“They were men who wanted to marry you, Felicity.”

“No, they were men who wanted to marry my dowry. They wanted to be in business with you,” she pointed out. Arthur was a great business mind and could turn goose feathers into gold. “One of them even told me that I could remain living here if I liked.”

Her brother’s cheeks were going ruddy. “And what would have been wrong with that?!”

She blinked. “With living apart from my husband in a loveless marriage?”

“Please,” he scoffed, “now we are at love? You might as well carry yourself up to the damn shelf.”

She narrowed her gaze on him. “Why? You have love.”

Arthur exhaled harshly. “That’s different.”

Several years ago, Arthur had married Lady Prudence Featherstone in a renowned love match. Pru was the girl who’d lived on the dilapidated estate next door to the country seat of Arthur and Felicity’s father, and all of London sighed when they referred to the brilliant young Earl of Grout, heir to a marquessate, and his impoverished, lovely bride, who’d immediately delivered her besotted husband an heir and was currently at home, awaiting the birth of his spare.

Pru and Arthur adored each other in that unreasonable way that no one believed existed until one witnessed it. They never argued, they enjoyed all the same things, and they were often found together on the edges of London’s ballrooms, preferring the company of each other to the company of anyone else.

It was nauseating, really.

But it wasn’t so impossible, was it? “Why?”

“Because I’ve known Pru for my whole life and love doesn’t come along for everyone.” He paused, then added, “And even when it does, it comes with its own collection of challenges.”

She tilted her head at the words. What did they mean? “Arthur?”

He shook his head, refusing to answer. “The point is, you’re twenty-seven years old, and it’s time for you to stop dithering about and get yourself married to a decent man. Of course, now you’ve made it near impossible.”

But she didn’t want any old husband. She wanted more than that. She wanted a man who could . . . she didn’t even know. A man who could do more than marry her and leave her alone for the rest of her life, certainly.

Nevertheless, she did not want her family to suffer for her wild actions. She looked down at her hands and told the truth. “I’m sorry.”

“Your contrition isn’t enough.” The response was sharp—sharper than she would have expected from her twin brother, who had stood with her since the moment they were born. Since before that. She found his brown gaze—eyes she knew so well because they were hers, as well—and she saw it. Uncertainty. No. Worse. Disappointment.

She took a step down, toward him. “Arthur, what’s happened?”

He swallowed and shook his head. “It’s nothing. I just—I thought perhaps we had a shot.”

“At the duke?” Her eyes were wide with disbelief. “We did not, Arthur. Not even before I said what I did.”

“At . . .” He paused, serious. “At a proper match.”

“And was there a team of gentlemen clamoring to meet me tonight?”

“There was Matthew Binghamton.”

She blinked. “Mr. Binghamton is deadly dull.”

“He’s rich as a king,” Arthur offered.

“Not rich enough for me to marry him, I’m afraid. Wealth does not purchase personality.” When Arthur grumbled, she added, “Would it be so bad for me to remain a spinster? No one will blame you for my being unmarriageable. Father is the Marquess of Bumble, and you’re an earl, and heir. We can do without a match, no?”

While she was wholly embarrassed by what had happened, there was a not-small part of her that was rather grateful that she’d ended the charade.

He looked as though he was thinking of something else. Something important.

“Arthur?”

“There was also Friedrich Homrighausen.”

“Friedrich . . .” Felicity tilted her head, confusion flaring. “Arthur, Herr Homrighausen arrived in London a week ago. And he doesn’t speak English.”

“He didn’t seem to take issue with that.”

“It did not occur to you that I might take issue with it, as I do not speak German?”

He lifted one shoulder. “You could learn.”

Felicity blinked. “Arthur, I haven’t any desire to live in Bavaria.”

“I hear it’s very nice. Homrighausen is said to have a castle.” He waved a hand. “Turreted.”

She tilted her head. “Am I in the market for turrets?”

“You might be.”

Felicity watched her brother for a long moment, something teasing about the edges of thought—something she could not put voice to, so she settled on, “Arthur?”

