She glanced over at him, wariness flashing in the green depths of her eyes.

Well, hell. Not so safe after all. His question came close to violating the unspoken barriers they’d been so careful to hide behind. But something had shifted between them this morning. Perhaps they would both divulge truths in these woods.

He kept his gaze steady on her, encouraging.

Just when he thought she wouldn’t answer, she gave a sharp nod and said, “My father. We had an awful row.”

Her lips firmed, and she clasped her hands together across her middle as if she had to brace herself for this conversation.

“My father is an—is a peer of the realm.”

He nodded. “I’d gathered that.”

She sent him a weak smile. “I’m sure you also gathered—from what I said the day I named Duke—that he has plans for me to marry one. A duke, that is.”

Again, Max nodded, aiming for casual interest. He had no wish to spook her when they were finally speaking of something real, something personal.

“Is that such a bad thing?” he asked, curious to know her true thoughts.

Her lips twisted with chagrin. “You must think me terribly spoiled to oppose such a match.”

He huffed. “Not at all.” That would smack of the pot calling the kettle black, though she couldn’t know that. Still, while he knew his own objections to becoming a duke, what were hers to becoming a duchess? Was it simply because she didn’t wish to bow to the dictates of her family? Or did she have deeper reasons?

“I only wondered why.”

T’was her turn to huff. “For one, I should like to marry for more than just social position.”

“You would like to marry for love,” he said, his voice raspy even to his own ears.

Her eyes flew back to him. “Yes,” she said simply.

Their gazes held as they walked side by side.

“Me, as well,” he admitted, and realized he meant it. He hadn’t given much thought to marriage or family, so consumed was he with his fight to win representation for those who needed it most. But whether he became a duke or remained a barrister, love was something he wanted in his life.

He could love her.

Perhaps. Should he become the duke, and thus a suitable husband for her, perhaps he could.

Who was he kidding? It would be easy to love her, whether he became a duke or not.

But they weren’t discussing him. Or were they?

“Perhaps you could come to love this duke,” he ventured.

She looked away from him then, and one delicate shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. “Perhaps I already have feelings for another.”

Another hard thump of his heart. She meant him.

He should confess all. It was clear her feelings were for him, not a title. He could tell her now, and then if he were to inherit, they could—

“But that’s not the only reason I have no wish to marry this duke,” she said, and the words died on his lips.

“No?”

He noticed she’d started wringing her hands now. He walked along beside her in the tense silence, allowing her time to gather her thoughts. He used the time to think as well. Surely whatever concerns she had could be overcome. Were he to become duke, he’d do anything in his power to make her happy.

Finally, she released a long breath, as if unburdening herself of things she’d long wished to say.

“I imagine most girls dream of being a duchess,” she said. “We’re taught from the cradle that it is the pinnacle of womanhood.” She rolled her eyes then, and her lips pursed. “But for me, it’s not a dream. It’s expected.”

She released her hands, bringing them to her sides in fists.

“I live my life allowed only to do that which increases my marital prospects. And because of my—” She darted a glance at him, her cheeks pinking before she looked away again. “Because of how I look, I am often treated with snideness from other women. I am over-scrutinized and talked about wherever I go—just loudly enough that I can hear them even though I must pretend that I don’t.”

While she no longer wrung her hands, the thumb on her left one worked furiously against another of her fingers. An expression of nerves, he’d wager. Then her lips twisted into a wry smile. “I know, poor little rich girl.”

“I wasn’t thinking that at all,” he said. “I was thinking how of awful that must be.”

She dipped her head in acknowledgement. “I no longer wish to be an object of society,” she said. “As a duchess, it will be even worse. Perhaps I’d have more liberty as a married woman—if my husband allows it. But I’d be even more in the stage lights. Expected to be perfect all of the time.”

He didn’t think she could ever not be perfect, but this didn’t seem the time tell her so.

And he understood her fears. Hadn’t he been looking at the dukedom as a prison of sorts? But maybe it didn’t have to be. Maybe, together, they could create their own freedom.

