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Papa slammed shut the door behind them. “What in blazes were you thinking? Taking the car without permission is bad enough, but at night? Alone, in an unfamiliar city?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“And running after a man? I don’t care how good a man, how well you know him, some things are not
done
, Brook!”

It seemed she was forever doing things that weren’t done. “I know.” She couldn’t lift her gaze—it felt too heavy. So all she saw were his pacing feet.

To the right, pivot, to the left.

“You could have been accosted. Hurt even worse.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“You could have been
killed
.”

Her eyes slid shut.

“And by thunder, Brook, why aren’t you
arguing
with me?”

The question broke her, made a strangled laugh escape her lips as tears wept from her eyes. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

His feet drew near and his arms came around her, fierce and tender at once. “No crying—it isn’t fair.”

“I’m sorry.” They were the only words she could find. She wiped at the tears and sagged against him. “He’s leaving again tomorrow. And I’m a muddle. I think he’s . . . in love with me.”

Papa’s sigh gusted along with the wind outside the windows.
“I know he is. And I strictly forbid it. You shouldn’t be old enough for such things, not with all the years we’ve missed.”

A weak smile tugged at her lips.

He led her to the sofa and sat beside her, her hands in his. His eyes searching hers. “What of you? Are you in love with him?”

Was she? She stared into the dancing flames of the hearth, felt again the heat inside her when he’d kissed her. Felt again the cold when he’d backed away. “I don’t know, Papa. When I was a girl, I would dream . . . but I knew it could never be. I resigned myself to that years ago. A duke cannot marry a singer’s daughter.”

Papa pressed her fingers, holding them tight. “You are no longer that, though.”

Her brows pulled down, her heart squeezed. “But that shouldn’t be enough, should it? That now that I’m
suitable
he would . . .” She closed her eyes against the firelight and shook her head. “I love him. I’ve always loved him. I don’t know about the romance, but I know that.”

“And we all do foolish things for those we love.” Papa cleared his throat, bringing her eyes open again, to latch on his pained face. “But I can’t lose you again, Brook. You can’t possibly know the fear that struck me when I realized you and the car were both gone.”

She could imagine it. “I was selfish. I didn’t think.”

“Why? What happened?”

She settled into the space at his side, where she could lean into him and rest her head on his shoulder, pretending she’d done so for years. “We fought—which is nothing new, but it was different this time. I don’t know why. We said things, stupid things, and then he
left
. And was leaving Town in the morning, and I couldn’t let him. Not like that.”

“Oh, Brook.” His tone went weary. “Perhaps you
are
in love. We all say stupid things when we’re in love. Argue over nothing.”

“It hurts.”

He snorted a laugh. “Love often hurts.”

“Then why would we do it?”

He squeezed her hands, warming them. “Because it’s worth it. Even when we lose them, it’s worth it.”

She could only sigh.

Papa planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Did you find him?”

She nodded. “He’s still reeling so from his losses and now feels alone, left behind. I try to understand that, but he won’t let me in. And then he kissed me, and—”

“He did
what
?” His shoulder jerked from under her. “Give me the key. I’m going over there—”

“And what?” Seeing the ire, so purely paternal, sparked life into her heart. “You’ll threaten him into marrying me?”

“Hardly. I’ll threaten his life if he dares to come home again.”

She nearly laughed. “Papa.”

“I’ve said it before—I’ll not give you away so soon. I won’t do it.” He looked almost, nearly serious. And it almost, nearly made her wonder if that’s what Justin wanted—to marry her.

It sent an uneasy thrill through her middle. Did she want that? Did she want a lifetime in his arms? Maybe . . . possibly. The kiss had been beyond anything she had dreamed. But what if they couldn’t be in love and still be friends? Was it worth the trade?

She gripped her father’s hand again. “Could we focus, please? If it isn’t too much trouble?”

He pursed his lips, one of those British glowers in place. “He hurt you.”

She dragged in a long breath. “Because everything’s changed.”

“Everything does.” The offense faded from his eyes again, and that hard-won, ready-to-be-amused peace replaced it. “That’s no reason to scare a decade off your father’s life and break his heart with your tears. Change can be so very good.”

She settled back against the couch and rested her gaze again on the crackling fire. Some change was good, yes. Coming home. Finding Papa. But what felt like a risk three months ago felt safe as a pony in contrast to this. “Sometimes. Sometimes it can tear us apart. How are we to know which is which?”

“We can’t. But we can pray.” He cradled her fingers between both his hands, effectively pulling her gaze back to his. His eyes shone with certainty. “And know that whatever comes, we’re not alone anymore. And
that
, my dear, certainly changes everything.”

Brook managed a smile, then looked again to the fire. Before, it had always been Justin beside her through the hard places. Her cold supposed-father ignoring her existence. Now she had Papa to work through the questions with her.

Her fingers found her necklace and freed it from the collar of the livery jacket so that she could toy with the dangling pearls. Questions, so many questions plaguing her.

And Justin still didn’t even know what they were.

Eighteen

F
IVE
M
ONTHS
L
ATER
L
ATE
A
PRIL
1911

T
he sun shone through the window, the birds chorused their pleasure, and Brook dug her fingers into her palm. He would not leave the quicker if she shouted. Tempting as it was. “You cannot honestly have expected anything different, Lord Pratt.”

He prowled about her mother’s drawing room, a stain of shadow against the jewel-toned fabrics. Though he smiled, it could shift to a snarl at any moment. “I beg you to reconsider, my lady. I can give you all you could ask for in a husband. Independence, respect, affection. And you could stay here, in the area you’ve come to love so well. When we combine our estates, we will be the single greatest landowner in Yorkshire.”

