As soon as the door was shut behind them, Mariah turned to Peter and said, “I’m so sorry.” Her frustration was obvious, as was the fact that she was near tears.

Peter started to reach for her, but changed his mind about the propriety of touching her when they were unchaperoned. Even though they were engaged. Technically.

“Rest assured, I don’t hold you responsible for the behavior of your parents,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder at the doors and, unsurprisingly, spotted movement from inside. “Perhaps the other side of the garden would be a better spot to talk.” He arched one eyebrow and darted a look to the door.

Mariah let out a heavy breath, her expressive mouth crooking into a grin. “Yes, we’d better.”

They took a few steps along the brick path that wound artistically through beds of spring blooms. Peter offered Mariah his arm, and was rewarded with a renewed feeling of confidence as she took it. More than confidence, a burst of warmth filled his chest and spread through him, loosening the tension from tea.

As they reached a trellis climbing with clematis that had yet to bloom, Peter glanced sideways to Mariah and said, “I’m not what you were expecting, am I?”

Mariah let out a short laugh and met his gaze with a wry twitch of her lips. “I wasn’t expecting anything at all until yesterday.”

“You weren’t?” His back itched with foreboding.

Her weary smile grew, and she paused to turn to him. “My father only just remembered to tell me he’d arranged a marriage for me yesterday afternoon.”

Peter’s brow shot up. “Yesterday afternoon?” She nodded. “But he first mentioned you to me—”

“More than a year ago, I know.” To her credit, Mariah laughed, though it was more ironic than amused. “He claims that he wasn’t aware you were serious about the match until recently, and that he was too preoccupied with parliamentary matters to remember to tell me.”

“That’s—” Peter blew out a breath through his nose and rubbed a hand over his face. It didn’t feel right to call Edmund ridiculous and flighty in front of his daughter, even though he had the feeling she would agree with him. At least complete surprise on Mariah’s part was better than shock at finding him to be, as her sister had said, a desiccated mummy. “I’m sorry you’ve been put through all of this,” he said at last, no idea what else he could possibly do to make up for the shock of the whole thing.

“It wouldn’t be the first time my father let something slip his mind,” Mariah said, pivoting back to his side and walking on. She led him toward a small gate set in a brick archway. On the other side was a path that meandered through a meadow toward what looked like a small river in the distance. “Papa is a visionary and a crusader. But the problem with giving all of yourself to causes you feel passionate about is that day-to-day details tend to fall by the wayside.”

“Marriage is more than a detail,” Peter said.

“Perhaps it would have been if I were as young as Victoria,” Mariah said, a hint of sharpness in her tone. “Or if this were my first attempt at it.”

“Yes, your father told me you were engaged once before, but that your fiancé died tragically.”

“Oh yes. It was certainly tragic.”

Peter frowned at the sarcasm of her statement. It was subtle, but definitely there, which told him there was much more to the story than he’d been told. He wasn’t one to pry, though, especially when his past was colorful enough to paint a sunset.

Mariah didn’t offer any further information about her previous engagement, so Peter moved on. “Seeing as you weren’t told about me until yesterday, I would understand completely if you want to call off our engagement. Or if you want to declare that there never was one to begin with.”

Mariah frowned, chewing her lip. “Thank you for your offer.” She was silent as they walked a few more yards along the narrow path through the meadow, then said, “The thing is, my mother was right when she said you were my last chance to be married.”

“Surely not,” Peter contradicted her. She wasn’t in the first blush of youth, but from what he could see, Mariah was pretty, intelligent, and far kinder than most women would have been in the situation she’d been thrust into. Any man worth his salt would be lucky to marry her.

She shook her head. “I’m seen as inferior used goods here in Aylesbury.”

He flinched slightly. “Would it help if I assured you I would not hold any, ah, prior activity with your late fiancé against you?”

“No,” she gasped, her eyes wide. “Oh, no, no, you mistake me.” Her face flushed an appealing pink. “That is not what I meant at all. Exactly the opposite, in fact. Robert was involved with another woman during our engagement, and word got around that my inadequacies were the reason why.”

Peter hardened his jaw in indignation for what he could imagine was the way Mariah had been treated. He knew how rumors could damage a woman’s reputation, even if there wasn’t a lick of truth to them. “It sounds to me as though this Robert did not deserve you.”

Mariah looked away. “Perhaps not, but I fancied myself in love with him.” She sighed, watching the flight of a crane as it took off from the side of the river at the far end of the meadow.

