Hope was a sentiment Peter deVere had given up on more than a decade ago. Hope led to expectations, and when those expectations weren’t met, it led to disappointment. And, at fifty, Peter was tired of being disappointed. He was tired of chasing dreams that never became reality, and he was tired of picking up the pieces of hearts that had been broken, especially his own. He was just tired.

So when the carriage his friend Edmund had sent to pick him up from the train station rattled along the sunny streets of the idyllic English village, past cottages with window boxes bursting with flowers and small, thriving businesses, he focused on the scenes around him, not what awaited him at Edmund’s house. A group of children chasing a goose in the yard beside one of the cottages caught his eye and made him smile, but he was quick to tamp down the hope that by this time next year, he would have a child of his own to love and indulge. His expectations of a child had been disappointed so many times now that even such a joyful sight as children playing pierced him with pain.

He turned away from the carriage window, cleared his throat, and rolled his shoulders to shake some of the stiffness of travel from his limbs. He wouldn’t let himself hope, but he could list the facts. Edmund’s daughter was of child-bearing age. She was not Anne. And Anne’s fifteen miscarriages had proven that he was, in fact, capable of siring offspring. It was not hope, but rather statistics which said that this time, things would be different.

That didn’t stop the mantle of weariness from pressing down on him, though. This time could be different, but what if it wasn’t?

The carriage slowed before turning into a half-circle drive in front of a moderately large house. Edmund did well for himself, but he was known for being frugal. His Aylesbury house looked comfortable, its gardens well-tended, and the footman that scurried to open the carriage door for him disciplined. But it wasn’t the outer trappings of Edmund’s prosperity that sent a jolt of wariness straight to Peter’s gut. It was the neat, happy line of people waiting to greet him—Edmund, his wife Emily, and their two daughters. The younger was spritely and fresh, but it was the older daughter, his fiancée, that captured his focus.

Mariah Travers looked younger than he imagined she would. Her oval face was lovely, with shapely lips and warm, brown eyes. She was a bit pale, but a healthy flush painted her cheeks. The purple dress she wore was fashionable and suited her coloring. She looked a bit nervous, which was unsurprising, considering the circumstances.

As soon as the footman had the steps in place, Peter cleared his throat again, brushed his fingers through his hair—he should have had it cut before coming, as curls on a man of his age were ridiculous and only emphasized how white it had become—straightened his jacket, then stepped down to face his future.

“Thank you,” he murmured to the footman, then drew in a breath and started toward Edmund.

The girls looked right past him, still watching the carriage expectantly. Peter’s heart sank in an instant.

“Where is he?” the younger daughter—Victoria, if he remembered correctly—asked. She frowned at the empty carriage, then turned to him. “Are you Lord Peter deVere’s father?”

The sinking feeling in Peter’s gut expanded to dread. “No,” he answered, painstakingly polite, with what he hoped was an apologetic smile. He shifted that smile from Victoria to Mariah, hoping, praying she would forgive him for being old.

“Ah, Peter.” Edmund stepped forward to greet him, more flushed than usual. His glance darted anxiously to his daughters as Victoria gasped. “Such a pleasure to see you’ve arrived in one piece.”

“Edmund.” Peter nodded and took his friend’s hand. A shake wasn’t enough for Edmund, and Peter found himself drawn into an embrace. It gave him the split-second he needed to study his intended before having to face her directly.

Mariah’s eyes had gone wide with surprise, and her blush deepened, but it was clear as day that he was not what she was expecting. Not by a long shot. Hope, once again, had descended into disappointment. Only this time, he was the disappointment.

“You remember my wife, Emily.” Edmund let go of him and stepped back, gesturing to his wife.

“It’s such an honor to have you in our home, my lord,” Mrs. Travers greeted him with warmth that bordered on adoration.

“Please.” Peter shook his head slightly. “Under the circumstances, Peter will do.”

“Oh no,” Mrs. Travers protested. “You are an earl. It must be ‘my lord’.”

Peter tried not to wince. “As you wish, madam.”

