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“The Duchess of Cranbrook,” she declared, yanking off her gloves as she strode past him into the entrance hall.

She paused beneath the chandelier. It felt as though years had passed since she’d crossed the threshold of Harcott House, a white-knuckled bride with a frozen smile.

Belatedly, the butler reached for her gloves, head retracted on his wrinkled neck. Before she could ask for Mrs. Yardley, she heard a cry from above.

Her mother stood on the second-floor landing, her mouth a perfect O of astonishment. She was dressed for going out, in her gray silk with the panels of brocade. The heron plumes mounted thickly on her hat bobbed as she started forward. Lavinia came to meet her, and they hesitated, face-to-face, at the base of the marble stair. Lavinia closed her eyes as her mother’s familiar floral-amber perfume—Bouquet Suave—flooded her. She could be a child again, brought from the nursery to receive her mother’s kiss.

Then she found her mother’s gaze, the blue eyes a faded version of her own.

Those eyes were wide, not with shock, as Lavinia had supposed, but with horror.

“Your skin,” her mother breathed. “What have you done? What were you thinking, running off? You worried me to half to death.”

“You hide it beautifully.” Bitterness twisted Lavinia lips. Her mother looked sleek, well nourished, and well rested. She’d darkened her eyebrows, put in her pearl tassel earrings.

We’re together, that’s all that matters.

As the train had sped through the countryside, Lavinia had imagined her mother saying those words, folding her into her arms. She’d imagined touching her mother’s smooth hair, gone white with fear.

Thank God, you’re safe.

“Don’t let me keep you from your engagement.” She stood aside, feeling a small, mean thrill as her mother flinched.

“It’s a bit late for the theater,” she continued in the same harsh tone. “You’re going to a ball, then? How lovely that we could meet. Now your worry won’t prevent you from enjoying it.”

Her mother’s gaze slid to the butler. She’d always hated scenes. Had always tried to make Lavinia quieter, softer, paler, sweeter. Unlike Papa, she’d never doted on Lavinia when she stormed and wept. She would withdraw coldly.

Lavinia wanted to cry now, if only to punish her. To rage in front of this slow-blinking turtle of a butler.

But her mother spun on her heel.

“Irving, I don’t need the carriage after all,” she said, already sweeping down the hall. “The duchess and I will take refreshment in the yellow sitting room.”

In the yellow sitting room, Lavinia ignored the settees and walked to one of the three windows that looked out on the dark garden.

“You are fortunate your husband has kept this quiet.”

She didn’t turn at her mother’s voice, only narrowed her eyes, trying to distinguish the statues from the topiary, the covered pavilion from the colonnade.

“You are fortunate,” she replied. Cold air was leaking through the glass, and she suppressed a shiver. “Did Lady Chatwick invite you out this evening? Lady Sambourn? They didn’t want you anywhere near their parties when you were the wife of a criminal. But now that you are the mother of a duchess, the old friendships have rekindled. It warms the heart.”

“Lavinia.”

Lavinia heard the rustle of her mother’s skirts. Slowly, she turned from the window. Her mother had crossed the room.

“What in heaven’s name has come over you?” She stood beside a round table topped with a Sèvres vase, finger trailing up and down the gilt handle. Her frown etched her face with sharp lines, aging her.

Lavinia used to feel her spirits rise and fall with the curve of her mother’s lips. Her smiles were rewards, her frowns punishments. They allowed her to gauge her own successes and failures.

“Your marriage to the Duke of Cranbrook brought good fortune to each of us.” Her mother tilted her head and the heron feathers swayed. “It is the perfect match. Exactly the kind of match I always expected for you.”

“How can it be perfect?” Lavinia hugged herself, voice rising. “How can it be perfect if I loathe him?”

Her mother’s frown lines deepened. She assumed the pained, disappointed expression Lavinia had so often provoked in the past, whenever she behaved unreasonably.

She was being unreasonable. When circumstances demanded, daughters married for titles, for money, for social acceptance, for the honor of their families, for a host of reasons other than love, or happiness.

Her circumstances spoke for themselves. She and her mother needed a proper roof over their heads. They needed to be allowed back into Society, however false their friends. It was the air they breathed.