For once, it was a relief. She could hide in her room and read for the next seven days, and no one would bother her.

  Breakfast finished with the amicable chatter of her sisters. Anne wondered what they would do since they all tended to receive their menses rather close together. In fact, Anne now remembered, Bernie was indisposed last week. She’d knitted a whole scarf for herself in that time.

  Anne took her hand as they left the parlor.

  “Do you recommend any books for me to read while I’m laid up for the week?” Anne asked.

  Bernie raised a brow. “Oh—oh. Yes, A Tale of Two Birds. It’s new from the lending library a la duchess.” Bernie paused as she watched Anne. “I had been wondering why you weren’t sharing my misery last week…”

  Anne wanted to snort. “Wondering I’d gotten myself with child? How”—her breath caught—“ridiculous.” Her voice was too thin so she cleared her throat. “Ridiculous,” she repeated.

  Bernie laughed and winked. “Immaculate conception should not be ruled out in this family. Did you notice mother’s eyes were rather puffy this morning? And I don’t think she’s been crying. Father was home three weeks ago while we were gone. One can only fear…”

  “Don’t say it. It’s been seventeen years since she’s borne a child.”

  Bernie grimaced. “That is true. She must be barren. He’s returned many times since Willa’s birth. ’Tis not like he’s learned to refrain from marital congress, if the thin walls are any indication.”

  Anne sighed heavily as her stomach rolled. “Please don’t mention those words to me again.”

  Bernie giggled. “You look a bit peaked.”

  “I feel…out of sorts. Perhaps I’ve caught a cold as well.”

  Bernie stepped away from her. “I’d rather not catch it too.”

  “Good idea. You need to man the helm while I’m under the weather. Feel free to marry Mr. Hart in my stead while you’re at it.”

  Bernie narrowed her eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She abruptly smiled. “Though it would give Chester a reason not to lecture me and hover about like a nursemaid.”

  “You adore his devoted attention and you know it,” Anne returned.

  “I do. But I need him to back off if I’m to find a gentleman to marry.”

  Anne did agree with that point. She left Bernie in the hall outside their room and undressed again before climbing back into bed.

  * * *

  Anne woke, with the book she’d been reading spread open, pages down, over her face. She sat up, not remembering when she’d fallen asleep. The mantle clock read half past one. She rubbed her eyes, feeling refreshed but bewildered.

  She licked her dry lips and wished for a cup of tea. She wiggled a bit to feel if she was damp, indicating her monthly had started, but she felt dry.

  She climbed out of bed to investigate further and check the rag she’d slipped under her bottom earlier.

  It too was dry.

  “Hmm,” she said and shrugged. “I suppose I’ll get myself that tea and return to waiting.”

  There was a small knell of panic making itself known in her head, like a little annoying bell, but she ignored it.

  It was one time. Surely more occasions than that were required to produce a child?

  Anne had never heard otherwise. Her own mother was an exception, but her parents were prolific in their affection.

  And loud.

  She shuddered.

  But then she wondered what sounds she had made. She couldn’t remember anything significant. What she did remember was now like a fever dream. Sensations and emotions, like bright sparks from a fire that faded all too quickly.

  She also dreamed—not of the garden—but of Roderick right here in her room, and any moment they could be caught by one of her sisters. She would always wake, her face flushed, and her nightgown cloying to her damp skin.

  The dreams didn’t happen nightly, but they did happen often and burrowed deeply into her mind so that she would frequently think of it during the day.

  In her dreams she’d been freer, definitely, louder in her sighs and moans, and Roderick was different to. He was tender, staring into her eyes, whispering sweet words, and holding her so tightly. They made love in her dreams, not the fast coupling they’d had in the garden.

  She couldn’t believe she’d done that. What had made her so stupid in that moment?

  Was it his blasted poem?

  Or had she simply lost her mind? A passing madness never to be repeated?

  No. Never again. She knew she meant nothing to him.

  And that hurt most of all.

  If she knew without a doubt he remembered and had used her, she could bring herself to truly hate him and never look upon him again.

  But the situation was far more pathetic. He’d been too drunk.

  She could toss her dignity in the mud and simply tell him, but then what would happen?

  He might propose marriage. And Anne would be an idiot to refuse him, but then she’d be married to a drunkard who cared nothing for her.

  No. Her best option was to forget it happened at all or rather, carry her secret to her grave. She would never be able to forget what happened or forgive him for not remembering.

  Why must she long for a man so thoughtless?

  Time and time again, he had demonstrated exactly the type of man he was, and yet her gullible heart kept hoping one day he'd change.

  One day he’d see her as a woman and want her like no other.

  But it was ever becoming clearer Roderick had only one true love.

  His drink.

  Chapter 11

  July 11, 1825

  Anne committed to presenting her best self to Mr. Hart. As the eldest, she was the one expected to marry him, and her sisters seemed to agree though nothing was ever said outright.

  Her father remained at home, which was unusual, after so many years of traveling on his perpetual search for husbands.

  Mr. Hart was an amiable fellow but rather reserved. He dutifully followed father hither and yonder, assisting in managing what was left of their sorry estate.

  Days turned to weeks and then months, and two things became obvious to Anne.

  Her courses had never come, and she’d begun to experience symptoms she'd recognized in her mother for much of her childhood.

  She was carrying Roderick’s child.

  And to make matters worse, her mother—after seventeen barren years—was expecting as well.

  Anne began each day by waking and running outside to wretch before Bernie woke. And then she did everything possible to hide her symptoms. If anyone took notice of her odd behavior, no one mentioned it. Anne didn’t know what to do. She would have to marry Mr. Hart as quickly as possible. But the man had shown her very little interest.