“And these are my daughters,” Edmund went on, gesturing to the young women. “Victoria is my youngest, and, of course, this is Mariah.” He smiled at Mariah with a pride that Peter found admirable.

But before Peter could do more than make fleeting eye-contact with Mariah, Victoria burst out with, “He’s ancient!”

Mrs. Travers gasped audibly. Panic flooded Edmund’s eyes. But Mariah’s reaction was the only one Peter cared about. Her reaction determined the course of the rest of his life. And she merely pressed her lips together, flushed harder, and glanced down in embarrassment. Peter had no idea if that embarrassment was for her sister or because of him.

“How do you do?” He fell back on the manners that had been drilled into him, both by his strict father and by his years of military service, standing straight and bowing crisply. Every nerve in his body was taut, until Mariah glanced up through her thick lashes and met his eyes. His heart thudded against his ribs, and he managed a smile.

“I’m quite well,” she answered, bobbing an awkward curtsy, as if she weren’t sure how she should be greeting him.

It wasn’t the most passionate or smooth meeting of future spouses that had ever occurred, but at least it wasn’t a total disaster. At least it wasn’t—

“You can’t marry him,” Victoria whispered to her sister. She hid behind her hand, but her eyes remained locked on Peter, and she wasn’t quiet enough. “He’s an old man. He has white hair.”

“Victoria, hush,” Mrs. Travers snapped at him.

“But Mama, she can’t,” Victoria went on, trying not to move her mouth as she spoke. “She just can’t. He’s all wrinkled.” She smiled politely at Peter, unaware that he’d heard everything she’d said.

He shouldn’t have let the indelicate observations of a girl barely out of the schoolroom affect him, but he was only human. He squared his shoulders, trying to ignore the pang of self-consciousness squeezing his stomach. Time was the enemy of all men, but he’d thought he’d done well fighting it. He stayed active and had kept his physique from turning soft, but he was well aware that he had lines around his eyes, and there was no denying his white hair.

“I can assure you, neither of my feet are in the grave,” he replied, praying that his attempt at humor wouldn’t make things worse.

Victoria snapped her mouth shut and blushed, embarrassed to have been overheard after all. Better still, a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Mariah’s lips.

“Of course not,” Mariah said. “And please forgive my manners. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She held out her hand.

Peter stepped forward and took it. The moment meant everything, and he struggled to know how to handle it. Should he pretend familiarity with her, since they were engaged? Should he show respect and keep his distance, or would that come off as too cold? Was she as repulsed as her sister, and if she was, could he, in good conscience, make her go through with the wedding? If they didn’t wed, then what would he do?

All of those thoughts struck him within the instant it took to raise her hand to his lips and to meet her eyes. It was perhaps too formal and old-fashioned a way to greet a modern woman, but he had to use every tool at his disposal to prevent Mariah Travers from despising him for not being younger. Because the more seconds that ticked by, the more his chest ached with that devil hope, and the more he wanted this union to work out. The only hint he had that he wasn’t making a complete hash of it was Mariah’s smile and the kindness in her eyes. Even if that kindness had a touch of pity in it.

“Well.” Edmund clapped his hands, dispelling the tension of the moment. “Now that that’s out of the way, why don’t we all go inside and have a cup of tea?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what we should do,” Mrs. Travers agreed, taking her husband’s arm. They started into the house, and Mrs. Travers nodded to Mariah, indicated the way her arm was joined with her husband’s, then tilted her head to Peter.

Peter caught the startled flash in Mariah’s eyes at the subtle command. “We don’t have to,” he whispered as he stepped to Mariah’s side, meeting her eyes with a conspiratorial look.

She let out a relieved breath, and the two of them continued into the house side-by-side, not touching. Victoria brought up the rear, grunting in disgust.

Two questions battled for supremacy in Mariah’s head throughout tea: what were her parents thinking and what happened to make Lord Peter deVere so sad?

