman. Not only are you safe with me, my first obligation as a gentleman is to keep you safe from all other perils as well.”

She scooted and turned, so he could see her face. She was actually quite pretty, with serious gray eyes and—if a man bothered to look—faint freckles dusting her cheeks.

“I am afraid that I will marry you,” she said. “You have taken notice of me, the first to do so in at least three years. I’ve had the same fortune all along, but I’m so…”

“Do not say plain, ancient, or contrary, for you are none of those.”

“So unremarkable, that even the fortune hunters now give me a pass. I have become invisible and lonely. Then you strut into the ballroom, all handsome and mannerly, and my resolve weakens. You tempt me. I wish you did not—I wish you could not—but you do. I must stand firm against pretty manners and lovely eyes, though, or I will end up even lonelier than I am now.”

The impact of her decision settled slowly, a warm blanket of relief in a chill wind of duty. She would not marry him, in other words. She would not compromise her standards or yield to battle weariness.

And right behind his relief came a good quantity of admiration.

“I think you are extraordinarily wise, my lady, and I wish you every happiness.” She was also extraordinarily wealthy and could afford to be resolute in her search for a spouse. Still, for a young woman to eschew the married state was a testament to substantial fortitude. “Is there anything I can do?”

She looked away, at the girl now skipping beside her nurse—on the Sabbath. “Do?”

“Anybody you’d like to be introduced to? Any gentleman who has caught your fancy who might benefit from hearing what an amazing conversationalist you are?”

“What they say about you is accurate, then. You are a truly perfect gentleman.”

“Not always. Sometimes I curse and kick walls and rant at my brothers. Sometimes, I lose patience with my tenants and nap during sermons.”

She regarded him again, all seriousness. “But have you returned a book two days late? Perhaps you need an adventure. You mentioned youthful indiscretions. I know about your daughter. She attends school with one of my younger cousins. They both like horticulture.”

“Does everybody know about my Tabitha?”

“I like that,” Lady Antonia said, rising. “She is your Tabitha, and soon you will be back to threatening to pummel the unwary. I like that a very great deal, my lord, but the philosophers leave you bored, and if I were to bring up theology over breakfast, you’d probably spend the rest of the day calling on tenants. We would not suit.”

Grey stood and offered his arm. She hesitated, then took it.

“Perhaps we would not suit as spouses, but I think we suit well as friends. Which gentleman has caught your eye? I’ll tell you if he gambles excessively, makes stupid wagers, or treats his help badly.”

Lady Antonia remained silent until they were once again on the walkway outside the square. “You are rumored to be fortune-hunting, my lord, but you have wealth.”

“The Dornings have land,” Grey said. “I manage well enough.” Not quite true. He managed year to year and gave thanks nightly that a peer could not be jailed for debt. His brothers, however, could be, and he had an entire herd of brothers.

“You have wealth,” Lady Antonia said. “You have siblings to spare, and they aid your causes. If you wanted to know about, say, Thomas Blessingstoke’s gambling markers, your brothers would correspond with their friends, and soon, you’d know down to the last farthing what the man owes and to whom. That’s wealth.

“When you celebrate the holidays at Dorning Hall,” she went on, “you can barely fit everybody around the table. That’s wealth. When your daughter makes her come out, every other earl’s wife will take a kindly interest in her, hoping your countess will do the same for their step-daughters and step-sons. That’s wealth.”

She was back to walking quickly, leaping from idea to idea. They might have driven each other barmy as husband and wife, though Grey honestly liked the woman.

“The sort of wealth you refer to does not buy many bonnets, my lady. Is this your house?”

They’d turned down a side street, a quiet, shady lane where each house looked almost exactly like the buildings on either side.

“Mine is that one, with the boring blue salvia. Are you wroth with me, Lord Casriel? I did not wait for you to ask, I did not give you the you-do-me-great-honor speech, though I suspect you were about to do me a very great honor, also a great awkwardness.”

Lady Antonia was a puzzling woman, half fierce, half vulnerable, and probably something of a mystery to herself. But she had been—ultimately—kind and honest with Grey, for which he was grateful.

“I am pleased to regard you as my friend,” he said, taking her hand. “If ever there is a good turn I can do you, you must not hesitate to ask. By being so forthright, you have done me a very great honor, Lady Antonia, and the gentleman who wins your favor will be the luckiest of men.”

She withdrew her hand before he’d finished bowing. Then she was up the steps. At the door to her home, she turned to face him where he waited on the walkway.

“Thank you, my lord. For everything.”

“Tonight,” he said, “when you are leading prayers for the household in the family parlor, read to them from the Song of Solomon.”

Her smile was dazzling and a bit intimidating. “Excellent suggestion.”

