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It was easier—always—to say daring things to the aunt who shared Mother’s cheekbones and none of her stern rules.

They took the narrow lane, then the side path that joined Marine Parade, where Brighton presented its best face to the world. The light lay along the Parade like silk unfurled; the breeze smelled of salt and a little coal; ladies paraded their ribbons and pretended not to notice the pretending.

“I need to make something happen,” Pepper began, fitting her pace to her aunt’s—left sure, right measured on the ankle that still liked to remind her it had opinions. “If Papa wins the Pavilion’s favor, he might at last let me ask Mother to see him,” Pepper said. “She’s the one who pretends he is dead, but he’s the one who swears he won’t disturb the life she built on that lie unless she invites him. They’ve been circling the same hurt for twenty years. I want to arrange a meeting.”

Aunt Florence nearly stumbled. Pepper caught her elbow.

“Why?” Aunt Florence demanded softly.

“So I don’t have to hide anymore,” Pepper said. The words came out small and honest.

“You’ve never been hidden from your father since you were a babe,” her aunt answered. “We made certain of that.”

“Mother thinks I have.” Pepper’s hand pressed the scarf to her throat. “Isn’t it time I make his acquaintance—hers—openly?”

“Under which pretext,” Aunt Florence asked dryly, “do you imagine your mother would agree? Not that she would, but let me hear the story you intend to sell me.”

Pepper exhaled. “For my wedding.”

This time Aunt Florence did stumble. Pepper steadied her and bore the aunt’s stare.

“I beg your pardon?” her aunt said faintly.

“I think Mother might mend old injuries if there were a wedding to plan,” Pepper said. The word felt reckless on her tongue. She hardly knew the man beyond pastry and two conversations, and yet the picture of Mother and Papa in the same room without flinching tugged at her so hard she could not quite swallow it back. “People behave when flowers and lists distract them. She’d want it done beautifully. She would—maybe—be… kinder. It might soften her. And then—”

“Then we surprise her with a baker behind a door?” Aunt Florence’s mouth tried not to smile and did not quite succeed.

They walked in silence for a while. It was not nothing to discuss Pepper’s marriage prospects with the aunt society had quietly shelved as a spinster at twenty-three. Mother had stopped talking of a husband for Florence the year Pepper turned seventeen, as if one girl’s prospects had used up all the family’s hope.

“That leaves one small problem,” Aunt Florence said at last.

“I know.” Pepper’s voice went thoughtful. “I need a groom.”

They walked three paces in the glittering Brighton afternoon while Pepper asked herself whether she had ever given a thought to any man except to step out of his way. The answer was a resolute no.

Until a few days ago, when a parcel folded like a promise and a voice had learned ainsi instead of pretending to know already.

The handsome stranger with the mille-feuille came to mind like a breath she had been holding without knowing it.

“Ah,” Aunt Florence said, very soft, because she always heard the thought Pepper didn’t say. “Is there—someone who understands how you take pastry?”

Pepper’s mouth went dry. “I don’t even know his full name.”

“Who is it?”

“The man who placed the order for the pastries,” Pepper admitted. “At the pâtisserie.”

“Ah. The reason you agreed to come to Brighton.” Aunt Florence’s voice made it sound both obvious and tender.

"He likes crumbly desserts and vanilla crème." The words came out before she could arrange them sensibly. "He listens—not just to what you say, but to what you mean by it. As if getting it right actually mattered to him." She shut her mouth on the rest. He is Your Grace. He is from a life that never turns a dough hook. He cannot possibly be the Flour Duke who signed Wyndale on that notice; the world is not that cruel[AR15][GS16].

“You know how he eats dessert,” Aunt Florence said. “That’s not nothing.”

Pepper made a helpless sound that was not quite a laugh. “It’s foolish of me.”

“It is,” she agreed cheerfully. “And entirely the sort of material that turns into a sweeping love story if someone is not careful. Tell me what you will do next. How can I help?”

Pepper lifted her chin toward the Pavilion’s domes peeking past rooftops like painted onions that had gone to a masquerade. “I will finish what we began. Henry will take the pastries. I will—supervise—if I can avoid Mother’s promenades. If the Pavilion chooses us, I will consider marriage”—she dared a glance at Aunt Florence—“and then by the sheerest chance, Papa will come to my engagement.”