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“London?” He released her, and they faced each other. “Why would I be in London?”

She was too tired to construct careful sentences.

“Lucy,” she said, and watched his face soften. It hurt like the rack, and then, the thought of his hard-won contentment dulled the pain. She smiled. “You accepted her apology.”

He lit up. “She came to St. Ives. They all did.”

Muriel’s mouth turned dry. “And will she leave the duke?”

Kit looked at her without comprehension.

“It will be like that, then,” she said, and a knife twisted inside her, for all of them—herself, Kit, Lucy, and the duke—each allowed only a sliver of bliss.

“Like what?” Kit hesitated, then drew a sharp breath. “Good Lord. Me and Lucy? That is your meaning?”

Now she was uncomprehending. “You’re in love with her. She’s in love with you.”

“Penny.” His eyes glinted. “You weren’t trying to arrange a match between me and my dearest friend, a happily married duchess and mother of two?”

Her pulse was quickening. “I thought it the likely consequence of a reconciliation.”

He stepped toward her, his proximity scrambling her thoughts. “I am not in love with Lucy. I have never been in love with Lucy. I couldn’t feel more fully that she was my sister if we’d shared the same cradle.”

“Oh.” She exhaled a shaky breath as some secret tension left her body. Her eyes fixed on his waistcoat, peeping out from his magenta jacket: gold, embroidered with sunflowers.

“Penny,” he murmured. A bright current carried warmth from the crown of her head down to her toes.

One last week, then.

She lifted her chin, met his gaze, and tottered. Too much cycling. She’d forgotten how to stand. His hands wrapped her shoulders.

She couldn’t breathe.

His dark stare unnerved her. It was raw in a way she’d never seen.

“Penny,” he began. “What I feel now is—”

“Mrs. Pendrake.” The reporter signaled to get her attention. “You haven’t had your champagne. But we want to photograph you before it gets too dark.”

Kit backed away from her smoothly, with an easy smile. He wasn’t going to finish his sentence—now, or ever.

Heart drumming, she looked with dazed disappointment from the reporter to the stocky man with the camera.

“Photograph me?”

“Capture your victory, for the front page.”

The stocky man was already setting up his camera.

She frowned and scratched at the mud on her cheek.

“All you need to do is get back on your bicycle, and your fellow riders will lift you up, like so, above their heads.” The reporter raised his arms enthusiastically.

Egg was approaching, rolling her bicycle.

“We’ll cheer,” he promised, offering her the handlebars. Prescott, Kemble, and Butterfield crowded close.

“This seems unwise,” she said. More people were forming a ring around them. She felt a cold stare drilling into her like a diamond point. Of course. Lady Chiswick. The woman’s whole face was puckered, like someone had pulled a string on a drawstring bag.