“Of course, it will be several years until the bill is perfected enough to come before Parliament for a vote,” Lord Peter explained the legislation that he was working on in the House of Lords. It was a variation of the same bill that her father was busy with in the House of Commons, a bill that would increase the rights of women. He sat in a stiff, upholstered chair diagonal from where Mariah sat wedged between her mother and father on the sofa. “We hope to do a great deal of good for a great many people once it comes up for a vote.”

“How noble,” Mariah’s mother said. “Isn’t that noble, Mariah?”

“Very.” Mariah nodded. She sincerely believed it was, but it was next to impossible to concentrate on the particulars of lawmaking—even if the law would benefit her and every other woman—while coping with the surprise in front of her.

No wonder she hadn’t been able to place a face to the name Lord Peter deVere when her father had unfolded her future the day before. She had been looking in the wrong generation. Lord Peter was close to her father’s age, almost twice as old as she was. Although not quite. He was undeniably handsome for a man of ripe years. Though his face seemed worn, as though he had come through a harsh trial, his features were well-formed. His jaw and brow were strong, and his eyes were a brilliant blue that spoke of wisdom and cleverness. Victoria continued to grimace at him from the chair at the far end of the sofa as though he were one of the slathering, lecherous villains in the penny dreadfuls she read too many of. But the more Mariah studied him—furtively, out of the corner of her eye while his attention was on the conversation with her father—the more she felt that there was something more to him. He was intriguing and, in his own way, attractive.

“More tea, my lord?” her mother asked, tapping Mariah’s side and prompting her to do the honors.

Mariah forced herself to hide her irritation at her mother’s prodding and reached for the teapot. She glanced to Lord Peter, her brow raised in a silent question.

He hesitated, then answered, “Yes, please.”

Mariah smiled and picked up the pot as he held out his cup and saucer. She had the feeling he didn’t actually want more tea and was just being polite. She wasn’t really in the mood to serve tea herself, come to think of it. As she poured lukewarm liquid into Lord Peter’s cup, highly aware that she was right under her father’s nose as she did, their eyes met. The sense that they were in this strange predicament together washed through Mariah, especially when he answered her smile with one of his own.

Perhaps he wasn’t so old after all. The lines around his eyes seemed to be the remnants of a thousand smiles. Those eyes were a bright, crisp blue, and full of warmth and good humor. And intelligence. In spite of the fact that her parents hadn’t offered any particularly interesting topics of conversation, Mariah could see that Lord Peter was a highly intelligent man. But it was the mysterious sadness that hung around him that intrigued her the most. Her father had said Lord Peter was a widower. Had he loved his first wife? Did he miss her?

“I know that Shayles is the big obstacle on your end,” her father said, still talking about Parliament and legislation, oblivious to the silent exchange between Mariah and Lord Peter. “Just like Turpin is the opponent in Commons. It’ll be quite the challenge overcoming their objections to giving the fairer sex any rights at all.”

“Thank you,” Lord Peter said softly, then sat back with his fresh tea and turned to her father. “All I know about Turpin is that Malcolm can’t stand him.”

Her father snorted. “Malcolm Campbell can’t stand any Tory. But neither can I, come to think of it.” Her father laughed loudly.

Victoria rolled her eyes and stopped Mariah from putting the teapot down with a quick, “I’d like some too.” As Mariah poured for her, Victoria made a disgusted face, her glance darting toward Lord Peter.

Mariah fixed her sister with a scolding glare and shook her head before pulling the teapot away and setting it down. As polite as Lord Peter was being, Victoria was acting like a heathen.

“Men like Shayles and Turpin won’t stop our efforts,” Lord Peter went on. “At least not for long. Women have every bit as much of a right to maintain ownership and control of the property they bring into a marriage as men do.”

Mariah’s brow shot up, and she sat straighter. “Do you think so?”

He turned, addressing her as though she were as much a part of the conversation as her father. “Absolutely. There is no rational argument as to why a woman should not keep what is hers when she marries.”

Mariah smiled, surprised that a man in Lord Peter’s position would hold such a view. It wasn’t lost on her that a man with views like that would make a fine husband indeed, but before she had a chance to let that encouraging fact settle into her stew of thoughts, her father blurted out, “You hear that, my dear? Marry Lord Peter and you’ll be able to keep everything that’s yours.” He followed his statement with a laugh that had Mariah’s face burning hot with shame.