Then she was gone, and Grey was blessedly alone. On the way home, he tried to reconcile himself to proposing to an Arbuckle—Drusilla was the elder—but he could not think past half day with Addy.

Nor did he want to.

“We must decide,” Anastasia announced. “Mama has said that Casriel’s manners are exquisite, that he has vast acreage, and his title is old and respected. He’s not some first Baron of Lesser Thistledown. His sister married a nabob-ish fellow who is rumored to invest on behalf of dear King George. The family has wealth, even if Casriel is pockets to let at present.”

Drusilla set aside the latest installment of The Lady’s At-Home, not that yet another syllabub recipe made for riveting literature. When Anastasia said something must be decided, she usually meant she had reached a decision, and Drusilla’s role was to agree with her before they presented the matter to Mama.

“What, exactly, are we deciding now?”

“Which one of us will marry Casriel, of course. He’s had enough dances with Lady Antonia and played enough cards with Miss Quinlan. We must act, sister dear, and act decisively.”

Anastasia paced the parlor in an unladylike fashion, another portent of bad tidings.

“He played cards with us before he played cards with La Quinlan, Ana. He walked the lake path with us and declined to accompany Miss Quinlan and her mama.” Drusilla had liked his lordship for that, liked how he’d simply done the polite thing and thwarted a woman too intent on her own wishes. Though as to that, Anastasia was sounding rather determined.

“But he did escort Lady Antonia, Dru. She’s rather old to fill up his nursery. That’s a point against her.”

Her ladyship was too wealthy to be discounted, also a decent person. “I think Casriel would make a good papa.”

“I knew it!” Anastasia plopped onto the sofa, her skirts billowing then settling like laundry in a breeze. “You regard Casriel the way a woman considers a prospective husband. You should marry him, Dru.”

The rumor in the ladies’ retiring room was that Casriel was a father—only the one by-blow, though.

“One of us should marry him,” Drusilla said, “and you would make a more impressive countess than I would.” Sometimes, Anastasia could be flattered out of her convictions.

“I cannot argue with you about the countess part, but you will learn to deal with him. He doesn’t strike me as a difficult man, provided he’s allowed to do whatever it is men get up to when not waltzing or playing cards. Perhaps he votes his seat.”

“Papa said Casriel minds his acres. Do you suppose his lordship rides about the shire, looking well mannered and titled?”

Though Casriel did not look all that titled. His dress was conservative to the point of boredom. He wore little jewelry—a ring, a pocket watch with fob, a cravat pin—and he smelled of shaving soap rather than exotic French perfume or imported pomade. He was also a largish fellow, whose complexion bore evidence of having spent time in the sun. Mama called him a dragoon of an earl.

“He’ll drive you about the neighborhood if you’re his countess,” Anastasia said. “You’d like that, playing lady of the manor.”

Dru would be the lady of the manor if she married Casriel, and that was worth considering. Mama’s standards in the husband-hunting department were slipping lately, from a ducal heir, to a widowed marquess, and now this, an earl with more manners than money.

Two years hence, Dru’s prospects might be limited to a gouty baronet or spinsterhood. “I am loath to marry and leave you here to contend with Mama all alone.”

Anastasia fluffed out her skirts as if arranging her dress for a portrait sitting. “We’ve discussed that. I’ll visit you for much of the year. Who knows? If one of the Dorning brothers is handsome and comes into some money, I might marry him.”

Or would Anastasia enjoy being the only Arbuckle heiress in Mayfair?

“You like all the waltzing and card playing,” Drusilla said. “As a countess, you could have your own formal balls and dinners. You could invite whom you pleased and have Casriel drive you in Hyde Park.”

Drusilla was leery of horses. They stank and left malodorous evidence of their passing, got hair all over a lady’s habit, and were dangerous when bad-tempered. Casriel could probably arm-wrestle an equine and give a good account of himself, but Drusilla would rather married life not include a lot of time sitting behind a horse.

Anastasia sent Drusilla a conspiratorial smile. “If you were Casriel’s countess, you’d also soon become a mother. An earl must have an heir, and you adore babies.”

“Who doesn’t adore babies? They are sweet and dear and precious. Of course I adore babies, and my own babies…” That was the point of the whole business, wasn’t it? To have babies to love and cherish and call your own? To have children who loved you back and called you Mama while their papa grumbled about the bills and smiled at you down the length of a noisy breakfast table?

“Your own babies,” Anastasia said, “might have the famous Dorning eyes. Your oldest son would have a courtesy title. Your daughters would all be ladies from the moment of birth.”

If Drusilla’s babies were simply healthy, she’d consider herself well blessed. “You think I should marry him.”

