"Yes," Magnus said, without hesitation.

  James stared. "You are biased. Lena has softened your brain."

  "I don't know whether you are 'that man,' because I don't know what Esme will require in five years, or ten. Neither do you. That's the point of marriage. It's not a guarantee of perfection. It's a promise to stay while you both trip over your own feet," Niall said.

  "I trip quite a lot," James said. "Have you considered that?"

  "Frequently," Magnus replied. "I have also considered that you are at your worst when you are bored. Lady Esme has never, in all the time I have observed her, permitted anyone to be bored in her vicinity. Including herself."

  "I saw you at the battledore pitch. You looked as though missing one shuttlecock mattered a great deal. I haven't seen you look like that about cards in ten years," Niall said.

  "Cards do not fall into lakes."

  "Esme did not fall into a lake at Foxmere," Niall said calmly. "But you're drowning all the same."

  James pressed his thumb hard into the stack of cards until the edge bit his skin. "It is moot. She has made it clear she prefers to be sensible. She ended our little society herself."

  "Ah," Magnus murmured. "So the lady you told would be better off without you has taken you at your word. And you are offended by her obedience."

  James shot him a glare. "I am not offended. I am relieved."

  Niall arched a brow. "You look thrilled."

  He knew he looked exactly as he felt: as though someone had quietly shut a door on a room he had only just begun to enter.

  He thought of Esme's face on the lawn, her eyes cool, her voice precise, the way she had called him Lord Redford with distance in her tone.

  You never overstep. Not where it matters.

  The words stuck.

  "I am relieved," he insisted, because to say anything else would be to admit he wanted what he had sworn not to. "She will find some suitable gentleman who can discuss ledgers at breakfast and never once consider dragging her into a fountain."

  "Watford?" Magnus said, incredulous. "You would prefer Watford and his ink?"

  James forced a joke. "Ink is very dependable."

  "James," Niall said, dropping the humor altogether. "You, who interfere at every turn when you see someone being forced into a dull fate, are now standing back and letting it happen to a woman you care for."

  "I am protecting her," James said, the words harsher than he intended. "From me, from my inability to remain content, from my father's debts, which are not as comfortably buried as the world believes, from the fact that I am, by my own admission, a man who will not marry."

  Magnus's gaze did not waver. "Then perhaps you must admit something else."

  "And what?" James demanded.

  "That you are a coward," Magnus said, not unkindly. "You hide behind that vow because it allows you to be noble without doing anything that frightens you."

  The word landed.

  James's stomach turned. "Careful, Berkshire."

  "Or what?" Magnus asked quietly. "Rake my reputation? You already tried that, and I went and got happily married instead. You may scowl. You want her. You are afraid to say so. And you would rather watch her marry a man she does not laugh with than risk becoming your parents."

  Niall drained his wine and set the glass down. "If you cannot imagine yourself married to Lady Esme," he said, "then fine. Stay away. Let her find someone who is not half in love with her and pretending indifference. But if the only thing between you and asking is fear⁠—"

  "Then that," Magnus finished, "is not protection. It is selfishness."

  The club noise swelled around them. James stared at the cards in his hands and saw nothing.

  Half in love.

  He had never allowed the phrase purchase in his mind.

  But when he thought of Esme—of her laughter in the park, her stubborn chin on the terrace, her eyes when she said mischief was over—the truth was no longer something he could outrun with jokes.

  "Leave it," he said hoarsely. "Please."

  Magnus and Niall exchanged a look. Magnus rose. "Very well. We have said what we came to say."

  Niall clapped James's shoulder. "There is to be a musicale at Haverleigh in three nights' time," he said. "The Woodmere household will be there, as will we. Consider yourself invited."

  James did not answer.

  They left him alone at the table, surrounded by winnings that felt like useless metal disks.

  A coward, he thought, staring at his empty glass. That is what you are.

  The realization did not hurt as he had expected.

  It burned.

