No one else ever chastised her for her fibs. But Mr. Waldon had no humor in him, and thinking of marrying him weighed on her insides as if she had swallowed Robert Smith’s anvil.

“Silly me,” she said brightly, and detached herself from his grasp. “My head is all aflutter. I will shortly be departing for London, you see, and have so many tasks to do before I leave that my wits are quite scattered.”

“London? I had not heard of this.”

“Oh, yes. Within the sennight.” She had no travel plans. “My dear friend Mrs. Yale has invited me for a visit.” Diantha Yale had done no such thing. No doubt she was now with her adoring husband on their estate in Wales, dandling her infant on her knee by day and by night doing as often as possible what one did to make more infants. Mr. and Mrs. Yale were very happily married.

“But why do you go to London,” Mr. Waldon said, “when you have everything you wish here?”

He didn’t know anything of her wishes. But his face looked a bit like his bleached cravat now and it gave her pause. She placed her hand on his arm.

“Are you unwell, sir?”

He frowned at her hand. “I am well enough,” he said stiffly. “I only wonder that you would be comfortable leaving your mother at this time, given her illness.”

Fabricated illness. “She is not alone. She has Papa, of course. And Freddie has been sent down from school again.” This time it was for racing chickens in the chancery, which was so wonderfully the truth that she simply could not invent anything better. “He quite dotes on her.”

Aha! Freddie had told her at breakfast this morning that their eldest brother, Tobias, had just posted up to London. She would write to both Toby and Diantha, and hope that one of them would be in town. If not, she would force herself upon Aunt Hortensia and steal at least a few days in town before her aunt informed her parents and her father fetched her home.

She started up the street again.

Mr. Waldon kept pace with her. “Allow me to escort you home.”

“It is but a mile, and I do know the way.” She smiled to ease the sting of rejection. She needn’t have. He was constitutionally unable to recognize rejection.

“I have a matter of great importance which I wish to discuss with your father,” he said formally.

Dread. More panic. This time speeding through her veins like tiny daggers fashioned of the sorts of shards of ice that one found on windowsills in January.

“You will not find Papa at home, I’m afraid. He went shooting with Freddie this morning.” Dear Lord in heaven, let it be so.

Mr. Waldon frowned again and fixed her with a challenging regard. “Then I will return later.” He extended his hand for her to shake. “Good day, Miss Finch-Freeworth.” His palm was smooth and cool, his fingers long and they wrapped around her hand as if they would choke her.

He walked toward the parsonage, his back as rigid as the bell tower. Her stomach twisted in knots.

Mrs. Elijah Waldon.

It simply could not be.

She had an active imagination, but she had few illusions about herself.

She was not a noblewoman nor was she stunningly beautiful or an heiress.

She was not a fit bride for an earl, even an impoverished earl. But she had the memory of a single, longing gaze and now a great deal of determination and a measure of desperation as well.

She would go to London. She would find him. They would share another longing gaze. And she would finally have her kiss.

After that, if she were condemned to spend the remainder of her days in Harrows Court Crossing as the wife of a man she did not like, at least she would have the comfort of knowing she had burned hot and bright for one glorious moment.

2

Sunlight peeked through the smudged windowpane, warming the Indian cotton stretched over his shoulders. But Duncan, seventh Earl of Eads, did not move to draw the drapes or open his eyes to appreciate the weather. It mattered nothing to him if the London day shone or fogged or rained. Nor did it concern him if the sounds issuing from the street below his flat were the clatter of hooves and carriage wheels or the shouts of street vendors.

All had fallen away, the present world a vanishing shadow only. With eyes closed, back straight, and legs crossed, he remained still, seeking his center.

Deep within, in harmony and acceptance with all the creatures of the universe, peace awaited him. Like the petals of a flower, held close yet ready to spread with the touch of the morning sun, the core of his being—

“Lily! What’ve ye done wi’ ma pink ribbon?”

“I’ve no touched yer silly ribbon, Effie.”

“I’ll pull out yer hair if ye’ve ruined it.”

The swish of skirts.

Duncan slowly drew air into his lungs with the power of the muscles in his abdomen.

Slippered footsteps.

“If ye havena got it, then who has?”

“Mebbe ye lost it when ye stopped to flirt wi’ those soldiers?”

“I didna flirt.” Giggle. “I chatted.”

In tiny increments, Duncan released the breath, holding steady to his concentration, steady and still and—

“Aye, ye flirted. Deny it if ye will, but I’ll no be believing ye.”

Another giggle. “There be no harm in flirting, Lily. ’Tis interesting.”

“If yer wishing for something interesting, ye might open a wee book once in a while.” Creak of a chair. Flutter of a page turning. “Both o’ ye.”

“Then we wouldna need the ribbons, nou, would we, Abigail?” Laughter.

Breathe in. Slow, steady, smooth—

“Moira?” Firm strides between the parlor and bedchamber. “What did ye do wi’ the bill from the fabric shop yesterday?”

“We’d do better to be storing up prayers than dresses to help us all find husbands, Sorcha.”

Slow breaths. Seeking serenity. Seeking peace. Breaths as light as feathers yet deep as—

“No one asked ye, Elspeth, so keep yer sermons to yerself.”

“Confess, Lily.” Dainty toe tapping. “Ye hid ma ribbon.”

“I didna, I tell ye. Did I, Una?”

“Dinna drag me into yer disputes.” Chuckle. “I’ve no got the talent for it.”

“Moira, the bill?”

“What’re ye reading anyway, Abby?”