Drusilla thought she should too, and yet, she hesitated. Casriel did not love her, if he esteemed her at all, and she barely knew him. A title would be delightful, of course, and he’d certainly put her money to good use, but still… The notion of actually marrying, despite three Seasons of waiting for an offer, was unaccountably daunting.

Marrying Casriel, anyway.

“Dru, dearest, please recall I do not like babies. They drool, and mess, and cry. Nursery maids deal with much of that nonsense, I know, but somebody must hatch the little darlings. I am not keen on the conception part either, which sounds undignified in the extreme to me. You accept that business as part of the bargain, while I would rather not lose my figure just yet.”

This difference of opinion was as rare as it was baffling. How anybody could dislike a baby? And of course somebody must hatch the little darlings. Conception, according to Mama, was a matter of five minutes and not that onerous. If men could accomplish childbearing unassisted, what purpose would that leave for women?

“I still say you would make the better countess, Ana. Perhaps we are overlooking other possibilities.”

“If we are overlooking those possibilities, then Mama has overlooked them as well. If either of us is to marry this Season, I fear it’s Casriel or a nobody.”

Nobodies—handsome charmers with no means and middling pedigrees—were often excellent company, but alas, one could not marry them. Sycamore Dorning was a nobody, for example, and Drusilla found him very good company.

“I’ll consider marrying Casriel, then, but even I can’t demand a proposal from his lordship. He’d gallop back to Dorset with a proper horror of me.”

Anastasia patted her arm, something Mama did that Drusilla abhorred. One petted small children, cats, and the elderly, and they couldn’t pet one back.

“If you are willing,” Anastasia said, “Casriel will come up to scratch. I have an instinct about these matters. Any man who has worn the same color of waistcoat to three different events needs to find himself an heiress sooner rather than later. You will be his countess, and all will come right.”

Anastasia rose, arranged her skirts, and swished out of the parlor, doubtless off to convince Mama that Drusilla was the best possible wife for his lordship. Drusilla would certainly try to be, if he proposed. And a good mother too, of course.

If he proposed.

Which she half-hoped he would not.

Addy had slept badly when she’d slept at all. The hours of darkness had dragged by, full of anticipation, worry, and self-doubt. Today was half day, and she’d used some of her morning to pay a call on a drowsy Aunt Freddy.

The housekeeper reported that Aunt Freddy hadn’t much appetite and had done little more than move from a chair to the bed to the parlor across the corridor. Aunt remained cheerful, though she’d received no callers other than her solicitor. Lord Casriel had sent Aunt a note and a bouquet of asters and daffodils, also a tisane for aching joints.

Asters were for patience—a reference to the harp project, perhaps—and daffodils were for sincere regard in a chivalrous sense rather than a romantic one. If Casriel were free to send Addy flowers, which ones would he choose?

Did his family’s vast herbal include a tisane for an aching heart?

“You didn’t eat much breakfast, my lady,” Thiel remarked as he opened the parlor drapes. “Perhaps you’d like your luncheon now?”

Was he being considerate? Maneuvering for half day to start early for the kitchen staff? “A tray of sandwiches and some lemonade in my sitting room will do. Have you plans for this afternoon?”

Addy hadn’t been raised with servants, beyond a maid-of-all-work at the vicarage. She was doubtless more familiar with her employees than a countess ought to be, but they were also the only other members of her household.

“I’ll play a few rounds of skittles at the pub,” Thiel said. “I can take a different half day if you’d like to pay calls, ma’am.”

“No, thank you. An afternoon at home suits me very well.”

Did Thiel favor a particular serving maid? He wrote letters on occasion, all to his family back in the neighborhood of Canmore Court. He was only a few years older than Addy and a handsome blond with merry green eyes.

“Thiel, do you ever consider returning to service at Canmore Court?”

He arranged the velvet drapes so they hung with exact symmetry on either side of the window. “I saw enough of life in the country as a youth, my lady. At a huge place like Canmore Court, I’d be the third or fourth underfootman until I was too old to carry anything more than a vase of flowers. Besides, I’d rather earn my pay than idle about all day.”

He bowed and withdrew, leaving Addy restless and out of sorts.

Thiel knew what he wanted. What did Addy want? Not to be married again—that had gone badly the first time—but not to be invisible either.

“I will end up like Freddy, entertaining my solicitor once a week with stories we’ve been telling each other for decades.”

Addy remained in the informal parlor, her embroidery in her lap, until a soft triple rap on the front door woke her. He’s here popped into her mind at the same time she thought, I wanted to change into something more flirtatious.

She tripped over her workbasket, cursed in French, and paused long enough to check her appearance in the mirror in the foyer. She was tired, not dressed for the occasion, and she’d styled her hair in a bun worthy of a vicar’s maiden aunt.

