Mr. Audley.

Thomas. And how awful she felt.

Mr. Audley.

That painting of that woman.

Mr. Audley.

Jack.

Grace let out a short, loud sigh. For heaven’s sake, who was she trying to fool? She knew exactly what she was trying so hard not to think about.

Herself.

She sighed. Maybe she ought to take herself off to the land of the unpronounceable name. She wondered if they spoke English there. She wondered if the Grand Duchess Margareta (née Margaret, and called, she was pertly told by the dowager, Maggs) could possibly be as ill-tempered as her sister.

It did seem unlikely.

Although as a member of the royal family, Maggs presumably had the authority to order someone’s head lopped off. The dowager had said they were a bit feudal over there.

Grace touched her head, decided she liked it where it was, and with renewed determination pulled open the top drawer to the escritoire, using perhaps a bit more force than necessary. She winced at the screech of wood against wood, then frowned; this really wasn’t such a well-made piece of furniture. Rather out of place at Belgrave, she had to say.

Nothing in the top drawer. Just a quill that looked as if it hadn’t seen use since the last King George ruled the land.

She moved to the second, reaching to the back in case anything was hiding in the shadows, and then she heard something.

Someone.

It was Thomas. He was standing in the doorway, looking rather peaked, and even in the dim light she could see that his eyes were bloodshot.

She gulped down a wave of guilt. He was a good man. She hated that she was falling in love with his rival. No, that was not it. She hated that Mr. Audley was his rival. No, not that. She hated the whole bloody situation. Every last speck of it.

“Grace,” he said. Nothing else, just her name.

She swallowed. It had been some time since they’d conversed on friendly terms. Not that they had been unfriendly, but truly, was there anything worse than oh-so-careful civility?

“Thomas,” she said, “I did not realize you were still awake.”

“It’s not so late,” he said with a shrug.

“No, I suppose not.” She glanced up at the clock. “The dowager is abed but not yet asleep.”

“Your work is never done, is it?” he asked, entering the room.

“No,” she said, wanting to sigh. Then, refusing to feel sorry for herself, she explained, “I ran out of writing paper upstairs.”

“For correspondence?”

“Your grandmother’s,” she affirmed. “I have no one with whom to correspond.” Dear heavens, could that be true? It had never even occurred to her before. Had she written a single letter in the years she’d been here? “I suppose once Elizabeth Willoughby marries and moves away…” She paused, thinking how sad that was, that she needed her friend to leave so she might be able to write a letter. “…I shall miss her.”

“Yes,” he said, looking somewhat distracted, not that she could blame him, given the current state of his affairs. “You are good friends, aren’t you?”

She nodded, reaching into the recesses of the third drawer. Success! “Ah, here we are.” She pulled forth a small stack of paper, then realized that her triumph meant that she had to go tend to her duties. “I must go write your grandmother’s letters now.”

“She does not write them herself?” he asked with surprise.

Grace almost chuckled at that. “She thinks she does. But the truth is, her penmanship is dreadful. No one could possibly make out what she intends to say. Even I have difficulty with it. I end up improvising at least half in the copying.”

She looked down at the pages in her hands, shaking them down against the top of the desk first one way and then on the side, to make an even stack. When she looked back up, Thomas was standing a bit closer, looking rather serious.

“I must apologize, Grace,” he said, walking toward her.

Oh, she didn’t want this. She didn’t want an apology, not when she herself held so much guilt in her heart. “For this afternoon?” she asked, her voice perhaps a little too light. “No, please, don’t be silly. It’s a terrible situation, and no one could fault you for-”

“For many things,” he cut in.

He was looking at her very strangely, and Grace wondered if he’d been drinking. He’d been doing a lot of that lately. She had told herself that she mustn’t scold him; truly, it was a wonder he was behaving as well as he was, under the circumstances.

“Please,” she said, hoping to put an end to the discussion. “I cannot think of anything for which you need to make amends, but I assure you, if there were, I would accept your apology, with all graciousness.”

“Thank you,” he said. And then, seemingly out of nowhere: “We depart for Liverpool in two days.”

Grace nodded. She knew this already. And surely he should have known that she was aware of the plans. “I imagine you have much to do before we leave,” she said.

