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The uneven road made conversation difficult until they had left the estate. Lydia steadied the basket beside her while her father adjusted the curtain against the sun. The mint shivered with the motion of the wheels, and she kept one hand against the wicker as though something more than a plant might be jolted loose. Four days, she thought. It seemed a very short time to have acquired so much to leave behind. Her mother asked about her foot, received the same answer as before, and at last seemed willing to believe it. For several minutes, they traveled in silence. Then the countess said, “The Dowager Duchess hopes we shall dine with them in London.”

Lydia lifted her attention from the basket. “Has she arranged a date?”

“Not yet.”

“I would prefer that we did not go for my sake.”

Her father lowered the paper he had been attempting to read. “What do you mean?”

“If you wish to see her, of course we should go. But I do not want another visit arranged because everyone hopes the duke will change his mind.”

Her mother glanced at the earl. Lydia tightened her hand on the basket and kept her eyes there. She had seen that glance before. It generally preceded a conversation from which she had been excluded for her own convenience.

“I mean to consider other gentlemen,” Lydia said. “Mr. Harrington asked whether he might call when we were back in London.”

“He spoke to me,” her father replied.

“Then I hope you encouraged him.”

“He is welcome to call.”

She relaxed a little. Her father folded the paper.

“We shall see what happens.”

He did not look up. “I spoke to the Dowager Duchess before we left.”

“About me?”

“Yes.”

She waited.

“We both believe there may still be a possibility of a match.”

The basket shifted beneath Lydia’s hand. She set it more firmly against the seat. “Did you speak to the duke?”

“Not about a proposal.”

“Then nothing has changed.”

“His manner toward you has changed considerably.”

“He has been kind. That does not mean he intends to marry.”

“No,” her mother said. “But it is not nothing.”

She waited for her father to disagree. He did not. They spoke gently, as though her certainty were merely a passing mood they could persuade her to abandon.

“Do you mean to press him?”

Her father’s expression sharpened. “I mean to do nothing that would place you in an unwilling marriage.”

“I asked whether you meant to press him.”

“No one will force him, Lydia.” It was said gently, which did not help.

She held his gaze.