“A hundred twenty pounds for the copyright, which you will hold for at least forty-two years—that is a miserly offer, is it not?” asked Hastings as he signaled the coachman to start.

“I will have you know Miss Austen received all of one hundred ten pounds for the copyright to Pride and Prejudice. And that was at a time when the pound sterling was quite weak due to expenditures of the Napoleonic Wars.”

“She was robbed. Will you similarly rob Miss South?”

“Miss South is free to write me with a counteroffer. She also has the option of publishing by commission, if she does not want a sizable sum up front.”

Hastings grinned. “You are a shrewd woman, Miss Fitzhugh.”

“Thank you, Lord Hastings.”

“Which makes it even more incomprehensible what you see in Mr. Martin.”

“I will tell you what I see in him, sir: an openness of spirit, a capacity for wonder, an utter lack of cynicism.”

“You know what I see in him, Miss Fitzhugh?”

“No, I do not.”

“Cowardice. When you first met, he wasn’t even engaged.”

It was just like Hastings to find the sore point in everything. “There was an expectation of long standing.”

“A man should not live his life by the expectations of others.”

“Not everyone lives his life solely to pursue his own pleasures.”

“But you and I both do.”

A year ago, she’d have categorically rejected that statement. But to do that now would make her a hypocrite. She turned her face to the window and wished again that she had pushed Andrew to defy his mother.

Her failure to do so had changed her. In many ways for the better: When she came into her inheritance, she did not hesitate a moment before using it as capital for her publishing venture—she would never let another one of her heart’s desires get away from her. Once she had her arrangements in place, she’d refused to let Andrew keep his manuscript locked away. The reviews he’d received upon the publication of the first volume had him walking on air for months, thanking her profusely every time he saw her.

But at the same time, the loss of Andrew had closed an invisible door in her. The happiness they’d once shared became sacrosanct. No other man could come close to replacing him; no man ought to even try.

She wanted only what she should have had, in an ideal world.


Fitz whistled as he skimmed the report in his hand.

Millie had never known him before he was saddled with a crumbling estate. For a man whose hopes in life had been brutally suffocated, except for one brief period, he’d conducted himself with unimpeachable dignity, burying his disappointment and devoting himself to his duties.

Not that there was anything undignified about a man whistling in the privacy of his own home—she only wished it had happened sooner. That he hadn’t needed a letter from Mrs. Englewood to inspire it.

She’d thought they’d had some good times, too. The Christmas gathering had become a lovely tradition at Henley Park. Their friends eagerly anticipated their annual shooting party in August. Not to mention all the successes they’d had with Cresswell & Graves, nurturing the near-moribund firm into the brawny enterprise it was at present.

Except, none of these achievements had ever made him whistle.

Nor was it just the whistling. It was the faraway look in his eye, the secret smile on his lips. It was that his entire aspect had changed, from a conscientious married man who dealt with accounts, tenants, and bankers to an unburdened youth with only dreams and adventures on his mind.

The boy he had been, before Fate had shown its harsh hand.

And that was something Millie could never share with him, that glorious, carefree adolescence he had known before she’d arrived in his life, marking the beginning of the end.

“I hope I haven’t inconvenienced everyone greatly, calling for a luncheon out of the blue.”

Millie was startled out of her thoughts. Venetia sauntered into the drawing room, looking ineffably lovely. “No, of course not,” Millie said. “I was already home and the company is most welcome.”

Fitz tossed aside the report and grinned at his sister. “Have you missed us since breakfast or is there another reason for …”

He fell silent. Millie saw it at the same time: the ring on Venetia’s left hand.

“Yes,” said Venetia, looking down at her wedding band. “I’ve eloped.”

Flabbergasted, Millie glanced at her husband, who looked not quite as staggered as she’d have expected him to.

“Who’s the lucky chap?” he asked.

Venetia smiled. Millie couldn’t tell whether it was a happy smile, exactly, but it was so dazzling it left her with little dots dancing on her retinas. “Lexington.”

At last Fitz looked as shocked as Millie felt. “Interesting choice.”

Helena swept into the room. “Why are we speaking of Lexington again?”

