It was the tenth day of the house party. One would think that ten days would be enough to find a husband, especially when one was a potential heiress of Maidenstone.

Instead, ten days had only proved to Lucy that her hopes of winning Maidenstone were dwindling fast.

She stood next to Emma, the widowed Lady Maidenstone, as their guests gathered in the drawing room for dinner. Nearby, a group of women laughed together. Those girls were younger than Lucy, but they flirted easily with the gentlemen and chatted confidently with the ladies.

Lucy smoothed her hands over her skirts. Her dress was just as nice as theirs — she’d bought a whole new wardrobe when Ferguson had ordered her to host this party.

But clothing didn’t make much difference, she’d discovered. She was still Lucy.

And she still hated all this nonsense.

She looked away from the girls and surveyed the crowd. She had to admit that the drawing rooms looked lovely filled with people. The footmen moved seamlessly through the crowd, silently refreshing drinks. The maids had done an excellent job of refreshing the main rooms every morning — no one would notice the claret that a clumsy lordling had spilled on the carpet or the deep scratch on one of the carved side chairs that had been dug in by someone’s shoe buckle.

She only had to survive another fortnight. But if she didn’t find a husband, she would have to start thinking of where she and Julia would go next.

None of the options were pleasant.

“You look ill,” Emma whispered. “Do you want to plead a headache? I can entertain the guests tonight.”

Lucy shook her head. “I have to stay. I’m running out of time.”

Emma took a closer look at her and grabbed her arm. “Let’s take a stroll on the terrace,” she said, steering Lucy toward the door.

Emma rarely ordered Lucy to do anything. Technically, she was the dowager countess and the lady of the house until it was inherited by one of the cousins. But she had always been content to let Lucy arrange everything.

Today, though, she clearly had something else on her mind. “You aren’t going to find love if you keep comparing every man to a checklist,” Emma said firmly, as soon as they were far enough away from the windows that they wouldn’t be overheard.

“I can’t see that it signifies. I need a husband, not a lover. And anyway, none of them has offered for me.”

“Does it occur to you that they haven’t offered because you’ve made no sign of being interested in them?”

“That’s not fair,” Lucy said.

Emma leveled a look at her.

Lucy grinned. “Very well, I haven’t expressed any interest. But they should have fallen all over themselves for the chance to win Maidenstone. And I’ve behaved myself perfectly. You would think that one of them, at least, would have asked me to marry them by now.”

Until today, it hadn’t rankled quite so much that no one had taken an interest in her. It seemed rational that no one would have proposed yet — how could anyone decide to marry someone that quickly? And she’d been too busy with the party to get to know many of the suitors anyway.

But while Lucy had run herself ragged overseeing everything with enough rigor to make an admiral proud, her cousins had arrived and made love matches. Callista had snared the Duke of Thorington even though she had arrived straight off a ship looking for all the world like a daring privateer — which, it turned out, she was. And Octavia — Octavia — had immediately attracted Lord Rafael, Thorington’s brother.

That morning, Callista and Thorington had married.

That afternoon, Octavia and Rafe had disappeared together.

And Lucy was no closer to a match than she’d ever been.

“If someone had offered for you, would you have said yes?” Emma asked.

“Of course,” Lucy said.

“No matter who it was?”

Lucy couldn’t think of a single suitor who excited her — but she didn’t exactly hate any of them. She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t say I would have been happy to say yes. But you married my grandfather for security. You surely can understand why I would say yes to someone uninteresting for the sake of winning Maidenstone.”

“My situation was different. Marrying him paid my entire family’s debts. And anyway, I knew that it wouldn’t be forever. No offense meant, of course.”

“So do you suggest that I marry an old man?”

Emma laughed. “No. But I was lucky. Lord Maidenstone became a good friend. We loved each other, in our own way. And he was vastly interesting, even when he was as irritating as any man I’d met in my life. You’ll die of boredom within a week if you marry one of the men here.”

“My duty isn’t to enjoy myself. My duty is to Maidenstone, and to keeping Julia safe.”

Julia and Mrs. Pearce had moved to a small cottage a mile away from Maidenstone — if any guests happened to pass by, they would assume Julia was a tenant’s child, not Lucy’s. Lucy made time to sneak away and see Julia every day, but it wasn’t enough.

