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“He asked if I was aware that Peter had married before he left England. Had I taken the trouble to seek out his offspring, or was I following in my old man’s footsteps to manipulate the heir of my choice?”

At these words, for just a moment, Simon woolgathered. If Peter, the brother he had never met, to his recollection, had sired heirs … that would mean Simon would be free to pursue his own path. With Madeline.

If only …

The thought of it had his heart leap with excitement before he scolded himself for foolish whimsy, refusing to complete the thought that would lead to frustration at his circumstances.

“What a cad,” Isla proclaimed. “Your father was committed to duty. The baron would have brought Peter’s children into our home and raised them as his own even if they diminished the Scott bloodlines. If there had been any progeny. It is a ridiculous accusation!”

John bobbed his head. “I do not trust the little weasel not to spread lies. You are to steer clear of him, you hear?” The baron looked around expectantly, as though awaiting each family member’s assent.

Molly stared back in mild confusion when it came her turn. “Whom am I to avoid?”

“The Baron of Filminster.”

“Oh. Certainly, I shall avoid him.”

Simon buried a smile, hearing the irony in her voice despite the polite response. Molly was in mourning for her mother, so she did not get out and about much. John’s intrinsic understanding of what her day consisted of as a bereaved, unwed young lady was deficient.

Shortly the family adjourned, Simon managing to solicit the much-needed signature from his brother. Isla was to dine with friends, and John was off to a separate, but similar event.

Simon had turned to find Nicholas, only to find he had disappeared without so much as a good-night, frustrating Simon’s intention to corner his little brother before he left for the night.

Shaking his head in aggravation, Simon held out an arm for his step-cousin to escort her to their lonely dinner. Molly smiled, locking arms with him, and they walked down the hall.

“Are you enjoying your stay with us?”

Molly giggled. “We have years ahead of us in this household. Must you remain so formal?”

The gentle tease caught him off guard. He had not considered that his reserved manner might strike her as cold. Perhaps he had grown too accustomed to formality, too wary of warmth. The thought unsettled him. Once he had been a man of laughter and easy charm, but those parts of himself seemed to have worn thin beneath the weight of obligation. Duty had leeched the humor from him, bit by bit, until he scarcely recognized the man he had become.

“I apologize. It is not directed at you. Being dutiful is a habit that is hard to relinquish, I confess.”

“How about we enjoy our dinner with no talk of duty, then? Just two cousins sharing repast?”

Simon forced a grin. But even as they entered the dining room, a shadow pressed at the edge of his thoughts. The memory of whispered promises made long ago beneath the stars of another garden. Tomorrow he would honor his duty, but tonight he could not shake the ache of what that duty would cost him.

Leaving his step-cousin in the music room, he headed out to the garden to wait for Madeline. His stomach was tight with tension, and he dreaded what he was to do.

I do not wish to deliver bad news.

But it was more than that. Tonight, he buried his last links to his past. To the man he had been and the dreams he had held. He had put it off as long as he could, but John’s health made it imperative that he take care of his obligations. It was time to close the door on what might have been.

He waited as evening cast shadows upon the ground, kept company by Greek gods and their feminine counterparts, savoring the sense of freedom that the garden had always represented. An oasis from the solemnity of real life. A place he could still hold on to the fantasy of a future shared with his Psyche.

It was more painful than he had thought it would be.

The sound of gravel crunching beneath slippers had alerted him to her arrival, his heart leaping when he caught sight of her. She was ethereal in the ghostly moonlight.

“Simon!”

“Madeline,” he greeted. “You look lovely this evening.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment, but she did not seem pleased at the compliment. He sensed she was melancholy as they took their seats on the bench.

Simon sat on the far edge, as was his custom lest he be overcome by the impulse to bolt from his rigid life where his responsibilities would rise to suffocate him if he considered all he had lost.

“How have you been?”