Chapter One

There is no better place or time than the London Season for any marriage-minded woman in want of a good match.

Elise tapped her foot impatiently beneath the soft tangle of skirts as she stared out of the drawing room window. This was her second year out, and yet it was set to pass without incident, on account of her not being allowed to go to London, where the genuine spirit of the Season could be felt.

Even as she stared longingly out the window, a raven flew down to rest on her windowsill. That was a terrible omen. As if she needed any more evidence to crush any surviving hope of being taken to London by her father. She wanted nothing more than to dress for an outrageous soiree on the Ton where she could indulge her innermost whims and desires, having the time of her life. She was tired of being trapped at home while other young women of her age had the pleasure of theatre parties, balls, and grand masquerades. She wanted more. She wanted more, so much that it hurt.

A knock sounded at her door.

“Who is it?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

A soft, charitable voice replied. “It’s me my Lady. Henrietta.”

Elise smiled and swivelled to face the door. “Do come in, Henrietta.”

Henrietta, her lady’s maid, appeared in the open doorway with a smile and a tray of letters. “A letter has come in for you, my Lady.”

Elise gave a start, almost jumping at the sudden jolt of excitement. “A letter?”

Henrietta smiled, nodding vigorously.

Elise darted forward and ran a hand over the tray. “From whom Henrietta?”

“Lady Amy Andrews.”

Elise picked the letter up from the tray, examining the seal. Upon prying it open, she found it was written in the unmistakable cursive of a woman tutored to the highest standards of calligraphy.

Elise smiled as she read:

My dearest Elise, I have missed you dearly in the time since we last spoke. How have you been? I do hope you are well. I have come to believe that you belong to a very peculiar category of person. The sort who has all the beauty, elegance and grace one could ever imagine but manages to never show it to the world. For that reason, I write with the sincerest hope that you respond to this invitation favourably. I wish for you to visit me in our home in London and attend all the events of the Season. This year promises to be a particular delight, and I would love nothing more than to have you, my best friend, by my side. Do think about it.

Your dear friend, Amy,

Elise folded the letter away and drew in a long, protracted breath. Henrietta stood at her side with a look of inquiry on her face. Though Henrietta served as Elise’s lady’s maid, she also took on the role of the adviser and confidant to Elise. She possessed a strength of understanding and calmness in judgment, which made her not just an attendant but a close and trusted friend. Henrietta gave a rough, indiscriminate cough which was as clear a call for details as asking the outright question.

“My dear friend Amy wants me to come to London, to spend the Season with her.”

Henrietta clapped her hands at her cheeks. “Lady Elise, that is delightful. The weather is fair, and all the talk from down in London is that this promises to be a Season to remember.”

“Papa will never allow it. He hates London and all the Season’s events. They remind him of-” she trailed off, leaving the sentiment incomplete.

Henrietta knew the words that had gone unsaid. “Surely we mustn’t presume, my Lady. The Lord is a reasonable man, and I do say you are certainly of age for the Season. Why don’t you try speaking to him? He might surprise you.”

Elise did not want to let her hopes rise. It would simply hurt too much if they were dashed again. But she couldn’t help herself; here was a clear, uncomplicated invitation to attend the Season. An opportunity, if nothing else, to leave Hertfordshire. Henrietta was right, she had to try.

Elise touched her lip, considering her options. “Is Papa back from his ride?”

“Yes, my Lady,” said Henrietta, “In fact, he has already settled into his study.”

Elise swallowed. Going to see her father in his study was almost always a daunting affair. It was in his study that her father was at his most intimidating. The desk seemed so small and her father so large that when he stood behind it, he seemed a very frightening man indeed.

She made her way to the study and stared at the door. Her heart started to beat faster, and she balled her hands up into fists, breathing through her nose. Her effort to summon courage achieved only partial success. The terror was there in great measure. Her father, Lord Hammington, was far from a wicked man, but he was stern as an old oak tree and had no patience for fools. When he attended to business, it was with ruthless efficiency, and he cared little for giving the appearance of geniality to anyone but his horses. On the best of days, talking to her father was a challenge, but when it came to the subject of London and her desire to taste of the pomp and pageantry of the Ton, he was particularly obstinate. Worse still, the Barony had fallen on hard times because of some bad investments, followed by a bad harvest and the succeeding effect on yields and repayment obligations. They had tried to disguise their increasingly desperate straits by quietly reducing their number of servants and selling off some valuable assets, but as it was, their family was not far from the brink of ruin. That had put her father in particularly bad spirits of late. Steeling herself, she leaned forward and gently knocked on the door.