“Almost nothing,” he said, but there was something awful in his voice, almost as if he were daring her to ask his meaning. And there had to be a meaning, because Thomas always had much to do, whether he had a planned departure or not.

“Oh. That must be a pleasant change,” she said, because she could not simply ignore his statement.

He leaned forward slightly, and Grace smelled spirits on his breath. Oh, Thomas. She ached for him, for what he must be feeling. And she wanted to tell him: I don’t want it, either. I want you to be the duke and Jack to be plain Mr. Audley, and I want all of this just to be over.

Even if the truth turned out to be not what she prayed for, she wanted to know.

But she couldn’t say this aloud. Not to Thomas. Already he was looking at her in that piercing way of his, as if he knew all her secrets-that she was falling in love with his rival, that she had already kissed him-several times-and she had wanted so much more.

She would have done more, if Jack had not stopped her.

“I am practicing, you see,” Thomas said.

“Practicing?”

“To be a gentleman of leisure. Perhaps I should emulate your Mr. Audley.”

“He is not my Mr. Audley,” she immediately replied, even though she knew he had only said as much to provoke her.

“He shall not worry,” Thomas continued, as if she’d not spoken. “I have left all of the affairs in perfect order. Every contract has been reviewed and every last number in every last column has been tallied. If he runs the estate into the ground, it shall be on his own head.”

“Thomas, stop,” she said, because she could not bear it. For either of them. “Don’t talk this way. We don’t know that he is the duke.”

“Don’t we?” His lip curled as he looked down at her. “Come now, Grace, we both know what we will find in Ireland.”

“We don’t,” she insisted, and her voice sounded hollow. She felt hollow, as if she had to hold herself perfectly still just to keep from cracking.

He stared at her. For far longer than was comfortable. And then: “Do you love him?”

Grace felt the blood drain from her face.

“Do you love him?” he repeated, stridently this time. “Audley.”

“I know who you’re talking about,” she said before she could think the better of it.

“I imagine you do.”

She stood still, forcing herself to unclench her fists. She’d probably ruined the writing paper; she’d heard it crumple in her hand. He’d gone from apologetic to hateful in the space of a second, and she knew he was hurting inside, but so was she, damn it.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

She drew back, her head turning slightly to the side. He was looking at her so strangely. “At Belgrave?” she said hesitantly. “Five years.”

“And in all that time I haven’t…” He shook his head. “I wonder why.”

Without even thinking, she tried to step back, but the desk blocked her way. What was wrong with him? “Thomas,” she said, wary now, “what are you talking about?”

He seemed to find that funny. “Damned if I know.”

And then, while she was trying to think of a suitable reply, he let out a bitter laugh and said, “What’s to become of us, Grace? We’re doomed, you know. Both of us.”

She knew it was true, but it was terrible to hear it confirmed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Oh, come now, Grace, you’re far too intelligent for that.”

“I should go.”

But he was blocking her way.

“Thomas, I-”

And then-dear heavens-he was kissing her. His mouth was on hers, and her stomach flipped in horror, not because his kiss was repulsive, because it wasn’t. It was the shock of it. Five years she’d been here, and he’d never even hinted at-

“Stop!” She wrenched herself away. “Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a helpless shrug. “I’m here, you’re here…”

“I’m leaving.” But one of his hands was still on her arm. She needed him to release her. She could have pulled away; he was not holding her tightly. But she needed it to be his decision.

He needed it to be his decision.

“Ah, Grace,” he said, looking almost defeated. “I am not Wyndham any longer. We both know it.” He paused, shrugged, held out his hand in surrender.

“Thomas?” she whispered.

And then he said, “Why don’t you marry me when this is all over?”

“What?” Something akin to horror washed over her. “Oh, Thomas, you’re mad.” But she knew what he really meant. A duke could not marry Grace Eversleigh. But if he wasn’t…If he was just plain Mr. Cavendish…Why not?

Acid rose in her throat. He didn’t mean to insult. She didn’t even feel insulted. She knew the world she inhabited. She knew the rules, and she knew her place.

Jack could never be hers. Not if he was the duke.