Before he could reply, a half-dozen barks sounded from above, followed by, “Oh, dear. I take it the ball did not go as planned?” The question carried down from the first floor railing on the heels of three long-haired dachshunds, the pride of the Marchioness of Bumble, who, despite having a red nose from the cold that had kept her at home, stood in perfect grace, wrapped in a beautiful wine-colored dressing gown, silver hair down about her shoulders. “Did you meet the duke?”

“She didn’t, as a matter of fact,” Arthur said.

The marchioness turned a disappointed gaze on her only daughter. “Oh, Felicity. That won’t do. Dukes don’t grow on trees, you know.”

“They don’t?” Felicity brazened through her reply, willing her twin quiet as she worked to fend off the dogs that were now up on their back legs, pawing at her skirts. “Down! Off!”

“You are not as amusing as you think,” her mother continued, ignoring the canine assault going on below. “There is perhaps one duke available a year? Some years, no dukes at all! And you’ve already missed your chance at last year’s.”

“The Duke of Haven was already married, Mother.”

“You needn’t say it as though I don’t remember!” her mother pointed out. “I should like to give him a firm talking to for how he courted you without ever intending to marry you.”

Felicity ignored the soliloquy, which she’d heard a full thousand times before. She would never have been sent to compete for the duke’s hand if not for the fact that other husbands weren’t exactly clamoring to have her, so she didn’t much mind that he had chosen to remain married to his wife.

Aside from the fact that she quite liked the Duchess of Haven, she’d also learned a piece of critical information about the institution of marriage—that a man wildly in love made a remarkable husband.

Not that a wildly in love husband was in Felicity’s cards. That particular ship had sailed tonight. Well. It had sailed months ago if she were honest, but tonight was really the last nail in the coffin. “I’m mixing metaphors.”

“What?” Arthur snapped.

“You’re what?” her mother repeated.

“Nothing.” She waved a hand. “I was speaking aloud.”

Arthur sighed.

“For heaven’s sake, Felicity. That certainly won’t help land you the duke,” said the marchioness.

“Mother, Felicity isn’t landing the duke.”

“Not with that attitude, she won’t,” her mother retorted. “He invited us to a ball! All of London thinks he’s looking for a wife! And you are daughter to a marquess, sister to an earl, and have all your teeth!”

Felicity closed her eyes for a moment, resisting the urge to scream, cry, laugh, or do all three. “Is that what dukes are looking for these days? Possession of teeth?”

“It’s part of it!” the marchioness insisted, her panicked words devolving into a ragged cough. She brought a handkerchief to cover her mouth. “Drat this cold, or I could have made the introduction myself!”

Felicity sent a quiet prayer of thanks to whichever god had delivered a cold to Bumble House two days earlier, or she would have no doubt been forced into dancing or some kind of ratafia situation with the Duke of Marwick.

No one even liked ratafia. Why it was at every ball in Christendom was beyond Felicity’s ken.

“You could not have made the introduction,” Felicity said. “You’ve never met Marwick. No one has. Because he’s a hermit and a madman, if the gossip is to be believed.”

“No one believes gossip.”

“Mother, everyone believes gossip. If they didn’t—” She paused while the marchioness sneezed. “God bless you.”

“If God wished to bless me, he’d get you married to the Duke of Marwick.”

Felicity rolled her eyes. “Mother, after tonight, if the Duke of Marwick were to show any interest in me, it would be a clear indication that he is indeed a madman, rattling around in that massive house of his, collecting unmarried women and dressing them in fancy dress for a private museum.”

Arthur blinked. “That’s a bit grim.”

“Nonsense,” her mother said. “Dukes don’t collect women.” She paused. “Wait. After tonight?”

Felicity went silent.

“Arthur?” her mother prodded. “How was the evening, otherwise?”

Felicity turned her back on her mother and gave her brother a wide-eyed, pleading look. She couldn’t bear having to recount the disastrous evening to her mother. For that, she required sleep. And possibly laudanum. “Uneventful, wasn’t it, Arthur?”

“What a pity,” the marchioness said. “Not a single additional bite?”

“Additional?” Felicity repeated. “Arthur, are you, too, looking for a husband?”

Arthur cleared his throat. “No.”

Felicity’s brows rose. “No, to whom?”

“No, to Mother.”