“Byron, that immoral—”

“Byron’s poetry isna immoral, Elspeth. ’Tis romantic.” Waft of fragrance.

“Here be the bill, Sorcha. I sewed the sleeves this morn.”

“Thank ye, Moira.”

Breathe.

“Ma pink ribbon!”

“Told ye I didna take it.”

Deeper.

“Ye’d best stow it away till ye’ve guid cause to wear it, Effie.” Firm steps.

“There willna be new ribbons or dresses or anything else—”

“Till a miracle brings us all husbands.”

“Quiet!”

Duncan’s roar echoed through the tiny flat.

Every light feminine footstep went silent. Not a breath stirred except his own, tight and shallow.

Lily giggled. Or perhaps Effie. His youngest sisters, twins, sounded identical to him, even after eighteen months living under the same roof.

But at home in Castle Eads, with plenty of space and too much work, he’d rarely seen his sisters. He’d rarely seen the chilblains on their hands when the hearths were empty and ice clung to the insides of rotted doors. He’d rarely seen the patches in their gowns, the holes in the toes of their shoes, and the dirt beneath their fingernails from laboring as no nobleman’s sisters should. And he’d rarely seen their hollow cheeks when dinner was nothing more than mutton broth and barley cakes.

But in this miniscule flat he’d brought them to a fortnight ago, he saw everything: the creases on Sorcha’s serious brow, the pallor of Elspeth’s sober face, the dampened hope in Moira’s lovely eyes, the white knuckles of Lily and Effie’s hands holding each other’s tight, the avoidance in Abigail’s hunched shoulders, and the sympathy in Una’s smile.

“Allou a man a moment’s peace, will ye?” He unclenched a hand and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Will ye take us to the park today, brither?” Beside Effie, Lily nodded encouragingly. His seventeen-year-old sisters were itching to be out and about.

Elspeth crossed her arms. “So ye can ogle the gentlemen there too?”

“There be no harm in ogling, Elspeth. ’Tis what our brither brought us here to do. Get husbands!”

“There’s a wee bit more to getting husbands than ogling, Effie,” Una said, a twinkle in her eye. She lifted a commiserating brow at Duncan.

He loved all his half-sisters, but secretly Una was his favorite. With her serene and ready humor she reminded him most of Miranda.

Fortunately, Una wasn’t a daft fool who’d thrown herself into the hands of a knave and got herself killed.

“Aye, there’s a wee bit more to it,” he said. Damn if he knew what. Back home no men of worth came calling on the poor Eads sisters. There were only farm lads, shepherds, and traveling peddlers. And all of his sisters, friendly as their mother had been, welcomed every man into the castle as though he were a saint. Only Sorcha and Una had any idea of the harm that could come to them.

Lily and Effie were hungering for male attention; he could see it in their bright eyes every time a pair of breeches walked by. And Moira was a prize an ignoble man might steal right out from her own home if he found the opportunity—dowry or not.

He couldn’t have left them at the castle while he came here in search of suitors. So he’d brought them along in the hopes of finding decent men who’d jump at the chance to marry an earl’s sister, however poor.

“I’ll take ye to the park, lass,” he said.

Effie’s brow screwed up. “Dressed like that?”

Behind her open book, Abigail stifled a laugh.

Duncan scowled. He stood and the tunic fell about his thighs. Woven of soft cotton like his trousers, it fit his size far better than anything else he owned.

He moved toward the chamber he’d used as his bedchamber until a fortnight ago. “Outta ma way nou, or I will.”

Giggles followed in his wake. He cast back a wink. Then he closed the door and stared at the feminine garments strewn across the bed that four of his sisters shared now.

In his pocket was a total of seventy-two pounds, all the money he had in the world. After the shearing there would be enough to repair the roof on the castle or to eat over the winter. Until then, he had nothing. He didn’t know a thing about finding husbands, and the men he knew in London were the sort he would never allow near his sisters. The sort that had taken Miranda.

The land was barren, the flocks decimated from plague the year before, famine before that, and overproduction under his father’s haphazard tenure.

Whatever stores of grain and good will there’d once been, his father had lost on unwise investments that his second wife had encouraged him to pursue.

When Duncan had finally gone home a year and a half ago, after nearly a decade’s absence, the place had been in ruin. The bankers had not responded to his pleas. The estate, they said, would never produce. The Eads clan would get no more assistance through honest channels.

There was another option, of course. If he went to Myles and asked for a loan, his former employer would give it to him. But the price Myles would demand for it would be too high. He couldn’t do it. That life was behind him. It had to be. For his sisters’ sake.

He needed air. Now. And sunlight. Anything to shove away memories of those years in dark alleys and dockyards. Those years when all he’d wanted was to forget the pain.

He tore off the tunic and dressed. A soft knock came at the door. Tying his cravat, he opened it a crack. Una poked her head in.

“Brither, ye’ve a caller.”

He frowned. Few knew the location of his hired rooms in London. “Be ye certain?”

“Aye. And Duncan . . .” Una’s blue eyes sparkled. “She’s a bonnie young Sassenach.”

It would have been remarkable if Teresa had not been quivering in her prettiest slippers. Six pairs of eyes stared at her as though she wore horns atop her hat. She was astounded she had not yet turned and run.

Desperation and determination were all well and good when one was sitting in Mrs. Biddycock’s parlor, traveling in one’s best friend’s commodious carriage, and living in one’s best friend’s comfortable town house. But standing in a strange flat in an alien part of town anticipating meeting the man one has been dreaming about for eighteen months while being studied intensely by his female relatives did give one pause.