After their meal, Mrs. Audley invited Amelia to join her in the drawing room with Jack and Grace, but Amelia declined. She had spent an hour in the same place with the same three people before supper, and the entire conversation consisted of tales of Jack’s exploits in his younger days. Which were indeed amusing. But perhaps more so if one were in love with him, which she was not. No one was surprised when she said she was tired and would prefer to read in bed.

She took a book from the small library, climbed the stairs, reclined upon her bed for a minute to give the covers a properly rumpled look, then stole her way outside. If Grace went back to the room while she was out-which Amelia highly doubted; she’d been hanging on Mrs. Audley’s every word-it would appear that she had wandered out for just a moment. To the library, for another book. Or maybe to find something to eat. There was no reason anyone might suspect that she was planning to meet Thomas. Everyone had expressed their curiosity, of course, as to his whereabouts, but it was understood that he would wish for some time to himself.

The sun was sinking along the horizon as she made her way to the gazebo, and already the air was getting that flat quality to it-the colors less vivid, the shadows gone. She told herself that their meeting meant nothing, that she was simply doing him a favor, collecting his letter so she might leave it on a table in the front hall and then feign surprise with all the rest when it was discovered. And it probably was nothing. She was not going to be throwing herself at him again; her last attempt at passion had surely fulfilled whatever quota of mortification she was due for her lifetime. And Thomas had given her no indication that he wished to pursue their romance further. Not now that he’d lost Wyndham.

He was so bloody proud. She supposed that was what came of living one’s life as one of the twenty or so most powerful men in the land. She could tear her heart from her chest and hand it to him, tell him she’d love him until the day she died, and he would still refuse to marry her.

For her own good.

That was the worst of it. He’d say it was for her own good, that she deserved more.

As if she’d ever valued him for his title and riches. If this had all happened just last month, before they’d spoken, before they kissed…

She wouldn’t have cared.

Oh, she’d be embarrassed, she supposed, the next time she went to London. But there would be plenty who’d say she made a lucky escape, not to have married him before he lost the title. And she knew her worth. She was the reasonably attractive, intelligent (but not-oh, thank you, Mother-too intelligent), well-dowered daughter of an earl. She’d not remain on the shelf for long.

It would all have been perfectly acceptable if she hadn’t gone and fallen in love with him.

Him. Not the title, not the castle. Him.

But he would never understand that.

She hurried across the lawn, hugging her arms to her body to ward off the evening chill. She’d taken the long way around so she would not pass by the drawing room window. It occurred to her that she was getting quite experienced at sneaking around this house.

There had to be something funny in that.

Or at the very least, ironic.

Or maybe just sad.

She could see the gazebo in the distance, its white paint visible in the dimming light. It would only be another minute before-

“Amelia.”

“Oh!” She jumped a foot. “Dear heavens, Thomas, you gave me a fright.”

He smiled lopsidedly. “You weren’t expecting me?”

“Not here.” The gazebo was still many yards away.

“My apologies. I saw you and it seemed impolite not to make myself known.”

“No, of course, I’m just-” She took a breath, patting her chest with her hand. “My heart is still racing.”

There was a moment of silence, and then another.

And then one more.

It was awful. Awkward and empty and all those things she’d thought were normal back before she truly knew him. When he was the duke, and she was his lucky fiancée. And they never had anything to say to each other.

“Here you are.” He thrust a piece of paper at her, folded over and sealed with wax. Then he gave her his signet ring. “I was going to use it on the wax,” he said, “but then I realized…”

She looked down at the ring, emblazoned with the Wyndham crest. “It would have been funny, actually.”

“Painfully so.”

She touched the wax. It was smooth where it had been pressed down with a plain, flat stamp. She looked up and tried to smile. “Perhaps I shall get you a new one. For your birthday.”

“A new ring?”

Oh dear, that had come out wrong. “No, of course not.” She cleared her throat, embarrassed now, then mumbled, “That would be too presumptuous.”

He waited, then cocked his head forward to indicate that he was still wondering what she’d meant.

