She was aware that she had left more questions unanswered than explained. He had every right, she supposed, to ask those questions, but she hoped he would not. They were standing on the bridge, looking down at the gurgling water, and she slid her hand free when she realized it was still clasped in his. She drew the edges of her shawl together. It was chillier here in the shade of the trees.

“There is something soothing about the sound of water, is there not?” he said, and she knew he was not going to ask any of those questions. “And the sight of it.”

“Yes, there is,” she said. “I love coming here even when the daffodils are not in bloom. There is the illusion of seclusion and serenity here. Or perhaps it is not an illusion. Perhaps it is real. What happened to your young cousin who lost his title to you last year?”

“Harry?” He turned his head to look at her briefly. “He is out in the Peninsula fighting the armies of Napoleon Bonaparte as a lieutenant with the 95th Foot Regiment, also known as the Rifles. He claims to be enjoying the experience enormously, though he has been wounded a few times and is a constant source of worry to his mother and sisters. I would have expected no less of the boy, however. He was always full of energy and enthusiasm for life and is not the type to whine or grow bitter over circumstances that are beyond his control. Nevertheless, he must have had the stuffing knocked out of him. The changes to my life are nothing compared with the changes to his—plus the knowledge that his father deceived his mother in the worst possible way and callously caused his illegitimacy and his sisters’. I feel guilty about the outcome, as though I am somehow partly to blame for their misery. I would have refused the title if I could. Unfortunately, it was not possible.”

“And his sisters?” she asked.

“Camille and Abigail,” he told her. “They went to live with their maternal grandmother in Bath. Camille chose to teach at the orphanage where Anna grew up—their father’s only legitimate child, now the Duchess of Netherby, that is—and she married the art teacher last summer. He is also a portrait painter of some renown and came into an unexpected inheritance last year. The two of them are now living in a large manor in the hills above Bath, running a retreat house that offers quiet study time and classes in a wide range of subjects, from dancing to drama to painting to writing. It offers guest lectures and concerts and plays. Sometimes the children from the orphanage go there for picnics and parties. They have two adopted children, and one of their own is imminent. Camille has been a huge surprise to us all. There was no lady more proper or high in the instep—or, frankly, more hard to like—than she was as Lady Camille Westcott.”

“The disaster that happened to her, then, was actually a blessing?” she said.

“I do believe it was,” he agreed, “though it seems almost heartless to say so. Her mother at first went to live with her brother, who is a clergyman in Dorsetshire, but now she has been persuaded to move back to her old home in Hampshire with Abigail, the younger sister. Hinsford Manor actually belongs to Anna, and it is at her request that the ladies have moved there. They are all still trying to come to terms with the changes in their lives, I suspect, as are the rest of the members of the Westcott family. Sometimes I feel very helpless.”

“But are you not doing the very same thing?” she asked. “Are you not indeed one of the central figures in the turmoil?”

“The one who would appear to have benefited most,” he said. “I often fear Harry and his mother and sisters must hate me, though to be fair they have never shown any open resentment.”

“Does the rest of the family support them?” she asked. “Or have they been shunned?”

“Oh, never that,” he said. “The Westcotts have rallied around—the dowager countess, my father’s first cousin, and her three daughters and their families. Then there is the Duke of Netherby, whose father made a second marriage with one of the Westcott daughters. The present Netherby was Harry’s guardian until his twenty-first birthday recently. It was he who purchased Harry’s commission. And there are my mother and my sister. At first, however, Cousin Viola—the former countess—and her daughters and Harry were not willing to accept any sort of support from the Westcott family. Cousin Viola felt strongly the fact that her marriage had never been valid and that therefore she was in no way related to any of us. She even calls herself by her maiden name of Kingsley. And Camille and Abigail felt their illegitimacy keenly and chose to lick their wounds in private for a while. There will, by the way, be a written test on all these family connections when we return to the house.”

She turned her face toward him and smiled. She liked his occasional flashes of humor. “But it would be too easy to pass with flying colors,” she said. “You have not told me the names of all the Westcotts and their spouses and children.”

“First names, last names, and title names?” he said. “You would need a week to study.”

Wren led the way off the bridge, and they walked side by side through the copse and back out onto the lawn. She took him toward the rose arbor, though there was not much to see there this early in the year. He had been very forthcoming with her. She had offered little in return.

“My uncle was from a small family,” she said, “and outlived those there were. He had no children with either his first wife or Aunt Megan. They were both kind enough to tell me I was all the children they could ever want.” She could almost see him debating with himself whether to ask about her aunt’s connections. His face was turned toward her, though she deliberately did not look back. “In the summer,” she added before he could speak again, “I could find the rose arbor with my eyes closed if ever I should be foolish enough to try. Even I have to admit that roses have all the advantage over daffodils when it comes to fragrance.”

They kept the conversation away from personal topics for the rest of his visit. He did not reenter the house with her when they returned there but took his leave, assuring her that he did not need to have his carriage drawn up to the front doors.

He did not mention seeing her again.

She watched him stride off toward the stables and wished foolishly that she was normal. She was not—normal, that was. She knew it even though she had nothing much with which to compare herself except perhaps the ladies, young and not so young, who had been at his tea—amiable, smiling, laughing, talking on a dozen different topics, totally at their ease. But if she were normal, she would not have met him, would she?

Did she want to see him again? She had the strange feeling that she could be hurt if she pursued the acquaintance. She had not thought of that, had she?

Oh, she wished she were normal. But, alas, she was as she was.

Four

After spending a whole day deliberating and changing his mind and changing it back and then changing it once more, Alexander sent off an invitation to Miss Heyden to come to Brambledean alone. It was not quite proper. It was not proper at all, in fact. But there was no point in trying to organize another social event to make her coming more acceptable. He would not get to know her that way. And he needed to know her if he was to give serious consideration to marrying her.

They had made a start at Withington. It was not nearly enough, but it was a start. He wondered if she knew exactly what she would be getting into if indeed she purchased him as a husband. He needed to know what he would be getting into. The idea of being bought was repellent to him, to say the least.