Her father’s voice came as though from the heavens. Deep and foreboding. “Come in.”

She sucked in a breath and pushed the door open. Her father stood at his full, towering height with arms folded across his chest. His scowl was etched deep, and he narrowed his eyes as he studied her. He had always been a physically imposing man, but there was also a terrible concentration in his stare that made it hard to hold his gaze for anything longer than a moment. A thick grey-white beard hung from his chin like a swathe of seafoam, and his brows had a most singular arch that almost touched the temples.

Elise forced herself to meet his eyes, smiled, then gave a gentle curtsy. “Welcome back, father.”

Lord Hammington tilted his neck until it clicked and let out a small breath. “How may I help you, Elise?”

Elise opened her mouth and then closed it again, fumbling at the words. She came to the brink of abandoning the idea altogether. Such was the intensity of his penetrating stare when he regarded her. He didn’t press her on the question to her relief and gave her the time to get the words out.

“I received a letter from my dear friend Lady Amy Andrews today.”

Lord Hammington raised an eyebrow and gave the semblance of an ingratiating smile. “How is she?”

“She is well, Papa.”

He nodded. “Good.”

This was it. Her moment of truth.

“Amy has invited me to spend a few weeks at her family’s home. To attend the Season with her.”

Lord Hammington’s grip seemed to tighten about his arms as she spoke, but his calculating expression did not change.

“Which home is Amy referring to in her letter?” Lord Hammington asked absentmindedly.

Elise coloured violently, fearing the outcome of her words. “Their home in London, of course, father.”

Lord Hammington was silent for a long moment, his eyes narrowed to slits.

“London,” he said finally, shaking his head. “No, not London.”

Elise lowered her voice to a volume she only supplied in times of supplication. “Father, every year I grow older, and yet you have not allowed me the opportunity to make a good match, to meet a good husband. We could certainly use the benefit of a good marriage for me.”

He snorted. “There are many good husbands to be found about the country. There is no particular need to go to London. I am already making arrangements and negotiating for a good match for you. You need not worry yourself on this account.”

Elise narrowed her eyes. This had always been an area of a great struggle between her and her father. Elise had never been explicitly marriage-minded, but she always believed that when she did get married, it should be for love with someone who cared about her. To her, the idea of marriage to a man with whom she had no connection or attachment was entirely abhorrent. Her parents had set a shining example, which she felt morally inclined to follow.

The love her parents had shared was impressed strongly in her mind. They stood by each other’s side on good days and stood closer on bad days. Both joy and sadness were things that they shared, and they enjoyed nothing more than being in one another’s company. Having seen that in her childhood, how could she not consider love an essential ingredient in marriage? She was committed to marrying a man with wit and colour about him. A man who read and understood much beyond the affairs of business. Who found value in art, poetry, and music. Her father knew this and for him to allude to already making arrangements for her marriage was close to an act of intimidation which she would not countenance easily. All the same, she needed his permission to go to London, and she was desperate to have it. So she picked her words very carefully.

“Father, would you be so cruel to me as not to allow me any say on my own marriage?”

Her father blinked and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know you are particular about your marriage Elise, and I fear you will not make it easy on me. Should I choose a husband without your word on the matter-”

Elise gave a small smile. “You may be correct on that count, father.”

Her father snorted. “I am more than willing to allow you a say in who your husband should be, provided the gentleman be of good breeding and manners, but the gentleman in question does not need to be in London. You don’t know what it’s like in London. I do. There are pickpockets on every corner, and rats fed fat on the muck about the street. I have known nothing good to ever come of that place.”

Perhaps in her father’s mind, his words would have put her off on the idea of seeing London. In truth, they had only strengthened her resolve to go. She wanted to see this place, which promised all the excitement she had craved in her life. To know for sure if what he was saying was true. Her father hated London and never spoke a single pleasant word about it.

Elise knew that it was because her mother had once loved London, and to recollect that connection had often proved too hard for her father to bear. Elise understood his pain intimately. The pain of losing a mother was like a shadow, trailing her everywhere she went. A part of her that would never leave for good. Every time she saw a woman of like age to her mother, she was reminded of all her mother’s dreams that had been cut short, and the pain came again. She knew London was not her father’s true enemy. His true enemy was pain.