“A stamp. For sealing wax,” she explained, and she hated the cadence of her voice. Only four words, but she sounded all babblish. Silly and nervous. “You’ll still need to send letters.”

He seemed intrigued. “What shall you choose as the design?”

“I don’t know.” She looked down at the ring again, then put it in her pocket for safekeeping. “Have you a motto?”

He shook his head.

“Do you want a motto?”

“Do you want to give me one?”

She chuckled. “Oh, you should not tempt me.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that given time, I could come up with something far more clever than Mors œrumnarum requies.”

His brow furrowed as he attempted to translate.

“Death is rest from afflictions,” she informed him.

He laughed.

“The Willoughby heraldic motto,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Since the time of the Plantagenets.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“On the other hand, we do live to very old ages.” And then, because she was finally enjoying herself, she added, “Crippled, arthritic, and wheezing, I’m sure.”

“Don’t forget gout.”

“You’re so kind to remind me.” She rolled her eyes, then gave him a curious look. “What is the Cavendish motto?”

“Sola nobilitus virtas.”

Sola nobili-She gave up. “My Latin is rusty.”

“Virtue is the only nobility.”

“Oh.” She winced. “That is ironic.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

She didn’t know what to say after that. And neither, apparently, did he. She smiled awkwardly. “Right. Well.” She held up the missive. “I shall take good care of this.”

“Thank you.”

“Good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye.”

She turned to go, then stopped and turned back around, holding the letter about level with her shoulder. “Should I assume this means that you do not plan to rejoin us at Cloverhill?”

“No. I would not be good company.”

She gave him a little nod, her lips in an awkward, close-mouthed smile. Her arm came back down, and she knew she should leave. And she started to, she really did, or at least she thought about starting to, but then-

“It’s all in there,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” She sounded a bit breathless, but maybe he did not notice.

“The letter,” he explained. “I laid out my intentions. For Jack.”

“Of course.” She nodded, trying not think about how jerky the movement felt. “I’m sure you were very thorough.”

“Conscientious in all things,” he murmured.

“Your new motto?” She was holding her breath, delighted to have found a new avenue of conversation. She did not want to say good-bye. If she walked away now, it was all done, wasn’t it?

He smiled politely and dipped his chin at her. “I shall look forward to your gift.”

“Then I will see you again?” Oh, blast. Blast blast blast. She had not meant that to come out as a question. It was supposed to be a statement, dry and sophisticated and definitely not uttered in that tiny little pathetically hopeful voice.

“I’m sure you will.”

She nodded.

He nodded.

They stood there. Looking at each other.

And then-

From her lips-

In the most unbelievably stupid-

“I love you!”

Oh God.

Oh God oh God oh God oh God. Where had that come from? She wasn’t supposed to say that. And it wasn’t supposed to sound so desperate. And he wasn’t supposed to be staring at her as if she’d grown horns. And she wasn’t supposed to be shaking and she was supposed to be breathing and oh dear God she was going to cry because she was such a wretch and-

She threw up her hands. Shook them. “I have to go!”

She ran. Oh bloody bloody. She’d dropped the letter.

She ran back. “Sorry.” Scooped it up. Looked at him.

Oh, that was a mistake. Because now she was talking again, as if her mouth had done anything but make a fool of her this evening. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t, well, I shouldn’t have. And I’m-I’m-” She opened her mouth, but her throat had closed up, and she thought she might have stopped breathing, but then, finally, like some horrifying belch, it came out-

“I really have to go!”

“Amelia, wait.” He put his hand on her arm.

She froze, closing her eyes at the agony of it.

“You-”

“I shouldn’t have said it,” she blurted out. She had to cut him off before he said anything. Because she knew he wasn’t going to say that he loved her in return, and nothing else would be bearable.

“Amelia, you-”

“No!” she cried. “Don’t say anything. Please, you’ll only make it worse. I’m sorry. I’ve put you in a terrible position, and-”

“Stop.” He put his hands on her shoulders, his grip firm and warm, and she wanted so much to let her head sigh to the side, so she could rest her cheek against him.

But she didn’t.