“But your grandfather didn’t want you to see Maidenstone as your duty,” Emma pointed out.

“He’s not here anymore. And he surely knew me well enough to know that I wouldn’t give up Maidenstone that easily.”

Emma sighed. They’d had this argument before. This was the part of the conversation where Emma would expound about the virtues of love, and how love could conquer all obstacles, etc., etc. Love would supposedly protect Lucy and Julia in the future, if Lucy married the right man.

But Lucy had a history of loving the wrong man. And she wouldn’t make that mistake again unless she could better control the odds.

She was ready to tell Emma that again, but Emma surprised her by taking a different approach. “Have you enjoyed anything at all about this party?”

Lucy considered the question. “Octavia apologized to me earlier today. That was enjoyable.”

“Octavia apologized?” Emma asked. Then she shook her head. “Don’t distract me. I’ll want to hear that story later, but for now, we’re discussing you. What have you enjoyed about this party?”

Lucy looked up at the house. “I enjoyed seeing Maidenstone decorated. Grandfather used to host….”

“No,” Emma said, interrupting her. “Any people? Conversations?”

She wanted to say something flippant, but Emma’s blue eyes were too serious. The countess wouldn’t let Lucy off the hook. So she thought back over the previous ten days…

…and drew a blank.

“Some of the women seem friendly enough,” Lucy said doubtfully. “I’m surprised Ferguson managed to marry Madeleine — she’s too nice for him.”

“Ferguson’s sisters are lovely too. So are Thorington’s, if you haven’t noticed.”

Those were the girls she’d observed holding court in the drawing room earlier. Lucy made a noncommittal sound, hoping Emma wouldn’t keep pressing. “I’m supposed to find a husband, not a friend.”

“A husband could be a friend,” Emma said.

“Most men aren’t friends.”

“And most men aren’t Lord Chapman.”

Lucy crossed her arms. “Do you wish to say anything else? We should go into dinner soon.”

Emma’s face softened. “I just don’t want to see you marry a man because he fits some list of requirements.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Lucy said. “No one here fits the list.”

Emma swatted her arm. “Fine. Don’t listen to me. But I hope you get it into that stubborn Briarley skull of yours that you don’t need Maidenstone to be happy. Promise me you’ll try to enjoy the party going forward? Even if you don’t find a husband?”

Lucy heard the sound of conversation through the open windows. They were too far away for any of it to be distinct, but she guessed what she might hear. It was all dull, desultory. Meaningless. The party was filled with people she didn’t understand, who wanted things she didn’t want, and who spoke in circles she didn’t have patience for.

Lucy had never enjoyed parties. She preferred her friendships to be like her garden — carefully cultivated, changing through the seasons, and yet steady. Something she could spend hours with. Something she could trust would be there in the morning.

Something that let her be Lucy, and not a Briarley heiress.

“I don’t know if I can promise that,” she said slowly.

Emma hugged her unexpectedly. “You are a wonderful woman, Lucretia Briarley,” she said fiercely, squeezing Lucy harder than necessary. “Let yourself be happy.”

And then Lucy was worried that she would cry after all, right there on the terrace. But she had more than enough practice controlling her emotions. She kept her face composed. “You’re wonderful too,” she said, pulling away. “I promise I will try to enjoy myself.”

“Good,” Emma said.

“But I still plan to win Maidenstone.”

Emma laughed. “Can’t let me think I’ve succeeded for even a moment, can you?”

Lucy smiled, but it tasted bittersweet. “I appreciate your lecture. Truly. And I’ll try to have fun. But Julia and Maidenstone still come first.”

She walked back into the drawing room and scanned the crowd. It would be another ten minutes before she would lead them into the dining room. Most of her guests were already drinking.

Would having a drink count as fun?

She was tempted — but she couldn’t trust herself with it. She’d slept with Chapman after too much champagne and talk of love one night — then slept with him again after a night of burgundy and bad decisions, when he’d convinced her that he loved her and that their “secret engagement” could be announced at the end of the season.

It wasn’t the wine’s fault that she had fallen in love with him. But she now kept her wine consumption at a minimum. Still, it would be a shame if the wine her grandfather had collected so carefully was consumed by others without her ever tasting it.

