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“A title is different,” he said. “Titles open doors. I know that. Doors should open to you. My astonishing, marauding duchess with your bluebell eyes.”

She tipped back the parasol. Her lips felt bloodless.

“A daisy doesn’t tie you to me. If you’ve realized you want to let go, let go.” His eyes held such unlikely light. “You’re a dreamer. Don’t let any of us tell you what to dream.”

She tried to speak, croaked something unintelligible. Her heart beat that familiar doomed rhythm.

He was better than any dream.

Tell him so.

He thought her fickle. He thought she’d rather remain Duchess of Cranbrook than transform into Mrs. Traymayne.

Mrs. Traymayne. The syllables sang in her ears. Mrs. Traymayne. Novelist, wife, mother, barrel dancer, baker and eater of saffron buns, traveler of the world, barring China. More and more unfolded as the name repeated. Mrs. Traymayne. It heralded a lifetime of small and large pleasures and challenges, adventures.

She had to moisten her lips with her tongue to peel them apart. She wasn’t fickle. She wasn’t selfish, either. Not anymore. She would destroy Golowan, dash his mother’s hopes for him, ruin their time together.

“I love you,” she said. “I’d go with you, of course I would, but . . .”

Something shifted in his expression. Everything stilled. He was entirely focused on her. Even her heart seemed to stop.

His smile took its time reaching his eyes. When it did, they crinkled. She ached to put her fingers on those creases, to kiss his cheekbones, the bump on his nose, his full, firm lips that smiled at her despite everything.

“Well,” he said on a breath. “I didn’t oblige you coming in, so I’ll oblige you going out.”

He glanced up at the wall.

“The roses.” She made weak protest.

“Gloves.” He raised his hands. “Fashion with a purpose.” He raked his fingers through his hair, disordering it. He looked more like the man she’d first met.

“Neal,” she said. “I’m sorry.” He froze. They stared at each other. He wasn’t smiling. He lunged forward and plundered her mouth, a piratical kiss that made the parasol drop from her nerveless fingers.

“When . . . when you’re back in London . . .” she stammered as he released her. His lips were glistening, eyes hooded. But his wildness had subsided. He touched her cheek.

When would he be back?

She opened her mouth, but he’d already retreated several feet. He bounced on his toes and ran forward, launching himself at the wall. He seemed to bound straight up it, barely using his hands, feet finding invisible crannies. When he reached the top, he hoisted himself, swung a leg over, and paused, looking down from his perch. He tugged fabric from his pocket. Not a decorous linen square. One of his ridiculous kerchiefs. Blue. He waved it at her, in goodbye, or perhaps, she thought, watching it ripple, as though it were a flag.

Then he was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The fifth Duke of Cranbrook arrived Sunday afternoon to take possession of Harcott House. Lavinia liked him scarcely better than his sire. He was a handful of years older than she and insisted on calling her Mother with a lasciviousness that made her insides roil.

“You always have a home here,” he said at dinner, foot pressing hers under the table. Lavinia hadn’t planned to observe a proper mourning period before marrying Neal. Four months at Harcott House, she’d thought. Perhaps five.

Now the prospect of remaining through the cheese course made her skin crawl.

The next morning, she woke early and walked in the gardens, turned and turned through the green hedges. With every turn, she expected to see him. Neal. Framed by twigs and leaves, grinning. Leveling her with those bright brown eyes.

But no, he’d have boarded his train by now. By now, he might have decided he didn’t want to marry her. She hadn’t let him go, but then, she hadn’t gone with him. A selfless act. One that made her more worthy of him, and that might mean she’d lost him.

Was it selfless? Or was it cowardly? She feared seeing his cousins and owning up to her lies, feared getting quizzed by his mother on the morphology of the Plesiosaurus. She feared that his sisters would sniff out the feathers on her, years of winged hats, and gape with wounded horror. She’d endure their ridicule, but why? So Neal could make known his ridiculous decision.

He’d chosen the kind of wife who faded.

She kept walking, eyes welling, spilling over.