Her only surviving son.

A silence began to spread, sad on her part. From the look in Rutherford’s eyes, impatient on his. “Deirdre, I’d take you to bed if I thought it would help.”

“Your idea of flattery can leave a woman feeling less than intrigued. Wouldn’t Neville take exception?”

“Neville is the one who suggested we make the offer—you will note the plural. He doesn’t share his toys often, and neither do I.” He sipped his tea, as if they were discussing whose coach to take on an outing. But God in heaven, what did it say about her that she was considering taking them up on their questionable generosity out of sheer boredom?

She picked up her teacup and wondered what bad behavior her husband was permitting himself because he was bored. He was, and always would be, a handsome man to whom many a buxom diversion would come easily to hand—or to bed.

“You see?” Rutherford set his cup down. “I lay all manner of scandalous offers at your slippered feet, and you merely stare at your tea. I would be insulted if I didn’t know this isn’t mere coyness.”

Coyness. How long had it been since Deirdre had felt coy—had felt anything but tired and lonely?

“I’m speechless at your generosity, Rutherford, though I fear I must decline. When did you say you had to meet Neville?”

“Apparently not soon enough for you.” He rose and drew her to her feet. “Do you know why I love my wife?”

“She’s the soul of tolerance, for one thing. She’s also very discreet, and she looks marvelous on your arm.”

He slipped Deirdre’s hand into the crook of his elbow and led her toward the front of the house.

“My wife is my friend. She is the mother of my children—and they are my children, despite what you and all the other gossips might think—but first and foremost, she is my friend. I have her loyalty, her understanding, her moral support, and every other indicator of firm friendship, and she has mine. I think dear Hale would offer you friendship, Deirdre, if you’d give the man one more chance.”

Despite the footman hovering in the hall, Deirdre turned and leaned against her guest—let the help gawk and report what they would to titillate Hale’s ears. “I’m not like you, Rutherford. I can’t run my life like a traveling circus, with all manner of sophisticated relationships in unexpected locations. The problem is”—she looked around and lowered her voice to a near whisper—“I do love my husband, but I sincerely doubt he loves me. He won’t come ransom me from my pride, as you say, and this leaves me nothing but pride.”

Rutherford, for all his business acumen, was an essentially kind man. He wrapped Deirdre in his arms, holding her closer than a mere friend, not as close as a lover might.

Deirdre could take only limited comfort from the embrace. Rutherford was not quite tall enough. He was too angular. His scent was a proprietary blend ordered from Paris, not the solid aroma of bay rum Deirdre preferred. Worse than all this, of course, was the fact that he pitied the woman he held in his arms.

Deirdre closed her eyes, swallowed back tears, and tried not to pity her as well.

* * *

Fellatio.

Hester stared at the little scrap of paper that had been neatly folded under her hairbrush. The bold, back-slashing letters were in the same hand as the letters Spathfoy had addressed to his family.

She was fairly certain of the term’s meaning, but on her way to breakfast, she stopped off in the library to make sure. The enormous, musty English dictionary was of no assistance, but the French dictionary defined a close cognate with sufficient clarity to confirm Hester’s hunch.

Married life would be interesting, if she accepted the earl’s offer, though she was unnerved to think he’d ride off come Monday morning, regardless of her acceptance or rejection of his proposal. She wasn’t to be given time to consider her new boots; she was to try them on and skip away in them to married life.

Such calculation in a prospective husband gave her pause.

And yet, she was a trifle disappointed to find Spathfoy had ridden into Ballater at first light, most likely to make arrangements for his return journey to England.

Fiona looked up from a bowl of porridge liberally topped with raisins, and beamed a smile at Hester. “It isn’t raining anymore!”

“Good morning to you, too, Fee. Did you leave any raisins in all of Scotland?”

“I like them, and Uncle Ian says anything that comes from the grape is good for us. Can we take a picnic to the oak tree this morning? She’ll wonder where I’ve been.”

Hester exchanged a smile with Aunt Ariadne and brushed a hand over Fee’s crown. “The oak doesn’t expect you to visit when it’s pouring, Fiona, but yes, we can take a blanket and a snack and pay a call on your friend. Any excuse to enjoy the fine weather will suit.”