Before she could decide whether to ask a footman for a glass, Ferguson strolled up to her. She steeled herself for whatever he might say to her. He wasn’t horrible, exactly, but he had never tried to put her at ease, even though the circumstances were so unusual.

Lucy disliked him for making her host this party.

Disliked him immensely, if she were being honest.

She suspected the feeling was mutual.

“How do you do, Miss Briarley?” he asked.

“Well enough. Are you happy for Thorington and Callista?”

He grimaced. “Thorington is not my first choice for a new cousin-in-law. Never thought I’d see the day when I was related to him.”

Lucy felt a little flicker of hope. Ferguson was better known in the ton as the Duke of Rothwell, which meant he was one of the few men unimpressed by Thorington’s title. “Thorington isn’t the nicest man in the world, is he?”

She didn’t totally believe that. But if Ferguson believed it, he might not give the estate to Thorington and Callista — which would help her chances.

Ferguson looked at her with something that veered between sympathy and pity. “My opinion of Thorington improved over the course of the party. Strange, how a villain can turn out to be something more than I expected.”

“I thought you might be disinclined to accept him as a possible claimant to the estate,” she said carefully.

“That’s a lot of words for the question you want to ask.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you going to let him win?”

Ferguson shrugged. “Depends on who you marry, my dear. Do you actually intend to marry, or do you want to host this house party indefinitely?”

She really did hate Ferguson sometimes. “The thought has occurred to me that if the party lasts forever, it will bleed the estate dry before one of my cousins wins it.”

Ferguson tilted his head, as though he hadn’t heard her clearly. “Was that a jest? From you?”

“I do have a sense of humor,” she said, so stiffly that she probably sounded completely humorless.

He laughed like it was another jest. “I haven’t noticed it before.”

Sometimes she didn’t just hate him — she wanted to murder him. “Are you always this rude?”

She said it without thinking. But he’d driven her past her breaking point. He’d made it so clear, throughout the party, that he thought Callista was more interesting than Lucy. And when Octavia had arrived, sauntering in like she already owned the place, Ferguson had been completely enchanted by her.

Meanwhile, Lucy had kept the estate running, made sure the kitchens could feed nearly a hundred people every night, hosted a ball for the entire county, and spent her mornings waking up early so that she could steal a few moments with Julia before anyone else was up and about.

It was easy enough for Callista and Octavia to make love matches. They didn’t have to think of anyone but themselves.

That thought was so bitter that she was almost embarrassed by it.

Ferguson arched an eyebrow. “Did you just criticize me? What has put you into such a state, Miss Briarley?”

A little ripple of silence spread around them, snuffing conversation like a blown-out candle. Whether anyone wanted to court her or not, Lucy was still a Briarley heiress. Her every move was open to dissection by her guests.

The correct thing to do would be to apologize. But Ferguson was insufferable. And she was so tired of doing what was expected.

She lifted her chin. “I can’t help but think you are rude just to incite reactions in others.”

He lifted his quizzing glass to his eye, examining her in a way that was blatantly intended to make her uncomfortable. She didn’t move, but she wanted to take that quizzing glass and grind it under her heel….

He chuckled and dropped the glass into his pocket. “I’ve seen that look before. You wish to murder me.”

“I am a Briarley. Murder is in our blood.”

She didn’t know where those words had come from. She’d tried so hard, for weeks, to be perfectly behaved — to show that she, and not Callie or Octavia, deserved to inherit Maidenstone. That she, not her cousins, deserved the best marriage possible.

But she wasn’t nearly as virtuous as they all thought she was. And she was growing tired of pretending — and of hosting a party full of people who had nothing better to do than eat her food and gossip about her.

Still, the smart thing to do would be to apologize. But before she could, her butler came into the drawing room.

He was six minutes early. Claxton never showed panic, no matter how difficult the guests were or how badly the preparations in the kitchen had gone that day. But when he looked at her, ashen-faced, Lucy assumed the worst. That the kitchens had burned down, or the village was on fire. Or that Julia….

Her heart stopped.

He walked with his usual decorum, but it looked like he wanted to run or faint. He came to a stop next to her and Ferguson. “Miss Lucy,” he said, as softly as he could without drawing too much attention. “A new guest has arrived.”

Lucy frowned. She wasn’t expecting anyone. “Who is it?”