She gave her father a questioning eyebrow. “Surely, Father, London is not quite so terrible.”

“Oh, it is,” Lord Hammington replied.

“Wasn’t that where you met my mother?” Elise urged. “If it is such a terrible place, what were you both doing there? And finding love no less.”

A deathly silence fell upon the room. Elise knew she had stepped close to the mark of her father’s incandescence, but that was always the way with the man. You had to sometimes go to extremes to get him to agree with you.

Lord Hammington’s scowl somehow deepened. His face hard enough to withstand hammer and anvil.

“Do not use your mother’s memory as a weapon against me,” he said, his voice almost in a whisper.

Elise gave a start. “I am not using her father. I only ask that I be allowed the same privileges that she was once allowed. To go into London and attend the Season.”

Lord Hammington scratched his chin, seeming to consider it. “How long would you be gone?”

Elise was taken aback. It seemed as though he was really considering her request. “Four weeks at the very most, my Lord,” Elisa said.

“Three weeks,” he supplied.

Elise nearly jumped but remastered herself to contain her unbridled glee. She would have accepted two weeks, two days even. Three weeks was a wonderful opportunity.

“Agreed, three weeks would be adequate, father,” she said, scarcely able to contain the smile at the corners of her mouth.

Her father’s countenance changed, and for a moment, Elise feared he was going to reject the proposal outright once again and that all would be lost.

Desperate to go, she hurried to make a promise.

“I make this promise to you, Father, if you let me go, then I will marry whomever you decide without a word of complaint.”

Her father raised an eyebrow and combed through his beard. Those moments seemed to last an eternity as Elise waited with bated breath for his answer.

“Alright, Elise,” he said at last. “You may go for three weeks and not a day more, and when you return, I will have found a fitting suitor. I will hold you to your word and expect no complaints from whomever I choose.”

Elise pursed her lips and nodded firmly. It was a steep price to pay, but once she had said it, she was sure that she would make the forfeit. This was her one chance to enjoy all the promises of the Season at least once in her life. She tried to console herself about her decision by considering whether love in marriage was even possible at all. She knew it was, for she had seen it, but even so, perhaps it was not available for her. Men were – even at the best of times – vexing creatures, and it was to Elise’s credit that she was possessed of such long-suffering and unbothered disposition that she felt she could learn to tolerate any man she married so long as he was not cruel to her and treated her with respect. She could learn to live with whatever man her father picked, but she could never learn to abandon her desire for some form of adventure in life. Her mind was made up.

“I agree, father.”

She stepped out of the study and found Henrietta waiting patiently in the corridor. A glance was the only invitation Henrietta needed to fall into step as they started towards her bedchamber. Elise, barely able to stop herself from sprinting up the stairs, laughed as she opened the door and entered the bedchamber.

With a knowing smile, Henrietta shut the door firmly behind them. “Was my Lord disposed to granting permission, my Lady?”

Elise blinked. “Indeed he was. You were right!”

Henrietta beamed. “I’ll prepare your best dresses, my Lady.”

Elise reached out and clasped Henrietta by the hand. “How fun this will be! In two weeks, we will be on our way to London for the Season, and we will have the very best time.”

She wondered for a moment whether she had paid too steep a price for a prize. London would be a dream, but what if her father fixed a marriage that would become a nightmare?

Chapter Two

Her kiss on his neck was soft and subtle as the fall of hourglass sand. His neck was dry, and her lips were wet, and his whole body came to attention when they met. He ran a finger up her spine and straightened as he allowed himself to get a good look at her, his eyes narrowed to drunken slits. Her dress was tight to her form; black silk without a hint of frippery. Her smile was a promise of a good time. Her eyes were a most peculiar blue, almost grey.

“What is your name?” Stephan asked, studying her.

“Sabrina, my Lord,” she said, dropping into a deep curtsy. “Do my kisses please you?”

Her accent had a slightly French affectation. He wondered if it was put on or genuine. To her question, he smiled and then nodded once.

She smiled in return and took his affirmation as an invitation to take up the vacant velvet chaise next to him. He breathed in the powdery musk of her perfume as she pressed her palm gently against his knee and sat with the perfect courtesan poise.

The hall before them was filled with groups of men playing games of chance, skill, and utter ruination. Here and there, courtesans prowled the room with feline grace, crooning and fluttering fans between them. This was the debauchery of the highest class, and Lord Stephan Andrews was completely at home.