Peter remained silent, letting her have her thoughts. He couldn’t say that he knew how it felt to love someone and to lose them. True, he had cared deeply for Anne, but theirs was a bond of duty, not passion, even though there had been affection involved. At least at first.

“Did your father tell you I was married once as well?” he asked, deciding to match her honesty with some of his own.

“He did.” Mariah turned back to him, a look of sympathy in her eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Peter lowered his head. “Anne was my father’s choice,” he admitted. He smiled wryly. “Most things in my younger days were my father’s choice.”

“Oh?” She adjusted the way her hand settled in the crook of his elbow, leaning closer to him.

That closeness gave him the confidence to go on. “My older brother, Arthur, was supposed to inherit the title and estate,” he said. “I fully intended to pursue the life of a scholar. I had dreams of becoming a professor of history, or even literature, at Oxford.”

“Really?” She brightened.

Peter was surprised. He would have assumed a woman would think having no ambition beyond teaching would be tedious. He nodded. “Unfortunately, Arthur was killed in a riding accident. That meant I was suddenly the heir.”

“That must have been jarring.”

He sent her a weary smile. “It was. Not only did it mean my ambitions in academia were over, my father also decided I should join the army in order to learn discipline and gain the contacts I would need when I became earl.”

“Did he purchase a commission for you?”

“He did,” he answered flatly. Although his resentment wasn’t entirely fair. “I didn’t hate the army,” he went on. “I made a great many friends that have remained friends all these years.”

“Like my father,” she said.

“Indeed.”

“Lifelong friends are hard to come by.”

“True.”

He drew in a breath of country air, reminding himself to be grateful for friends like Albert Tennant, Alexander Croydon, Basil Waltham, and Malcolm Campbell. They had helped him through more dark patches than he cared to remember.

“Father also decided that I needed a bride of suitable rank and fortune to be the mother of the future earl,” he went on.

“And that was Anne?”

He nodded. “Anne was the youngest daughter of Adolphus Barkley, the Duke of Bedford. She was charming, accomplished, and widely regarded as a beauty. I knew her slightly, but it was our parents who decided on the union.”

“That sounds familiar,” she said with a smirk.

Peter chuckled. “Everyone thinks they know better than we do when it comes to matters of the heart.”

Mariah blinked, then grinned up at him. He felt as though he’d said something that had won him points, but wasn’t entirely sure how.

“Anne and I got along well enough,” he went on, feeling more at ease as they reached the edge of the river. The path there was lined with stones and looked well-traveled. “Of course, war broke out in the Crimea, and suddenly my commission was more than just a formality.”

“So you fought in the war?”

He nodded. “Fought, retreated, fought again, was wounded, fell ill, and nearly died in a flea-infested field hospital, just like most of the Englishmen caught up in that wretched travesty of a war.”

“You were wounded?” She pressed a hand to her chest.

“Only a little,” he said with a sidelong grin. “I have a scar on my thigh from where I was struck by shrapnel during an explosion. But you only get to see it if you marry me.”

Mariah laughed. It was a clear, genuine sound, and it set him even more at ease. She didn’t resent him. She didn’t think he was repulsive. Her laughter said all of that and brought him face to face with his old enemy, hope.

That sobering thought wiped the smile from his face. “Anne was newly with child when I left for the war,” he explained, “but she miscarried shortly after I left.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mariah said, squeezing his arm slightly.

He managed a half-smile. “She became pregnant again shortly after I returned home, but miscarried again.”

He glanced down, the rest of the story sticking in his throat. It baffled him that even now, after all this time and all the disappointment he had endured, the pain was still as fresh as that letter he had received about the first baby while languishing in a Turkish hospital.

They reached a worn bench that sat under a spreading tree, and Mariah gestured for them to sit. She folded her hands in her lap and watched him with her full attention, waiting for him to go on.

“I don’t suppose there’s a delicate or sensitive way to put it,” he said, watching a pair of ducks near the riverbank instead of looking at her as he confessed. “Anne never did give birth. But she was pregnant—” He swallowed, feeling ill at the thought. “—fifteen times.”

Mariah gasped, reaching out to touch his hand.

Peter looked at her long, narrow fingers, then dragged his gaze up to meet her eyes. “It was difficult when she was young, but we kept trying, convinced next time would be different.” He paused and looked back to the river. “As she passed thirty, however, each…failure had a greater impact on her health. Physical and mental.” He closed his eyes. “Every doctor we consulted offered only one piece of advice: stop trying. And I begged Anne, pleaded with her to stop. But she refused.”

