“I am going back to the house,” she told him.

“And like the gentleman I am I will escort you,” he said.

But they did not touch as they walked, or exchange another word. He was reminded of their walk back from the beach to the cottage in Devonshire. He ought to have grabbed her then before the cottage came in sight and had it out properly with her—the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, just as he wanted to do now.

But it would be unfair to her and humiliating to himself to pour out his love now and his commitment to fidelity and forever-after and love eternal and all that drivel. She had tired of him. She had never given the smallest hint that she loved him or wanted a future with him.

Humility attacked him like a hammer blow to the stomach.

She did not love him. She had told him that in so many words. He was going to have to allow her to go free, to extricate herself from this mess somehow. He could not do it himself. A gentleman did not repudiate a betrothal once he had committed to it. Or once he had invited her to his own home, and all her family and his were gathering to celebrate with his neighbors.

Good God! It was enough to make the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

The walk back to the house seemed interminable.

* * *

• • •

After she returned from the dower house with Marcel, Viola retreated to her room and wrestled with the temptation to leave, to send word that her carriage was to be before the doors within a half hour, to send word to Abigail that she must pack up her things without delay. She wanted to be gone. She wanted to forget.

Two months or so ago she had run from Bath—to escape from the suffocating love of her family. Two days after that she had run again—to escape from herself to the mindless pleasure of a love affair with a libertine. Much good it had all done her. It had brought her to this, to an entanglement far more complicated than anything she had known before.

For this time, of course, she could not run. Estelle had gone to a great deal of trouble to plan this house party and the betrothal party tomorrow evening. And she was bubbling over with excitement, a girl of seventeen who had lived a sheltered existence with her uncle and aunt but who had longed for her father’s presence in her life and now thought she was about to get it.

She could not run. Her mother was on the way here. Camille and Joel and the children were on the way. So were Michael and Mary. So were all the Westcotts, even her former mother-in-law. Even Anna, Humphrey’s legitimate daughter. And Wren, with whom she had struck up such a lovely and unexpected friendship back in the spring. Wren was pregnant, but she was coming anyway. Viola could not possibly not be here herself when they arrived.

And there was Marcel. He had accepted reality this morning, telling her that he would not stand in the way of her announcing that there was to be no betrothal. And only she could do that, of course. Honor dictated that the man could not.

And this morning he had told her how his wife died and had claimed that he killed her. She did not for a moment believe him, though she believed he did. What had happened? She ached to know, but she had no right to insist. They were not going to be married. She had felt in him this morning, however, an unbearable pain at the memories he had held close all these years and refused to share now.

What had happened?

She had ached to tell him she loved him, that when she had said down on the beach that she needed to go home, she had not meant that she was tired of their affair, that she had no feelings left for him. But she had not said it. He had not announced their betrothal because he loved her and wanted to marry her. She could be absolutely sure of that, having known him and his reputation for many years. He was not a settling man. He had told her he was glad he had not been forced to speak up first. He had told her he did not like to hurt his women.

His women.

Plural.

As she had always known. As she knew when she agreed to run away with him.

She could not run, then, but she could not stay either. She could not marry him, but she could not break the betrothal either. She could not love him, but she could not stop loving him either.

She stayed. Of course she did. And she prepared for the arrival of his sister and her own family. She drew about her the long-familiar mantle of the Countess of Riverdale and waited.

But what was she to do? She could not marry Marcel.

What was she to do?

* * *

• • •

Annemarie and William Cornish were first to arrive, early in the afternoon, bringing their two young children with them. Marcel and the twins met them on the terrace. Estelle hugged the children, aged seven and five, while Bertrand shook William’s hand and Marcel found himself being hugged tightly by his sister.

“I am so very happy that you are to remarry at last, Marc,” she said. “And not before time either. I have hardly stopped talking about it, have I, Will?”

Cornish exchanged a sober glance with his brother-in-law but said nothing.

As usual Annemarie filled the drawing room with her presence as soon as they stepped inside it. She hugged everyone gathered there, including Abigail and Viola, talking the whole while.

“I was just telling Marc how delighted I am,” she told Viola. “Marriage will be good for him. It is high time he settled down. Gracious, he is forty. Just imagine! And you will be able to bring Estelle out during the Season in London next spring, and your daughter will be good company for her. They will be stepsisters. It will be a dream come true, I am sure, for Estelle to have her own stepmother sponsoring her.”

William cleared his throat, and she looked at him inquiringly before wheeling about to smile at Jane. “I am perfectly sure you were willingly and selflessly prepared to take Estelle to London yourself, Jane. But I am sure that now you must be eager to resume your own interrupted life at last.”

“Well, it was interrupted, Annemarie,” Jane admitted, “quite suddenly and unexpectedly when our own children were no older than yours are now. But Charles and I would do it again and for twice as long if we had to. I was dearly fond of Adeline, and I am dearly fond of her children.”

Marcel had never really thought of the past seventeen years in terms of any sacrifice Jane and Charles Morrow had had to make. He had always recognized his need of them, but he had always seen it from his point of view. Never from theirs. He had resented their influence over his children even though he had chosen not to raise them himself. They had left behind a home of their own in order to move to Elm Court—theirs had been leased out until very recently by a retired admiral and his wife.

The thing was, though, he did not want to start looking at things from other people’s point of view. His own was quite bothersome enough.

And this was just the beginning. Viola’s own family, Kingsleys and Westcotts, would be here before the day was out. Not counting children, Estelle had informed him, there were to be seventeen of them. Seventeen. And that was in addition to Abigail and Viola herself.

He felt an almost overwhelming urge to leave. Just to walk out, get his carriage, or even just saddle a horse, and leave. His baggage and his valet could follow him. No explanations to anyone. No warnings. No goodbyes. He had done it before—more than once. Just a couple of months or so ago he would not have hesitated, or looked back, or suffered a qualm of conscience.

This time it just could not be done. For his daughter—and his son too—stood squarely in his way. He looked from one to the other of them as chatter continued around him—and felt an equal measure of resentment and aching love. Estelle was flushed and bubbling over with excitement now with the arrival of her uncle and aunt and the imminent appearance of the seventeen. He was not certain how many neighbors were expected to come to the party tomorrow evening. He had not asked. He did not want to know.