The Denning’s gentleman’s club had built its reputation on two impregnable pillars: discretion and delight. On the first count, its reputation was well founded; secrecy amongst members was sacrosanct, and even word of who one had seen in Denning’s was not to be spoken of outside its walls. On the second count, Denning’s had no equal. It was a place where a gentleman’s every desire could be met with matching fervour. All that was required for admittance to its hallowed halls were there was the white token of membership stamped by Sir James Denning himself. Stephan had been in possession of one such token for many years now and had regularly used it in his misspent youth.

Coloured light gleamed on his empty glass as he raised it towards a passing waiter. Before he lowered it, it was full once more, and he allowed himself a generous sip to test the quality. As always with Denning’s, it was exquisite. He had been drinking all night but had a great deal of experience managing insobriety.

He watched as a group of men engaged in a raucous game of Whist, laughing uproariously, slapping the table, and calling out names. It was good to watch people be free. Denning’s was a place where anyone could be free.

He glanced over at Sabrina and considered that perhaps not everyone in Denning’s was free. He wondered if that was truly her real name.

“Sabrina?” he asked.

She inclined her head towards him with an inviting smile. “My Lord?”

“If money was no object at all if you had all the money you could ever require, what would you do with your life?”

“Excuse me?” she asked, leaning back.

Stephan drew in a breath. “If you didn’t need money, what would you do with your life?”

For a moment, she stared at him like he was mad. Then she wet her lips thoughtfully. “I suppose I would travel.”

Stephan smiled. “Where to?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, somewhere near the water. I’d quite like to go to Brighton.”

She seemed excited by the thought of it. As though she was on her way to Brighton there and then. It was the first moment in which she had lost her perfect womanly poise. Evidently, this was not the sort of conversation with which she was typically engaged with the patrons of Denning’s gentleman’s club.

Stephan threw back the last of his drink and raised his glass for another; a waiter quickly obliged.

“I hear Brighton is splendid,” Stephan said, taking a sip from his newly filled glass, “though I am not quite so fond of the sun.”

She laughed as though he had cracked a hilarious joke. It was perhaps the worst imitation of laughter he had ever heard, and when it came to false laughter, Stephan had bottomless experience. When you are a young Earl, all your jokes get all the laughs, and half the laughs are always wrong. Flattery, unfortunately, did very little to raise his spirits for the occasion.

He looked into Sabrina’s remarkable eyes. They had a gleam of hungry expectation. An expectation of how tonight was supposed to go. He knew it, too; in a way, they were both doing what they needed to get by for the day.

“Can I get you anything, my Lord? Anything at all?” her eyes now had a sinister gleam, and Stephan’s blood was finally beginning to rise.

He climbed to his feet, swaying slightly from the drink as he did so. “Shall we retire to one of the private rooms?” he asked.

She drew herself up to stand in front of him. At full height, she came only to his ribs.

“I think we shall, my Lord.”

Stephan offered her his arm as they turned in the direction of the private rooms.

The entrance door behind them was suddenly thrown open so hard it bounced against the wall. The sound caused Stephan to glance over his shoulder.

His eyes alighted on a handsome man, strong-boned with a thick obstinate chin. Pale with dark hair that took to curling about his head. Stephan cursed under his breath. If there was one man in the entire country who Stephan did not want to see, it was Thomas Dane, the Marquess of Plymouth.

The Marquess strode in with all the pride of a prince on his day of succession. The room seemed to hush in silence as he walked in. Many of them knew the history between Stephan and the Marquess, and he could sense them start to brace for drama. Hungry eyes fell on them, waiting to see how they would act around one another.

The vein at Stephan’s temple throbbed as the Marquess immediately set his sights on one of the courtesans. A woman dressed in emerald green, holding a fan about her face, lowered it to swoon at the Marquess. He moved towards the courtesan, the entire room watching the display with interest.

As he finally approached the courtesan, he glanced directly at Stephan and grinned at him.

Stephan scowled. The Marquess was goading him. He had seen enough. He turned back to Sabrina and began to walk towards the private room.

The Marquess’ voice cut through the room. “What a wonderful feeling it is to have any woman I want.”

Stephan wanted to keep walking, but he found his body was tense all over. His teeth were gritted, and his free hand was curled into a tight fist.

“Are you well, my Lord?” Sabrina asked.