When?
When
they combined their estates?

Un. Deux
.
Trois
. She dragged in a seething breath. “We both know it’s that property you want, not me.”

His gaze raked over her much as it had her first morning by the sea. At once hot and cold. Lingering and dismissive. “I assure you, my lady. I want both.”

Had he been close enough, she would have slapped him. “Watch yourself, Pratt.”

“I would rather watch you.” Kitty would call the note in his voice charm—she must have been deaf to the conceit and greed. He slid around the wingback chair with the look of a panther readying to pounce. “Come, darling. Who else would overlook your eccentricities?”

She bristled when he motioned toward her trousers. She only wore them riding, and only since the split skirt was ruined with blood and mud.

“I don’t much care if anyone ‘
overlooks my eccentricities
.’” She planted her hands on her hips to prove it. “Let them think what they will. I will be who I am, and I will make no apologies. And if that means I eschew society and forgo the marriage mart . . . well, what a shame.”

Something flashed in his eyes, dark and impatient. “Do you think Stafford will come home and sweep you into his arms and make you a duchess?”

Silence was the only answer she would give, along with a glare she hoped was stony and cool.

But her fingers dug deeper into her palms.

“But
why
would you want that?” The corners of his lips pulled up, though she wouldn’t insult the word
smile
by calling it such. “You’ve the shared history, I realize. But you must have seen the man he’s become. No room in his heart for anything but the duchy. He’ll be like his uncle—cold, hard, unbending. A wife for the sole purpose of providing heirs, a mistress on the side whom he can dismiss at will. Safe and controlled and measurable.”

He prowled closer. “Does that sound like you, my dear? Safe and controlled and measurable?”

What she wouldn’t give for another six inches in height, so she could meet him eye to eye. A narrowing of them would
have to suffice, and a tilt of her chin. “You know nothing of us.” And given that
she
didn’t know what she wanted when it came to Justin, Pratt certainly couldn’t.

“I know you write to him every week. I know he hasn’t written back to you even once.”

A tempest crashed over her. More aimed at Justin than Pratt, but as he wasn’t handy, she unleashed it where she might and slashed a hand through the air. “How could you
possibly
—”

“Have you never actually spoken to the postmaster in Eden Dale? Friendly chap. Talkative.”

She drilled a hand into his shoulder, pushing him back a step. “To whom I write is
none
of your concern!”

His dark eyes snapped, and he closed his hand around her wrist. “Now who had better watch herself?”

Stupid.
She should have retreated. Now when she tugged, his fingers tightened. “Release me.”

Instead he raised her wrist higher and placed a kiss on her palm.

Her skin turned to ice. Kitty was due any minute, and if she came in upon this, it would break her heart. “I said—”

“I heard you.” So calm, so mocking. He lowered her wrist but didn’t let it go. “Or do you think to turn to Worthing? Don’t put your hopes there, my darling. He may flirt with you as he does every other female, but he doesn’t intend to marry you. His estates are still flush from his mother’s dowry, and he enjoys the hunt far too much to settle with just one woman before he must.”

Her nerves snapped. Without question, Brice flirted too much, with everyone. But she and Papa had stayed two weeks in Sussex with the Duke of Nottingham’s family last month, and she had spent countless hours talking with Brice. There were moments when it wasn’t just flirtation. Moments when he seemed to gaze into her very soul. Moments when she wondered
if his lips would ignite the same fire Justin’s had . . . and moments when she was sure they wouldn’t. “You know nothing about my thoughts. Don’t hazard to guess.”

“I know more than you think.” He finally unfurled his fingers, letting her go. Stepped to the window. “I’m not a bad option for you, Brook.”

She had never given him permission to call her that—but pointing it out felt weak. “I don’t need an option, Lord Pratt.”

His eyes narrowed at whatever he saw out the window. “I daresay you will when Kitty is through and your reputation is slashed to ribbons.” He nodded in the direction of the drive.

“You think to frighten me with
that
threat? Kitty is one of my dearest friends.” Brook moved to a different window and spotted the familiar Rushworth carriage. An open one today, displaying Catherine in all her splendor. No Rush beside her, which meant no leash on her tongue. It always made for a more entertaining visit. Though it did occasionally make Brook wonder what her cousin said about
her
when she wasn’t in the room.

“My cue to disappear, I think.” Pratt spun and reached for the hat he had tossed to a table when he barged in fifteen minutes prior. “And if you would deny having seen me . . .”

Brook sent a pointed look toward the stables, in front of which his Benz was parked.

“Say I’ve been with your father the whole time.”

“And why should I?”

“I saved your life—now I’m calling in the favor.”

Justin would have said it with irony. Brice with mirth. Pratt delivered it with nothing but harsh sobriety as he reached the door in a full-length stride.

She shook her head and sent a glance to the painting from which her mother reigned. Forever captured in the Frederick Worth gown Brook had discovered in her wardrobe, still beautiful with its deep green fabric shot through with gold. In the
painting she wore the emerald and diamond necklace Papa had first shown Brook.

And the bracelet she had worn to the hunt. The one Lady Catherine had admired. Rubies and diamonds.

Actually, Kitty always took note of whatever jewelry she wore. In part it seemed polite interest, but Brook had begun to wonder if her cousin believed those tales her mother told . . . or if, perhaps, Henry Rushworth—who had never replied to their letter—had taken something from his brother and sister-in-law and sent it to Brook’s mother. It would explain the letter—and Catherine’s veiled interest.