“St. Vincent needs to marry into a fortune,” Annabelle reported one afternoon, as the wallflowers sat beneath a tree, sketching and watercoloring. “According to Mr. Hunt, Lord St. Vincent’s father, the duke, is soon to cut off his annual portion, as there is hardly any money left. There will be little for St. Vincent to inherit, I’m afraid.”

“What happens when the money is gone?” Daisy asked, her pencil moving deftly across the paper as she sketched a view of the landscape. “Will St. Vincent sell some of his estates and properties when he becomes a duke?”

“That depends,” Annabelle replied, picking up a leaf and inspecting the delicate vein pattern of its amber skin. “If most of the property he inherits is entailed, then no. But have no fear that he’ll become a pauper—there are many families who will compensate him handsomely if he agrees to marry one of them.”

“Mine, for example,” Lillian said sardonically.

Annabelle watched her closely as she murmured, “Dear…has Lord St. Vincent mentioned anything to you about intentions?”

“Not a word.”

“Has he ever tried to—”

“Heavens, no.”

“He intends to marry you, then,” Annabelle said with unnerving certainty. “If he were merely trifling, he would have tried to compromise you by now.”

The silence that followed was gently fractured by the dry swish of the overhead leaves, and the scratch of Daisy’s busy pencil.

“Wh-what will you do if Lord St. Vincent proposes?” Evie asked, peeking at Lillian over the edge of her wooden watercolor case, the top half of which served as an easel as she balanced it on her lap.

Unthinkingly Lillian plucked at the grass beneath her, breaking the fragile blades with her fingers. Suddenly realizing that the activity was reminiscent of Mercedes, who had a nervous habit of pulling and tearing things, she stopped and tossed the bits of grass aside. “I’ll accept him, of course,” she said. The other three girls looked at her with mild surprise. “Why wouldn’t I?” she continued defensively. “Do you realize how few dukes there are to be found? According to Mother’s peerage report, there are only twenty-nine in all of Great Britain.”

“But Lord St. Vincent is a shameless skirt chaser,” Annabelle said. “I can’t envision that as his wife, you would tolerate such behavior.”

“All husbands are unfaithful in one way or another.” Lillian tried to sound matter-of-fact, but somehow her tone came out defiant and surly.

Annabelle’s blue eyes were soft with compassion. “I don’t believe that.”

“The next season hasn’t even started,” Daisy pointed out, “and now with the countess as our sponsor, we’ll have much better luck this year than last. There’s no need to marry Lord St. Vincent if you don’t wish it—no matter what Mother says.”

“I want to marry him.” Lillian felt her mouth tighten into a stubborn line. “In fact, I will live for the moment when St. Vincent and I will attend a dinner as the Duke and Duchess of Kingston …a dinner that Westcliff will also be attending, and I will be escorted into the dining hall before him, as my husband’s title will take precedence over his. I’ll make Westcliff sorry. I’ll make him wish—” She broke off abruptly, realizing that her tone was far too sharp, betraying far too much. Stiffening her spine, she glared at some distant point on the landscape, and flinched as she felt Daisy’s small hand settle between her shoulders.

“Perhaps by then you won’t care anymore,” Daisy murmured.

“Perhaps,” Lillian agreed dully.

The next afternoon saw the estate mostly vacant of guests, as the majority of the gentlemen went to a local race meeting, to wager, drink, and smoke to their hearts’ content. The ladies were conveyed in a succession of carriages to the village, where a traditional feast day would be attended by a touring company of London performers. Eager for the diversion of some light comedies and music, the female guests left the estate en masse. Although Annabelle, Evie, and Daisy all implored Lillian to come with them, she refused. The antics of a few traveling players held no appeal for her. She did not want to force herself to smile and laugh. She only wanted to walk alone outside…to walk for miles, until she was too weary to think about anything.

She went alone into the back garden, following the path that led to the mermaid fountain, which was set like a jewel in the middle of the paved clearing. A nearby hedge was covered with wisteria, appearing as if someone had draped a succession of pink tea cozies across the top of it. Sitting on the edge of the fountain, Lillian stared into the foamy water. She was not aware of anyone approaching until she heard a quiet voice from the path.

“What luck to find you in the first place I looked.”

Glancing up with a smile, she beheld Lord St. Vincent. His golden-amber hair seemed to absorb the sunlight. His coloring was unquestionably Anglo-Saxon, but the dramatic lines of his cheekbones, angled at a rather tigerish slant, and the sensuous fullness of his wide mouth gave him a singularly exotic appeal.

“Aren’t you leaving for the race meeting?” Lillian asked.

“In a moment. I wanted to speak to you first.” St. Vincent glanced at the space beside her. “May I?”

“But we’re alone,” she said. “And you always insist on a chaperone.”

“Today I’ve changed my mind.”