Stephan ignored her as he glanced over his shoulder. The Marquess stood with a woman on each arm and a wide, serpentine smile on his lips. He looked directly at Stephan, and he silently mouthed the words: ‘any woman I want.’

The anger was there. It was all over, hot and hungry. He pictured himself walking up to the Marquess and striking him, but his mind was filled with memories of her. Of the woman, he had once loved with every inch of his being. Maria.

He winced as the memories came flooding back. Everything about that night was still so shockingly clear in his mind. Maria’s silk shawl fluttered in the evening breeze. The tremor of shock he had felt when he found her ensconced in the Marquess’ arms. That unforgettable grin on the Marquess’ face as he fondled her. The way she arched her body against his, her head thrown back in a state of liquid bliss.

“Are you well, my Lord?” Sabrina repeated, calling him back to full consciousness.

The true answer was no. He was absolutely not alright. He wanted to set the Marquess right once and for all. It didn’t matter how many people were there or how many eyes were watching his every move. All the scandal in the world would have been worth the risk if only he could wipe that smug smile from the Marquess’ face. But deep down, he knew that was impossible. Even if he came to blows with the Marquess, even if he beat day and night out of the man. He knew that smile would never leave his face. The Marquess was the undisputed victor of the ultimate prize, and Stephan could never hope to level terms.

Resigned to his fate and still pulsing with anger, he turned to Sabrina. “Perhaps we should reconvene another time, I feel suddenly quite unwell tonight.”

She favoured him with a perfect curtsy and a knowing smile. “Another time, my Lord.”

He inclined his head and stepped out from the door.

He heard the Marquess call out after him. “Leaving so soon?”

A chorus of laughter from the other men in the gentlemen’s club followed that last remark, and it was almost enough to break what was left of Stephan’s restraint. By some effort of inhuman will and discipline, he kept walking and made it into his carriage.

Once inside, he leaned back and let out a sigh of relief. “Let’s go home,” he said to his coachman.

As they rode back towards the Andrews Estate, Stephan glanced out of his carriage window. He could still hear the echo of laughter at the Marquess’ last remark.

Rain began to fall, completing the city’s cruel jibe, and Stephan wished he had not decided to leave his home that night, that he had never set foot in Denning’s. Now the only thing on his mind was Maria.

She had been his first love. His only love. Remembering her face was torture, but it was a torment that he could not stop inflicting on himself for some reason. An unearthly beautiful woman with golden brown hair that shone in every place the light touched it. Her scent made every cord of muscle in his body pulse, and her laugh filled his ears with sweetness. She had neither rival nor superior in elegance and deportment and had a subtle way of making one feel at home. To her, he would have given everything. Anything. His heart had been set on marrying her, and he had told everyone who he cared to know what his intention was.

His mind threw him back to their story, and he recalled how everything had come to a painful end.

Stephan entered the masquerade ball with every expectation of seeing Maria. They had been courting for three months, and each month had been better than the last. In every way, she proved the embodiment of all he wished for in a woman. Their conformity of judgment on every matter of importance was proof to him that there was some truth in the often expressed belief that true love could be felt with one person if you looked hard enough.

He caught sight of her in the ballroom and immediately burst into a smile. She hadn’t seen him, and before he could reach her, she was lost in the throng of people. It took him a long while before he decided to go in search of her, for she did not resurface after his initial sighting of her. He entered the corridor and was entreated by the womanly waft of her perfume. He tracked the scent to the gallery where it was strongest and stepped inside. The room, for all intents and purposes, had appeared empty. He was on the verge of leaving when a single note of laughter stopped him in his tracks. He turned towards the terrace and saw Maria’s silk shawl fluttering in the night breeze. His heart lurched immediately. What if she was in some sort of trouble. He stepped out onto the terrace and froze. Only a few metres in front of him was a scene he instantly knew he would never forget. His love Maria stood in the arms of none other than the Marquess of Plymouth. Her dishevelled petticoat left no mystery as to the object of their entanglement on the terrace, and the smile on the Marquess’ was as good as a confirmation that Maria had not been faithful to him. He knew he ought to alert them to his presence or put an end to it, but for reasons he didn’t completely understand, he found that he couldn’t look away. He just stood there in suspended awe, watching them enjoy one another. The Marquess noticed him and Stephan immediately knew that he had to walk away. He gathered himself and turn to leave. Maria had not seen him, but the Marquess certainly had.

As though to buttress that fact, the Marquess’ smiled a knowing, punishing smile while he buried Maria in his arms.