  Esme had never heard so many arias and wanted to scream through every one.

  "Is it possible," Genny whispered in the Woodmere drawing room, "for a woman to die of a surfeit of tenors?"

  "If it is, we shall discover it tonight," Esme murmured back, eyes on the door as the butler showed Viscount Watford out.

  Her mother watched from the settee, hands folded, expression serene. Harrison stood at her shoulder. The room still rang faintly with Watford's last gallantries.

  "Such a sensible young man," Mother said as the door closed. "So reliable. So orderly. I am very pleased he has not been put off by... recent incidents."

  Esme's jaw ached. She unclenched it. "You mean the Serpentine."

  "And the battledore business," Harrison added. "Haverleigh's butler informed me you very nearly brained Lord Bertram."

  "I was nowhere near Lord Bertram," Esme said. "The shuttlecock simply fell."

  Genny coughed to cover a laugh.

  "Regardless," Harrison said, "Watford has shown himself forgiving. That speaks well for his character."

  Or poorly for his imagination, Esme thought.

  Aloud, she said nothing.

  Mother’s gaze softened as it moved from Harrison to Esme. "We have been invited to a musicale at Haverleigh in three nights' time. The Duke and Duchess are hosting. Lord Watford has requested a place on your dance card, Esme. I assured him we would be delighted."

  Esme felt a chill. "You assured him before asking me?"

  "One does not insult a serious suitor with unnecessary hesitation," Mother said. "You liked him well enough before."

  "He has excellent penmanship," Esme said flatly.

  "And a respectable estate," Harrison added. "He spoke to me at length of his plans for improving drainage. I was very impressed."

  "I am thrilled his fields will be dry," Esme said. "My own feelings, however, remain otherwise."

  Genny abandoned any pretense of delicacy and choked outright. Mother shot her a quelling look.

  "Lady Esme," she said, using the tone that had cowed three sons and half a dozen servants, "this flippancy is unbecoming. Lord Watford is prepared to make you a very acceptable offer, should matters progress."

  Esme's heart thudded. "Has he said as much?"

  "He has expressed interest," Harrison said carefully. "He is cautious by nature. He wishes to be certain your... inclinations have steadied."

  "You mean he wishes to be certain I will not drag him into a pond," Esme said.

  "Esme," Mother admonished.

  She bit the inside of her cheek.

  There it was. The neat, sensible future, laid out like one of Harrison's ledgers. A husband who would speak to her of ink and drainage. Breakfast conversations about columns and crop rotation. Dinners where any remark sharper than agreement would be smoothed away as unbecoming.

  Safety, perhaps. Respectability, certainly. And a lifetime of never feeling her pulse quicken because someone had made her laugh when she wanted to scream.

  "Haverleigh will be a perfect opportunity to demonstrate your composure," Mother continued. "No more tumbles. No more... societies."

  Esme's eyes flicked to Genny, whose expression was mutinous.

  "Yes, Mama," Esme said quietly. "I understand."

  Mother relaxed. "Good. That is all we ask."

  As if it were a small thing.

  Harrison cleared his throat. "You will avoid Redford, if he attends."

  Esme's shoulders went rigid. "I will be civil to any gentleman with whom I am acquainted," she said. "Nothing more."

  "That is all I ask," Harrison echoed. "He took my warning, Esme. He has stepped back. Let matters remain so."

  The words stung. She forced herself to nod.

  "Very well," she said. "If you will excuse me, I have a headache."

  Mother's eyes narrowed, but after a moment, she inclined her head. "Do not be long, dearest. Mrs. Welby is expected shortly to discuss your gown for Haverleigh."

  Nothing in her life, Esme thought, could be allowed to go unarranged. Even her sleeves required supervision.

  She slipped from the drawing room, Genny shadowing her.

  They did not speak until the door to Esme's bedchamber closed.

  Then Genny exploded.