What is wrong with me? This was her first venture into merry widowhood, she’d chosen a wonderful partner in pleasure, and today they would consummate their affair.

I should be radiant, full of gleeful abandon. She opened the door to find Casriel standing with his back to her, as if on the point of departure.

“My lord, welcome.”

He faced her and swept off his hat. “My lady, good day.” His expression was nearly somber, no glee, reckless or otherwise, in his eyes.

“Do come in.” Addy avoided, barely, glancing up and down the street to note any neighbors who might have seen the earl paying a call on the household’s half day. “Shall I take your hat?”

“Best not.”

“You won’t be staying?” Disappointment crashed over her, making her out-of-sorts mood positively glum. Had he become engaged already? Been given permission to court? After waiting years to take a wife, he could not put off his betrothal even a few more days?

“I dearly hope I am welcome, but leaving evidence in the foyer that I’m on the premises is not well advised.”

Oh. Oh. “I see.” He was well mannered even about this. “Then let’s remove to my sitting room, shall we?”

He looked as if he had some announcement to make. Addy started up the steps rather than learn he was paying his addresses to Lady Antonia. Even behind the locked parlor door, Casriel still made no move to take Addy into his arms, but that was perhaps fortunate, given her lack of inclination to be embraced.

“Have you some news to impart, my lord?”

He set his hat on the sideboard and propped his walking stick near the door. “In fact, I do. Lady Antonia Mainwaring has weighed me in the scales and found me—along with every other man of her acquaintance—lacking as a potential husband.”

“You asked to pay her your addresses?” When you knew we had an assignation today?

Addy had no right to be angry or hurt, but she did admit to disappointment. Casriel at least had the grace to look uncomfortable.

“To the contrary, I made no such inquiry regarding any such addresses. She took it upon herself to disabuse me of ambitions in that direction and assured me emphatically that we would not suit.”

Addy subsided into the armchair. “She told you not to bother? Didn’t even wait for you to ask?” How very decent of her.

Casriel took the corner of the sofa. “Beatitude, I have no business raising this awkward topic with you at all, and you will think me daft, but I was so relieved I nearly fell to my knees in a public display of gratitude. I am apparently unable to conduct myself as more worldly men do, with one sort of association here and another sort there. I suspect my father was of the same nature, and thus I have many siblings.”

“He was faithful?” Grey would be faithful, and Addy wasn’t sure how to feel about that, because his fidelity would be aimed away from her.

“Papa’s second countess strayed at least once. I do not judge their marriage, for times were different, but I do know this: I am very glad that you received me today.”

Addy poured him a glass of lemonade from the tray on the table, stirring the sweetness up from the bottom.

“Roger kept a mistress and did not deny himself other liaisons. He exercised the privileges of his station to the fullest, and he was a charming rascal.” That label was wearing thin, though others had seen him as such.

Casriel held the glass halfway to his lips. “The late earl was a disgrace, if he allowed knowledge of his every peccadillo to find its way to you. A gentleman exercises some discretion.”

Addy poured herself a drink and swirled the glass. “Roger was worldly, and in many ways, he and I did not suit, but our regard for one another began as genuine. We simply held different expectations from marriage and muddled on as best we could. Given time, I’m sure our union would have become more settled.”

Though she and Roger had had years, and she’d become resigned, not settled. Addy wanted more than muddling on for Grey Dorning, and she did not want to spend the afternoon in sad reflection.

“I am glad you are here today,” she said. “Glad we have this time to enjoy each other’s company privately. Glad you are not like more worldly men.”

“I am glad to be here. How is Mrs. Beauchamp?”

He did not bolt into the bedroom, leaving a trail of discarded clothing, did not fall upon Addy with kisses and caresses. She preferred his more restrained approach to Roger’s heedless rutting. Preferred the fiction that they had limitless time and opportunity, rather than a few stolen hours.

“I fear Aunt Freddy is failing. She sleeps more and more. She doesn’t mention any unusual pain, doesn’t ask for anything, but she grows more pale and has less energy.”

“Watch out for a dry cough,” Grey said, sipping his drink. “Papa’s final decline started out with a slight cough that grew worse when he spoke or tried to overdo. The herb woman said it was evidence of the heart weakening.”

“You sent Aunt flowers and a tisane. Thank you for that.”

“At Dorning Hall, we have enough herbal stock to fill the shelves of every apothecary in London with a good start on Paris besides. I’m tempted to plow up all of Papa’s tea meadows and turn them into pastures, but my brothers would object.”

“Have you heard from your siblings?”

Addy and her guest sipped lemonade, they ate half of the sandwiches, they visited as any pair of friends would, and her low mood dissipated. Grey Dorning was still a free man and still a very attractive man. She was still a widow in need of a diversion, and the afternoon—at least—was still young.