The butler handed her a card. The paper was plain and inexpensive, without the embossed embellishments that a rich gentleman might use.

Mr. Maximus Vale.

She had no idea who he was.

She handed the card to Ferguson. “Did you invite him?”

Ferguson also frowned. “No. Is he one of your grandfather’s creditors?”

“Grandfather always paid his debts,” Lucy said, taking the card back from him. She looked up at Claxton. Claxton wouldn’t panic over a creditor. He would have sent Mr. Vale to the kitchens and dealt with him later.

“Can Mr. Vale wait until after dinner?” she asked.

A small, tight shake of his head told her everything she needed to know.

Lucy nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, your grace, I should see to our new arrival.”

“I shall escort you,” he said, offering his arm. “This sounds like an interesting bit of business.”

Lucy shrugged. “If you promise not to be rude until we know what this man wants, I shan’t stop you.”

“Another jest,” he marveled as they followed Claxton out of the drawing room. “You may have some personality after all.”

Lucy didn’t take the bait. They walked in silence. Whoever the man was, she would send him on his way. She already felt a little silly for allowing Ferguson to accompany her. She’d been in charge at Maidenstone for ages — there was no problem she couldn’t solve.

She walked into the receiving room where Claxton had installed Mr. Vale. A man stood framed in the window opposite the door, looking out over the gardens. A girl stood next to him, but Lucy scarcely noticed her — Mr. Vale drew her attention entirely, without saying a word. He held his hat in his hand, as though his call might only take a few minutes — but he had the air of someone who intended to stay. His suit looked inexpensive and his arrival was at an entirely unfashionable hour. But his stance said he was in command, even though she was sure she’d never seen him before in her life.

He couldn’t be a creditor. But he also couldn’t be a guest. Everyone Ferguson had invited was safe. Boring. Unthreatening. This man stood in the window like he was already imagining himself as lord of all he surveyed.

Her awareness of him was instant.

And incredibly unwelcome.

She had a whole house full of guests whose dossiers she knew. But it was the confident, almost arrogant set of the stranger’s shoulders that made her heart lurch.

“Mr. Vale,” Claxton announced.

She gave herself a mental shake. Her heart had lurched like that before — for a man whose arrogance had seemed charming at the time, until she recognized Lord Chapman for what he was. She would hear why this man had come, and then she would send him away. No mess, no fuss.

Mr. Vale turned and strode across the room, quickly enough to make her believe he was eager to meet her, yet leisurely enough to reinforce the impression she had of him — that he was exactly where he planned to be, and that this call would last as long as he wanted it to.

“You must be Miss Briarley,” he said, bowing to her.

She offered her hand automatically. When he took it, she wished she hadn’t. She felt the stripes of calluses on his palm even through her glove. But his fingers were perfect and his grip steady as he brought her hand to his lips.

Don’t don’t don’t….

But her traitorous Briarley heart didn’t listen. Why did it lurch again as his lips grazed her fingers?

It didn’t matter. “You have the advantage of me, Mr. Vale,” she said coolly, taking her hand back. Her heart was thundering, but she was a master at keeping the ice in her voice. “What business do you have here?”

He smiled. It was a friendly smile — the kind that invited trust and confidence. But she’d been lured in by smiles before. She looked at his eyes instead.

They were light brown, almost hazel, with dark and gold flecks floating over the depths. She saw nothing to fear — nothing that contradicted his smile, or the steadiness of his fingers as he kissed her hand. Nothing dark lurked there, even though there was a small scar on his cheek and another on his chin — more evidence that he wasn’t a man she might have expected as a guest.

“My card says Maximus Vale,” he said. “But I believe it should say Maximus Briarley.”

There was a long, awkward silence.

“I beg your pardon?” Lucy said.

Her first thought — her only thought — was that he was offering to marry her and take her name. It would have been a bold strategy — but then, someone else should have already proposed to her for the estate by now. She had been hurt, more than she wanted to admit, that no one had. And it was very nearly a relief that someone would do it now. Even though they’d never met. Even though she would be expected to decline a proposal from someone she didn’t know.

But he shrugged his shoulders in a little gesture that said he knew that his words would be unwelcome, but he couldn’t keep himself from saying them. “I’m a descendent of the first Earl of Maidenstone.”