  "'Let matters remain so'," she mimicked in a low, furious voice. "'He has stepped back.' As though you were both pieces of furniture properly arranged in a room. I could scream."

  "Please do not," Esme said, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "Mama will assume I am rehearsing for the musicale."

  Genny flung herself into the nearest chair. "I liked the Mutual Mischief Society better," she declared. "At least then our schemes made people happy. Miss Eaton is practically glowing. Mr. Carstairs smiled today. Smiled. At the weather."

  Esme couldn't help it. Her mouth twitched. "I suppose it was rather gratifying."

  "It was glorious," Genny said. "And you have gone all pale and quiet and respectable. It is awful. I hate it. I am considering staging an intervention."

  "Do not," Esme said, though the plea lacked heat. "This is what everyone wanted. I am being sensible."

  Genny snorted. "Yes. You and Woodmere and Watford and half the ton, all joined hands in a circle of dreary satisfaction. How delightful."

  Esme stared at her clasped hands. "It is not only them."

  "Oh, I know," Genny said. "It is also Redford."

  Esme kept her gaze fixed on the pattern of the carpet. "He has made his position very clear."

  "Has he?" Genny demanded. "Because from where I stood, what he made clear was that you both care for one another so much it hurts to look at."

  "He told Harrison he would never marry," Esme said, "That he will not offer for any lady of good family. That he is unsuitable. He told him so more than once, apparently. Quite directly."

  Genny frowned. "And Harrison told you this."

  "Yes."

  "And you believed him."

  "He is my brother."

  "He is a man," Genny pointed out. "Men are stupid."

  Esme almost laughed. "Redford confirmed it. At Foxmere. I asked, and he answered. Very honestly. He does not intend to marry anyone. Least of all me."

  Genny went very still. "What, precisely, did he say?"

  Esme replayed the scene: his face in the fading light, the way his shoulders had stiffened.

  You are correct. I do not intend to marry. I have said as much...

  "He agreed," she said dully. "Said he wasn't a safe bet for anyone's happiness. We agreed to be sensible. To keep respectable distances."

  "And that," Genny said, "is what you heard. I heard a man who has been telling himself the same story so long he doesn't know how to change the ending."

  Esme's head snapped up. "What story?"

  "That he is a walking disaster," Genny said simply. "That he ruins things. That he cannot be trusted with anything as fragile as affection. So he behaves badly, on purpose, and then points to the chaos and says, 'See? I was right about myself all along.'"

  Esme opened her mouth, then closed it.

  Images of Redford on the terrace, Redford in the water, Redford in the garden, Redford on the lawn, flashed through her memory.

  "He could have fought," she said quietly. "Argued, told me Harrison was wrong, that we could⁠—"

  "What?" Genny asked sharply. "Run off to Gretna? Keep a secret courtship? Esme, be fair. You told him you wanted to be sensible. That your life could not be wagered. You pushed him away, and he respected you enough to step back."

  Esme flinched. "You're meant to be on my side."

  "I am on your side," Genny said fiercely. "Which is why I am telling you the truth. If you truly prefer Watford and his drainage, if you would rather have a quiet, orderly life than risk your heart, I will stand beside you, smile at your wedding, and never say a word."

  She leaned forward, eyes bright. "But if you are only pretending—if you are breaking off because you are afraid—then that is not you. That is everyone else's idea of you."

  The words hit with unnerving accuracy and Esme stared at her friend, throat thick. "I don't know what I prefer," she said at last. "I only know that everything feels...smaller, since Foxmere."

  "Smaller without him," Genny said quietly.

  Esme did not answer.

  "Then perhaps the Mutual Mischief Society shouldn't be over. Perhaps it's time you used it on yourself."

  Esme blinked. "On myself?"

  "You have been rearranging everyone else's lives," Genny said. "But you haven't once asked what you want and then acted in favor of that. That is poor form, Esme. You'd never tolerate it in anyone else."