“That’s not the worst of it, though,” she all but whispered, making this quiet, foggy footpath feel even more like a place of confession. His ears pricked at the seriousness of her tone. Here, they would come to to crux of it.

“I have a sister,” she said. “An older sister. She is my favorite person in the world. She is kind and funny and…well, she is all that is good.”

She went silent again. And again, that thumb slid over and over its neighboring knuckle.

“She sounds delightful,” he offered, hoping she’d continue her thought.

“She is, though you’ll never convince her of it. You see…” She looked over at him and the pain that strained the lines of her face hurt to look upon.

“My sister is what most call plain. I think her beautiful in every way, but our parents…well, they value only what others see, only what they deem the loftiest lord will wish to marry. Our entire lives, they have compared the two of us and…found her wanting.”

Her voice warbled and bright red splotched her cheeks now—from anger, or embarrassment, or chafing from the wind, he couldn’t be certain.

“And now they have forced her into an engagement with someone entirely unworthy of her, simply to clear the way for me to land their duke,” she spat.

Definitely anger at the injustice, then. He expected nothing less from his Boadicea.

But he also saw shame shining bright and wet in her eyes.

She was stunningly beautiful. She’d taken his breath away from the moment he’d first seen her. But he’d been equally taken by her bravery, her protectiveness and her spirit.

He couldn’t imagine what it must have done to that spirit, growing up watching someone she loved being put down and made to feel inferior to her. The way she’d said “compared” conveyed a wealth of emotion, and anger boiled inside him at these unknown parents. They had undoubtedly hurt her sister, but they’d also hurt her.

He reached for her hand, stilling her agitated movement, enfolding it in his own. He brought them to a stop in the middle of the path and gave a gentle tug. She turned toward him willingly enough, but she wouldn’t look up at him.

Maxwell reached for her other hand, too, and squeezed lightly. “It’s not your fault.”

She did look up then, another half-shrug lifting one shoulder. That vulnerable, disbelieving gesture nearly undid him.

Her left hand flexed in his, unconsciously he thought. She likely wished to wring her hands once more, but he had no intention of letting her go. Max ran his thumbs soothingly over her knuckles instead, wishing he knew what to say.

As he passed over one of her fingers, he felt a raised knot. He glanced down and saw that her pinky was permanently bent at an odd angle.

When she noticed where he was looking, she tugged her hands from his and tightened the left one into a fist, as if to hide her imperfection from him.

And his heart broke for her.

Just like her sister, it seemed, she had no idea that it wasn’t how she looked on the outside that made her so beautiful to him.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, shaking her head. “What’s done is done. No matter how hard I fight it, in the end, my sister shan’t have the love match she deserves, and neither shall I. She shall marry the despot they found for her, and I shall be forced to marry their duke.”

Their duke, she’d said again. As if she were already building a wall around her heart where he—where the duke?—was concerned, if only because she associated him with her cruel parents.

“Perhaps this duke won’t be so bad,” he said gently. Christ, was he speaking of himself in the third person now? “Perhaps he will be your love match after all.”

One single tear slid from the corner of her eye, trailing over the apple of her cheek and brushing the corner of her mouth. Then another.

“But that would be awful. Don’t you see? How could I live with always knowing that my happiness came at the expense of my sister’s?”

Her words pierced like a dagger. What could he possibly do about that? He wanted to fix this for her—he had to fix this for her.

Maxwell wasn’t positive how aristocratic marriages worked, per se, so the barrister in him asked clarifying questions. “So, your parents are insistent that you marry this duke?”

She nodded miserably.

“And I’m to understand that a younger sister cannot become engaged until the older sister is spoken for?”

She blinked up at him, a bemused crease forming between her brows as she considered his questions. At least there were no more tears.

“Well, it’s not a law or anything, but yes, that is the custom. And my parents are nothing if not traditional.”

“I see. How, if at all, can an engagement be broken?”

She winced. “Breach of promise is a serious offense. If a man breaks off the engagement, the woman is all but ruined. He, too, can face harsh repercussions if her family is not amenable.”