It was an incredible wound. A wound from which he would likely never recover. That she had betrayed him was pain enough, that all the Ton soon knew about it was a double helping, but the true twist of the knife was that she had chosen the Marquess of Plymouth for that great indignity. Even before that night, the Marquess of Plymouth had been Stephan’s rival during their years at University, they had never been fond of one another.

They darted past the triumphal arch which led towards the Andrews Estate, and a few moments later, the coachman drew rein, pulling the carriage to a stop.

His butler, Mr. Clarkson, arrived to pull open the carriage door.

“Welcome home, my Lord,” Mr. Clarkson said with a subtle bow.

Stephan began his dismount and was suddenly reminded of how much he had been drinking. He placed a hand on Mr. Clarkson’s shoulder, steadying himself.

“Thank you, Clarkson,” he said.

Mr. Clarkson, ever the professional, went ahead of Stephan, making sure that every obstacle and obstruction was cleared from his drunken path as he strode into the house.

“Should I draw up a hot bath, my Lord?”

Stephan shook his head. “No.”

“A pot of tea then, my Lord?”

“Brandy,” Stephan said, swaying with effort. “Bring brandy up to my bedchamber.”

Mr. Clarkson looked at him as though he had announced he was the devil.

“B-Brandy, my Lord?”

Stephan nodded. “Yes, Clarkson, brandy.”

In Clarkson’s eyes, he saw that the man wanted to protest but was caught by his commitment to duty as a butler. Whatever Stephan said, Clarkson would obey no matter how much he personally objected. No doubt the brandy would be watered down, but Clarkson would do the needful.

Clarkson couldn’t understand his pain after all. Seeing the Marquess had brought all the worst memories rushing back, and the only remedy he knew for chasing pain away was to be found at the bottom of a good bottle of liquor.

He stumbled up to his bedchamber and collapsed onto his bed face first with arms outstretched.

A knock sounded at his door.

Assuming it to be Clarkson, he muttered, “Come in.”

It wasn’t Clarkson at all. Standing in the doorway with hands on her hips was his younger sister Amy. His vision was blurry from the drink, but he could still see that she was not impressed with him at all.

“I can smell the liquor from over here,” she said, stepping inside, “and you wanted Mr. Clarkson to bring you more drink.”

Stephan sat up with a smile. He cared for very few people in this cruel world, but there were none he cared more for than his sister Amy.

“I can’t believe Clarkson betrayed me,” Stephan said, trying to focus.

Amy gave him an exasperated look. “He didn’t betray you, he conveniently made a noise as he walked past my bedchamber and when I asked him who the brandy was for, he told me what I needed to know.”

“Sounds like a betrayal to me,” Stephan said.

“All for your own good, dear brother.”

A knock sounded at the door, and the siblings simultaneously said, “Come in.”

Mr. Clarkson appeared with a tray containing a pot of coffee and a single porcelain cup. He smiled sheepishly as he shuffled into the room.

“I’m sorry, my Lord, I was about bringing the brandy when Lady Amy-”

“Spare me, Clarkson,” Stephan said, raising a hand. “I know how you both conspire against me.”

“It is our duty to take care of you as Lord of the Manor, and that means making sure you don’t drink yourself to an early grave,” Amy said, pouring out a measure of coffee. “Drink this.”

Stephan obliged. To be truthful, the first sip of coffee seemed to shift him towards sobriety. The trouble was that he wanted to be as far from sobriety at that moment as possible.

“You sound just like Mother when you talk like that,” Stephan said.

She gestured to Mr. Clarkson. The butler, knowing his part, shuffled out of the room.

Amy turned her eyes on him. “Please talk to me, dear brother, whatever is the matter to have you drinking so recklessly. I know you are fond of a good cup, but this is unseemly.”

Stephan let out a heavy breath and stared up at the ceiling. Amy was his sister, the one person who understood a semblance of his pain. The one person he could always talk to.

“I saw the Marquess. At Denning’s,” he said.

Amy’s face fell. “Oh, dear.”

Stephan nodded. “My mind has been full of Maria. I just wanted to… I wanted to forget.”

Amy drew in a deep, contemplative breath, and she put a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Sometimes a heart is broken so that it can become stronger in the broken places. To love more completely when the real thing comes along.”

Stephan laughed. “I’ll never love again.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Oh yes, you will, and next time, you’ll be loved in return.”

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