To his credit, Lord Peter looked equally embarrassed. That raised her estimation of him even more.

“I don’t have much that I would be in danger of losing by marrying,” she said, glancing from her father to Lord Peter.

“Nonsense,” her mother said. “There’s the annuity from my family to think about.

“Two hundred pounds per annum is hardly enough to cause concern,” her father cut in. “Why, Peter here will give her two hundred a week in pocket money, I’m sure.” He laughed again.

Mariah’s stomach churned with humiliation, but the hint of humor in Lord Peter’s eyes stopped her from dying of shame. He wasn’t laughing at her father, but it was evident he knew just how boorish he was being. Considering that the two were friends, he probably knew just as well as Mariah did that her father was only making a fool of himself because he was nervous.

“My father tells me that the name of your estate in Cornwall is Starcross Castle,” Mariah said, shifting the conversation away from herself.

“It is,” Lord Peter answered, seeming grateful for the change. “It’s been in my family for generations now. The original castle was constructed in the sixteenth century, during Queen Elizabeth’s reign, although many successive generations have made changes and additions to it.”

“Oh?” Mariah asked before either of her parents could derail what promised to be the first relaxed topic of conversation since they’d all been seated in the afternoon parlor.

“The central part of the house is the original Elizabethan castle,” Lord Peter explained. “With renovations. But the west wing was constructed during the reign of George II, and the east wing was my father’s special project. I myself had the kitchens and servant’s halls remade with modern conveniences about ten years ago.”

“Your staff must appreciate that.” Mariah relaxed her stance, leaning subtly toward him.

“Mrs. Harmon, the cook, thanks me at every opportunity she can get,” he said, his smile betraying a fondness for his staff. “Usually with pies.”

“Pies?” Mariah laughed.

“Cornish pasties are a specialty in our part of the country,” he explained. “Mrs. Harmon is particularly skilled at their construction. It’s a wonder I don’t weigh three stone more than I do.” He didn’t wink, but his blue eyes contained the same spark as if he had.

“You seem perfectly fit to me,” Mariah said.

Victoria snorted.

“Young lady—” Her father sat forward enough to temporarily block Mariah’s view of Lord Peter. “—your manners have been sadly wanting today.”

“Because I coughed?” Victoria balked. “It was just a cough.”

“It was not just a cough,” their mother hissed, attempting to be private and failing.

“It was. I swear it was.” Victoria’s glance shot to Lord Peter. Mariah needed every ounce of will power not to wince at the private exchange turned public.

Their mother sighed. “Your father should have sought out a husband for you as well,” she murmured, but not quietly enough. “You need managing.”

“I’m sure Papa can scare up another desiccated mummy in the back benches of Parliament.”

“Victoria,” their mother gasped, looking as though she might either weep or launch into scolding at the top of her lungs. “Behave yourself.”

“My behavior is perfectly amiable,” Victoria protested, sitting on the edge of her seat. “I am the only one here with my dear sister’s best interest at heart. Whoever heard of arranged marriages these days?”

“Plenty of people,” their mother said

“Hold your tongue,” her father said at the same time. He could have been speaking to either woman.

“We all care very deeply for Mariah,” her mother said, a hard edge to her voice. “This is the last chance for marriage your sister will ever have.”

“Lord Peter.” Mariah stood, raising her voice to be heard above the mortification that was her family. “Would you like to see our garden?”

Lord Peter stood, setting his teacup aside. “Yes, I would be delighted.”

“Right this way.”

Mariah stepped around her father before he could rise, and gestured for Lord Peter to follow her out to the French doors at the far end of the room. She was shaking so hard with anger and humiliation that she had a hard time turning the key to unlock the doors.

“Allow me,” Lord Peter said softly, opening the door for her. He met her eyes with a look that told her he had a few things he wanted to say, but as far as Mariah was concerned, he would have to wait his turn until she issued a thousand apologies for her dreadful family.