Quietly, without pity or comment, Mariah slipped her hand into his. Peter opened his eyes, but he still couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

“I did everything I could to—” He stopped. Now was not the time to confess to years of attempting to stay out of his wife’s bed. He would have to explain far too many things about the darker side of the world, and himself, how he had failed Anne on every level imaginable in his attempts to save her. No one, least of all Mariah, should be forced to listen to those confessions.

“How did she die?” Mariah asked at last, her voice filled with compassion.

He shook his head. “The hemorrhaging from that last miscarriage was too much for her. She was past forty at that point, and never should have—” He shook his head. He was the one who never should have touched her again.

A long, heavy silence settled between them. The sounds of the breeze ruffling the grass and the ducks splashing in the river were soothing, but it would take a great deal more than the wonders of nature to bring solace to his disappointed heart.

“So you never had a child,” Mariah said at last.

He shook his head.

“And you desperately wanted one.”

He glanced to her in surprise only to find understanding in her eyes. “I need an heir or the estate and title will go to my nephew, William,” he said.

“No, I think it’s more than that.”

Something warm and pulsing broke loose in Peter’s soul. For so long, he had been able to convince so many people that his disappointment over remaining childless was for inheritance reasons only. It was widely recognized that his nephew, William, was an irresponsible reprobate and that he would likely ruin everything generations of the deVere family had worked to build if he inherited. Claiming that as his sole concern had spared him the awkwardness of being seen as overly sentimental in a world where men were prized for their aloofness and rationality. But Mariah saw through that, and because of it, Peter was seized by an aching need to have her accept their union, even though it had been presented to her in the most clumsy and shocking way possible.

“I will absolutely respect your wishes if you decide not to marry me,” he said, pivoting to face her, their knees bumping. “I will not fault you one bit if you decide the surprise of this whole thing is too distasteful, or if you deem me too old to be a good match for you. But if we do marry, it must be with the understanding that we have children, or at least try.” He couldn’t discount the possibility that Mariah too would have miscarriage after miscarriage.

“So if you find me physically repulsive because of my age or in any way at all,” he went on, “I will not force you to go through with this marriage. I would never force you to do anything.” He hoped she understood exactly what he meant. “But sharing a bed would be imperative.”

She took in a breath and squared her shoulders, meeting his gaze—which had probably become far too intense—with a calm look. Then, completely unexpectedly, she burst into laughter. It lightened everything about her, turning her cheeks pink and making her brown eyes sparkle. Before Peter had a chance to be nervous, she said, “What a change to have a fiancé who wants to bed me rather than one who would rather tumble with a milkmaid in a barn.”

As relieved as her statement made him, Peter cringed. “Is that what happened?”

“Yes,” she all but wailed, blinking rapidly, as if fighting tears. She recovered quickly, gesturing as though brushing away the past. “But that was five years ago. I never thought I’d have another chance—” She pressed her lips shut and swallowed, looking up as her eyes grew glassy again.

Peter reached for her hand, but before he could say anything, she let out a breath and asked, “Will you let me purchase poetry by Walt Whitman?”

Peter flinched in surprise. “Walt Whitman?”

She blew out a frustrated breath. “Yesterday, shortly before I learned of your existence and our impending nuptials, I attempted to purchase a book of poetry, but was denied.”

“Why would anyone refuse to sell a book of poetry?” he asked.

“Because the bookseller deemed it inappropriate for a single woman. Because in the eyes of the world, were I to remain unmarried, I would be nothing more than a perpetual child, always at the mercy of my father. I have been a child long enough, but I have no wish to jump out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

Understanding dawned, and Peter nodded. “I seriously doubt any bookseller would deny Walt Whitman to a countess,” he said, grinning. “Or anything else, for that matter. I certainly wouldn’t.”

She gulped, and a tear escaped at last. She was quick to wipe it away, beating him to it before he could indulge in the sentimental gesture of touching her face. “Then yes,” she said. “Even though I didn’t know about you until yesterday, and even though we just met, and in spite of the fact that my parents are being ridiculous in this whole thing—” She took a breath and smiled. “I would be honored to marry you, Lord Peter deVere, Earl of…oh, I’ve already forgotten.”

“It’s Dunsford,” he laughed, taking both her hands in his. “But I insist, from here on out, you call me Peter. As a friend.”

“All right,” she said, still blinking up a storm as though to stop her eyes from leaking. “Peter. And it goes without saying that you call me Mariah. As a friend.”

“Not ‘your ladyship’?” he joked.

She laughed and shook her head. “No. Whatever we do, we must proceed as friends. Because I have a feeling we’re going to need to combine our forces to survive my parents.”