Why had she done it? Why the birthday party? Because she loved him? How was it possible? He was the most wretchedly bad father on the face of the earth. And why the betrothal party?

And Bertrand. Not quite eighteen. An awkward, often rebellious age, not quite a youth, not quite a man. Quietly backing his sister every step of the way. Courteously entertaining the woman he had caught with his father at that wretched cottage. Conversing now with his uncle and Ortt. Treating even his despicable father with unfailing courtesy.

No, he would not run. He was increasingly certain that he would never be able to run again. It was one of the most terrifying thoughts he had had in the past seventeen years. His eyes rested upon Viola as she spoke with Annemarie and Ellen Morrow. He wished this morning had not happened. Last night was bad enough, but now there seemed little doubt that this betrothal everyone was gathering to celebrate was about to be ended. He must continue to behave as if it were real, however, until it was not. And then? He would think about that when it happened.

Annemarie was explaining to Viola that their mother had been French and had insisted that all her children have French names. And Adeline had admired her mother-in-law so much that she had insisted upon giving her children French names too.

“My sister is Camille,” Abigail said. “I do not know why she has a French name.”

“I liked it,” Viola said, “just as I liked Abigail when you were born.”

“Here comes another carriage,” Bertrand said, turning from the window and looking across the room at his father.

And so it was continuing. And again there was the urge to leave the drawing room and turn left toward the back stairs, used mostly by the servants, instead of right toward the main staircase and the hall below. To run away. As he had done seventeen years ago and had continued to do ever since.

Until now.

“It will be someone from your family,” he said to Viola. “Will you come down with Estelle and Bertrand and me? And Abigail too?”

These arrivals were Lord and Lady Molenor—she was a Westcott, former sister-in-law to Viola. But everyone else came hard upon their heels—the Earl and Countess of Riverdale; the Duke and Duchess of Netherby and their baby with Netherby’s half sister, Lady Jessica Archer, and the dowager duchess, the girl’s mother, also a former sister-in-law of Viola’s. Why did family relationships have to be so complicated? Then came Mrs. Kingsley, Viola’s mother, with Cunningham and his wife, Camille, Viola’s elder daughter, and their three children; Viola’s clergyman brother with his wife; Elizabeth, Lady Overfield, and her mother, Mrs. Westcott, Riverdale’s mother; and, as a grand finale, the Dowager Countess of Riverdale, Viola’s former mother-in-law, and her daughter, Lady Matilda Westcott. Seventeen of them, not counting the children. Not that Marcel counted off the seventeen. The number seemed more like seventy to him.

Seventeen further complications to what was going to have to happen before they all took their leave again. To what Viola was surely going to make happen—with his blessing. Why the devil had he behaved with such totally uncharacteristic chivalry outside that damned cottage in Devonshire and announced their betrothal?

The last two carriages had arrived almost simultaneously. Marcel offered his arm to the elderly dowager countess and led her slowly up the steps to the house while Bertrand and Abigail came behind with Mrs. Westcott, Riverdale’s mother. Estelle chatted merrily with Lady Overfield as though they were old friends, and Viola made soothing noises as Lady Matilda Westcott shared her fear that her mother had overtired herself.

How was Viola going to tell these family members that they had come all this way for nothing? And why had they done such an asinine thing when the wedding was supposed to be celebrated within two months?

Because they loved her?

“Young man,” the dowager countess said in a voice that was pitched low, for his ears only. “I will be wanting a private word with you before the party your daughter has planned for tomorrow and what I suppose will be the official announcement of your betrothal. I have not seen it in the papers yet. Viola will try to insist that she is not my daughter-in-law and never has been, but that is arrant nonsense. She is as precious to me as any of my three daughters, and they are precious, as daughters always are. You will know the truth of that for yourself, I daresay. I want to hear from your own lips how precious my daughter-in-law is to you.”

Good God! So he was to be interrogated by a frail old dragon, was he? She was the first one to speak up—if one discounted Riverdale and Cunningham, who had spoken up back in Devonshire. But Viola’s mother had given him a long, measured look upon her arrival, and her clergyman son had regarded him gravely, as though he were merely biding his time until he could find a suitable moment during which to unleash a sermon. Lady Matilda had looked sour out there on the terrace when Viola introduced them, and Lady Overfield had twinkled at him as though in sympathy for what was in store for him.

For what we are about to receive . . .

“I shall look forward to a private conversation with you, ma’am,” he assured the dowager countess, lying through his teeth.

Yes, by God, they loved her.

And no, by God, he could not run. Estelle was looking near to bursting with pride and happiness. He was going to have to stay to cope with the opposite when it happened, as it surely would sometime within the next twenty-four hours or so. Not run from it, but stay to deal with it.

Good Lord.

Eighteen

“I hear there is a pretty conservatory here, Lord Dorchester,” the Dowager Countess of Riverdale said the following morning after breakfast. He had been hoping to escape into his steward’s office for a while, but it had always been a forlorn hope when today was going to be frantic with activity before it culminated in an early family dinner and the grand party in the ballroom to follow.

“There is, ma’am,” he said. “Would you care to see it?” He had seen the conservatory a time or two, but he knew nothing about the plants that grew there. He did not suppose she wished to see it in order to have each plant identified, however.

“I shall go and fetch your warm shawl, Mama, and bring it to you there,” Lady Matilda Westcott said.

“You will do no such thing,” her mother said. “When I need a warmer shawl, Matilda, I shall send a maid to fetch it. And I do not need any company but Lord Dorchester’s.”

Lady Matilda, Marcel had observed, was the spinster daughter who had remained at home as a prop and stay to her mother, who needed neither.

The conservatory was full of greenery rather than flowers. It was rather cleverly done, large plants mingled with small, broad-leafed plants mingled with narrow, plants with light green leaves alongside those with dark leaves. And lots of glass—three walls of it as well as a roof. It was a sunny morning, and the conservatory was bright and really quite warm. It would make a wonderfully romantic setting for a tryst. There were window seats with soft cushions, but he seated the dowager on a firm-backed sofa before perching on the window seat across from her.

“You wish to interrogate me, ma’am.” There was no point in launching into a conversation about plants he could not even name. He looked very directly at the dowager without a glimmer of a smile, an expression he knew many people found intimidating on his face, though he was not expecting it to have that effect upon her. It was perhaps a defensive expression, as was his nonchalant posture.