  Esme's lips trembled. "I want... I want to choose," she whispered. "Not to be chosen. Not to be arranged. I want to decide for myself, even if it is the wrong decision."

  Genny's expression gentled. "There she is," she said softly. "My Esme."

  Esme pressed her palms to her eyes for a moment, then dropped them. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier.

  "Haverleigh," she said. "A crowd, music, enough commotion to hide a little mischief."

  "Excellent." Genny grinned. "What shall we do?"

  Esme drew a breath. "First, I speak to Watford. Alone."

  Genny's eyes widened. "Esme⁠—"

  "I will be kind," Esme said. "But I won't allow myself to drift into an understanding simply because it's expected. He deserves a wife who is delighted by penmanship. That isn't me."

  "And Redford?" Genny asked carefully.

  "That," Esme said, "depends on whether he comes."

  "And if he does?"

  Esme thought of his laugh, his hands, the way his eyes had softened when he said he was sometimes tired. Sometimes disappointed.

  "Then," she said, "I stop letting other people speak for me. For once."

  Genny's smile was brilliant and a little wet. "Now that is a plan I can get behind."

  Esme managed a small, answering smile.

  The Mutual Mischief Society, she thought, might not be dead after all.

  It might simply be changing its object.

  James stared at the note on his writing desk as though it were a summons from the Almighty.

  From Miss Genevieve Moreland, in fact. He recognized her handwriting at once, and almost hadn't opened it.

  Almost.

  Lord Redford, it began,

  You are, at present, being a complete ninny.

  He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and read on.

  Esme is being very brave and very stupid. Woodmere is being very sincere and very stupid. Watford is being exactly himself, which is a separate problem. You, however, are managing to combine all three varieties of stupidity at once, which is frankly impressive.

  If you do not attend the musicale at Haverleigh, Esme will likely talk herself into being perfectly sensible forever, and then we shall all be bored to death. Including you. Possibly especially you.

  If you attend and behave as though you are carved from ice, I shall spill something unspeakable on your coat to force you to change it, which will cause a scene, which will lead to gossip, which you claim you wish to avoid.

  So: come. Be honest. For once. Consider this an official summons from the Mutual Mischief Society, which, despite rumors of its demise, is still very much in session.

  Yours in impatience,

  G. Moreland

  P.S. If you hurt her on purpose, I shall teach Lady Honoria a new poem about you.

  James sat back, the note dangling from his fingers.

  A ninny.

  Regrettably, not inaccurate.

  The urge to crumple the letter warred with the urge to fold it carefully and put it somewhere he could not pretend to forget. He compromised by smoothing it flat and setting it atop the others.

  There were not many.

  A few bills, a note from his steward about tenants' repairs, an invitation to a house party in August he had no intention of attending. His life, on paper, was remarkably empty.

  He pushed to his feet and paced the room, the familiar clutter of his study offering no distraction. Cards, books, a half-finished caricature Magnus had drawn years ago—all spoke of a man content to float.

  He was no longer floating.

  He was treading water, and he was tired.

  Magnus's words returned, uninvited.

  You hide behind that vow because it allows you to be noble without doing anything that frightens you.

  "Coward," he muttered.

  He thought of Esme's face when she said he never overstepped where it mattered, of the brittle dignity in her smile when she told him their society was at an end.

  He had taken her at her word because it suited his fears.

  He had never once asked what she wanted, beyond what her mother and brother wanted for her. He had assumed that safety, as defined by them, must be the same as her happiness.

  That was, he realized, an insult.

  Choice, she had said on the terrace, was what she wanted.

  And he had given her anything but. He had walked away and called it protection.

  If I cannot imagine myself married to Lady Esme...

  He could.

  He had been doing so without admitting it for days.

  It was there in every ridiculous little thought. Esme at the breakfast table. Esme in his study, rearranging his shelves. Esme in a carriage beside him, laughing while rain beat on the roof. Esme, at his side, catching him when his own footing slipped.

  The fear did not vanish once named, but it shifted.