Venetia extended her left hand toward Helena. The gold band on her ring finger gleamed softly. “We are married, Lexington and I.”

Helena laughed outright. When no one else joined her, her jaw dropped. “You are not serious, Venetia. You can’t be.”

Venetia’s cheer was undampened. “Last I checked, today is not the first of April.”

“But why?” Helena cried.

“When?” asked Fitz at the same time.

“This morning. The announcement will be in the papers tomorrow.” Venetia smiled again. “I can’t wait to see his museum.”

It took Millie a moment to remember Lexington’s private natural history collection and the enthusiasm Venetia had expressed for it. But that was a continent away and all playacting. Was Venetia’s seeming pleasure all playacting, too?

“But why so soon?” she asked.

“And why didn’t you tell us anything?” Helena was beside herself. “We could have prevented you from making this terrible decision.”

Fitz frowned. “Helena, is that any way to speak to Venetia on her wedding day?”

“You weren’t there,” Helena said impatiently. “You didn’t hear all the hateful things he said about her.”

Fitz considered Venetia. His gaze dropped to her waist. It was a quick, discreet look—had Millie not been paying close attention, she wouldn’t have noticed.

“Tell me the truth now, Venetia,” he said. “Did you enjoy your crossing?”

The question seemed a complete non sequitur. To Millie’s surprise, Venetia flushed.

“Yes,” she answered.

“And you are sure of Lexington’s character?”

“Yes.”

“Then congratulations.”

“You can’t congratulate her,” Helena protested. “This is all a horrible mistake.”

“Helena, you will refrain from speaking disrespectfully of our brother-in-law in my presence. If Lexington has risen enough in Venetia’s esteem, then it is time you set aside your prejudices and accept her decision.”

Fitz rarely stepped into the paterfamilias role, but his quiet rebuke brooked no dissent. Helena bit her lip and looked aside. The glance from Venetia was grateful and surprised.

“Will you be leaving on your honeymoon very soon, Venetia?” Fitz asked.

“Yes, this afternoon.”

“Let us not stand around, then,” said Fitz. “You will have a thousand details to see to between now and then. Shall we start with the luncheon?”


As gentlemen did not wear wedding bands, Christian was not immediately accosted by questions from his stepmother. But she had to know that he would not have asked to see her alone unless he had something important to say.

They both bided their time. He inquired into the comforts of the house she and Mr. Kingston had hired for the Season. She spoke of the delightful little garden that had come with. It was not until they’d come to the conclusion of the meal that the topic turned to his private life.

“Any news concerning your lady from the Rhodesia, my dear?”

He stirred the coffee that had been put down before him. “Stepmama, you know how I feel about those who do not keep their words.”

She had sent a note the morning after asking about the dinner, and he’d told her the truth—that he’d been disappointed. He’d also said in the same note that he planned to find out the reason behind his lady’s nonattendance and would let the dowager duchess know as soon as he learned anything. On this latter promise he had not quite followed through.

“Was that all it took to turn your affection? Did you not find out why she broke the appointment?”

“Yes, I did, as a matter of fact.” The coffee, a very good brew, tasted far too much like the cup he’d been sipping when Mrs. Easterbrook had strode to his table that first night on the Rhodesia. Such an erotic charge she’d brought with her. He hadn’t been able to taste black coffee since without feeling a surge of the same anticipation.

He poured a liberal amount of sugar and cream into the coffee. “Unfortunately, what I’d thought of as a life-changing event was but a game to her.”

The dowager duchess pushed away the remainder of her Nesselrode pudding. “Oh, Christian. I’m so sorry.”

You have no idea. “Let’s speak no more of it. It’s water under the bridge.”

“Is it?”

The passage of time had not dulled the pain and humiliation of it. If anything, now that the shock had worn off, now that he knew exactly how she had executed her plan, every memory was an open wound.

“She used and discarded me; I’ve nothing more to say of her.” Except he had to go on speaking of her. “I meant to tell you: I am married.”

“I’m sorry, I must have heard you wrong. What did you say?”

“Mrs. Easterbrook became my wife this morning.”