She served herself eggs and bacon and two slices of toast, while Fiona chattered on about a letter she’d gotten from her parents.

“Do you have the letter, Fee?”

“I have it in my pocket. I’m going to keep it until they come home.” She passed over a single piece of paper, her expression slightly anxious. “Mama says she misses me.”

“And we miss them, too.” Hester turned the missive over and passed it to Aunt Ariadne. “Your mother has a very pretty hand, Fiona. You must strive to emulate her.”

“To what?”

A masculine voice replied, “Copy.” Spathfoy stood in the doorway, looking windblown and handsome. Hester sipped her tea lest she gaze too long at his mouth. “To emulate is to copy or follow the style of. For example”—he ambled into the room—“if I wanted to emulate you and cover my porridge with raisins, I’d likely find the kitchen’s supply has been raided into next week. Lady Ariadne, Miss Daniels, good morning.”

He took the place to the right of Aunt Ariadne, the same place he’d taken every morning, which put him directly beside Hester and across from Fiona.

Fiona grinned at him over a spoonful of porridge. “Did Rowan jump everything between here and town?”

“He jumped every fence and ditch and even a few shadows, some sunbeams, and a brace of invisible rabbits. May I have the teapot, Miss Daniels?”

She slid it down to him, and their hands brushed as if by accident—as if.

Marriage to him wouldn’t be boring, not sexually, but then what? When she’d presented him with an heir and a spare, and a few daughters to fire off for politically expedient purposes, then what?

Then he’d still be handsome and wealthy, and he’d probably have his papa’s title as well. She’d be… consoling herself with her children’s company, only to watch each child grow up and leave home, as children were wont to do.

That wasn’t going to be enough. Even Jasper would have given her that much.

And friendship wasn’t enough either, though it certainly added lovely potential to an otherwise fascinating bargain.

As Hester sat beside the man who might become her husband, she decided that regardless of what the future held for them, she was not going to buy her marital boots without thoroughly trying them on.

Beneath the table, she shifted her leg so her thigh was pressed up against Spathfoy’s more muscular limb.

“Might I have the butter, my lord? The prospect of fresh air and sunshine seems to be reviving my appetites.”

He turned to regard her, something like caution lurking in his gaze. When he slid the butter dish close to her hand, this time he did not touch her.

* * *

The damned day had taken for-bloody-ever to plod past. Tye had sat under the treaty oak and tried not to stare at Hester’s hands, her mouth, her ankles, her hair, her anything. Contemplation of those prizes so threatened his composure he’d climbed into the tree himself and had a protracted conversation with Fiona about her father’s years at school.

Gordie had been one for playing pranks. Whereas Tye had been a proper little scholar, Gordie had made friends before the first meal in the commons. Tye had tried year after year for firsts and often gotten them; Gordie had barely attended his studies and had a grand time.

“But he did enjoy languages, for which you also seem to have an aptitude.” He was resting his back against the trunk of the oak, while Fiona made a clover necklace several feet away.

“What’s an aptitude?”

“An ability. It will serve you well when you take your place in society.”

Hester glanced over at him, her expression difficult to decipher. When she looked at him of late, there was a measuring quality to her gaze, as if she were trying to reconcile the clothed, articulate man with the naked, incoherent heathen she’d had in her bed.

Tye himself was finding that a challenge.

Dinner passed with excruciating slowness, only Lady Ariadne’s benevolent presence making a civilized meal possible. By the time they got to dessert, Tye was envisioning trifle spread on various parts of Hester’s body, or—God save him—on his body, while the lady showed no sign any inconvenient thoughts were plaguing her whatsoever.

Lady Ariadne folded her serviette by her plate and sent Tye a smile that had no doubt felled princes in her youth. “That was a delightful meal, but now I must retire. Spathfoy, I wish you’d consider prolonging your stay with us. Fiona delights in your company, and I do as well.”

“I wish I might stay longer, but my father’s business waits for no man.” He assisted her to her feet, handed her the length of carved oak she used as her cane, and watched while she made her deliberate progress out the door.

“She’s slowing down.” Hester made this comment from her place at the table. “She keeps up appearances for my sake and Fee’s—we could hardly bide here without her to chaperone—but Ian said they were afraid she would not make it through last winter.”