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But even as she mounted the defense in her mind, it did little to fend off the ache that lingered since the moment she had found Lady Slight clinging to her husband like ivy to a stone wall. She could not rid herself of the image or the certainty it confirmed. How could she hope to compete?

Brendan was the very embodiment of sartorial elegance. He was handsome, commanding, and always composed. Lady Slight was a practiced coquette, voluptuous and dripping confidence. And Lily—Lily Billy—was none of those things. She might be cheerful and loyal and honest, but she was hardly the sort of woman who turned heads in a crowded ballroom.

He was likely keeping to his vows out of duty, nothing more. Her intervention had altered the course of his life, and though he was determined to do right by her, she had never been chosen. Not truly. No one had ever chosen her.

And now, married to a man bound to her by necessity, she would never know what it felt like to be the center of someone’s world.

She had always believed, somehow, that things would work out for the best. It was a trait that set her apart. Her boundless optimism, her trust in fate. But now, sitting in the heavy silence of a house cloaked in secrets, she could think of no tidy path through the tangled mess she found herself in.

With a small sigh, she sat down and uncovered her meal. The scent of hot bread and coddled eggs met her nose, familiar, but unappetizing. She picked up her fork and pushed the eggs to one side.

Perhaps a respite at Saunton Park will restore me, she thought, raising a bite of toast to her lips. And with rest, perhaps clarity will come. Inspiration.

At the very least, she would be free from the creeping dread that haunted every corridor of Ridley House.

Brendan had wanted nothing more than to join Lily in her bed the night before. The desire had gnawed at him while he sat alone in the drawing room, staring into the decaying coals. He had remained downstairs to master the urge, knowing full well he would not be welcome. Still, the memory of their one night together clung to his senses, whispering of what could be. The warmth of her skin. The sweetness of her kiss.

It haunted him now. Tormented him.

He wanted to know her. To become a proper husband in truth, not only in name. Which was precisely why he now found himself wandering the quieter streets of Mayfair in the early morning light like a man pursued by ghosts.

Had he shared breakfast with her, he would have said too much. Or worse, begged her not to leave. And that, he could not bear to do.

He had never expected marriage to mean so much, so swiftly. Never expected Lily—chattering, unfiltered, endlessly sincere Lily—to slip into the corners of his heart with such stealth. But she had. Somehow, she had.

Brendan had not realized how profoundly lonely he had become until she arrived.

Since his mother’s death thirteen years earlier, that void had deepened, carved out slowly by silence. His mother, Annabel, and he had been close, bound not merely by blood but by a shared understanding. Then came Richard at Eton, that first true friend who filled the empty spaces left behind.

But the baron had sent him to Cambridge, away from Richard, and when Brendan had finally come of age, his uncle had cast him out of Baydon Hall altogether, severing him not only from the house but from his sister.

He had lived in London ever since. Surrounded by acquaintances, but close to no one.

When Annabel had returned to his life, newly married to Halmesbury, there had been a kind of healing. Observing their domestic contentment, watching the way Halmesbury adored his sister and their child, Brendan had been reminded of something he thought long gone—the comfort of family. Of belonging.

Then had come Lily.

The night of their wedding, as she lay beside him snoring ever so faintly in sleep, her arm draped across his chest, he had felt something he had not known in years. Peace. The kind of peace that only comes when one is seen and accepted.

That night, he had dared to believe in something more. That this might not be a marriage of convenience or necessity alone. That Lily, who chattered her thoughts like birdsong and defended others with the courage of a lion, might become his partner in every sense.

The summer morning should have buoyed his spirits. The sky overhead was a brilliant wash of blue, unmarred by cloud. The leaves in the square danced in a gentle breeze, casting shifting shadows on the cobblestones. A thrush chirped from the branch of a tree, and the scent of roses lingered on the air.

It was an idyllic morning.

But Brendan felt nothing but the slow, aching pressure of regret.

He stopped beside the large iron gates of the private square, resting one gloved hand atop the cool railing. Within, the riot of blooms—lavender, foxglove, nasturtiums—blurred before his eyes. He stared, unseeing.

His wife was leaving.

And he did not know when, or if, he would see her again.

After everything he had done, after everything he had failed to say, what right had he to ask anything of her?

Will she be gone when I return home?

The thought was a stone in his chest, pulling him down, back into the tedious gray ennui he had only just begun to escape since Lily came into his life. Since Sunday morning, when they had wed and he had glimpsed, for the first time in years, the possibility of joy.