  This morning, after retching into the bushes beside the kitchen garden, she returned to her room to find Bernie awake.

  Bernie rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Where were you off to?”

  Anne thought quickly. “I thought I’d left washing on the line. It's going to rain soon, see?”

  Bernie shrugged. “Oh. Shall we go visit Violet today at the castle? I have books to return as well.”

  Would Roderick be there?

  She cursed herself for having the thought. She shouldn’t go. Her emotions had become unpredictable. Yesterday she’d cried when the cat caught a mouse.

  It was his job to catch the mice but that poor mouse… She teared up again. She spun away from Bernie and started to wash her face.

  “Well, do you want to go?” Bernie asked.

  “Where?”

  “To the castle. Books, tea, Violet…”

  Anne faced her sister as she dried her face. “I beg your pardon?”

  Bernie shook her head in frustration. “What is the matter with you? You’re perpetually tired, forgetful, and…” She went silent.

  Anne knitted her hands together, prepared to confess to at least Bernie. Someone should know, and Bernie was the most resourceful and least to tell.

  But it was still terrifying to wait for Bernie to complete her sentence.

  Then relief filled her. She would have someone to tell, someone to help her. She wouldn’t be alone in her misery anymore.

  “I don’t even want to say it. I—I cannot believe it.”

  Anne waited, but she said nothing more.

  Bernie climbed out of bed and stood before the window.

  “Who, Anne?”

  “I won’t tell you that.”

  Bernie spun to face her. “What?” She rushed to her and hugged her tightly. “Were you forced?”

  Anne began to cry. So many emotions inside her threatened to spill out.

  “No. I was just…weak. I couldn’t resist him.”

  Bernie leaned back and held her shoulders. “You must tell me who it is. He will marry you or I’ll castrate him. When did this happen?”

  “In Scotland.”

  Bernie gasped. “A Scotsman?”

  Anne could see Bernie’s mind work, deducing and speculating.

  “I’m not going to reveal anything so stop. I won’t marry him, even if he wanted to marry me. It was a mistake.”

  “With growing consequences—oh, Anne.” Bernie hugged her again.

  Anne shrugged her off, irritation taking hold. “Don’t think I don’t know the enormity of what I’ve done. I’ve practically raised all of you, remember?”

  “Yes, you never hesitate to remind us. I helped. Remember that? Who taught Willa to use the chamber pot?”

  Anne sighed. “I’m sorry, I’m still trying to figure all this out.”

  “I see. But we need a plan.”

  “I have one, Mr. Hart.”

  Bernie’s lips pressed into a flat line and then she nodded. Her expression mirrored exactly what Anne felt. Resigned.

  It amazed her that she’d held on to such ridiculous hopes that she would still marry for love, as her parents had done. She and her sisters were desperate to wed, but never did she think she’d have to accept a man purely for his availability.

  Her father had assumed he could bring any man home, but she and her sisters had decided long ago that not just any man would do. Though not all of them agreed on the merits of love—Willa was particularly practical on this matter—they agreed on other standards. Intelligence, kindness, moderate handsomeness. This was the rest of their life they were committing to, after all. And they wanted the same for said man, whomever he may be. It was only fair. What was the point of being miserable with your spouse? There were three examples around them.

  Lord Chester’s parents were both amiable but hardly affectionate with each other. They set a nice example for what to appreciate from an amicable marriage without overt emotions. Then there had been the Duke and Duchess of Selbourne. Clearly an unhappy marriage, and one would have thought that having both been of wealth and influence they would have had the freedom of picking better spouses for themselves, but Anne supposed not.

  And the last example was her own parents. Desperately in love with each other to the point of distraction.

  It was both disgusting and marvelous to witness. Her father had many faults: impulsiveness, forgetfulness, flightiness. He was not a man who had the patience and diligence to properly care for an estate. He would have been better as an eccentric artist or an inventor in Anne’s opinion, but he was kind and very loving.

  Her mother was the steady influence in the pairing, seeing to every one’s needs. As the Marsden brood had grown, so had the responsibilities and cost of living. As soon as Anne was old enough, she began to take on some of the weight to help. So had all her sisters after her.

  None of them were afraid of work, but they did fear starvation, and so despite her own dreams of a passionate love like her mother and father shared, Anne prepared herself for something quite different.

  A marriage of convenience.

  The idea of concealing her pregnancy from Mr. Hart did not sit well on her conscience.

  “He’ll turn you down if he knows,” Bernie said.

  “You don’t know that. It isn’t unheard of. It’s not as though he has a title to pass on to an heir.”

  “You know him well enough that you think he’d accept another man’s child?”

  “He’s a teacher. Teachers are creatives and thinkers. They are more open-minded to things.”

  “But…” Bernie’s face hardened. “What if he doesn’t? What if he proves to be as asinine as most of the men we know and becomes pigheaded and prideful? That’s what is more likely. And then he might reveal your secret.”

  “I—I can’t begin a marriage with deception. I just can’t. He’ll resent me and—and hate me if he discovered the truth. Even if he didn’t, I would know, and it would eat me up inside.”

  Bernie sighed heavily. “Very well, let’s put a pin in that idea for now. Let’s see if we can draw him out a bit more. He’s been spending a great deal of time with father, and it’s time he spent some with you. I will ask him to come with us to the castle to select new books.”

  Anne nodded in agreement. She felt like crawling into bed and sleeping more, but there was no time for it. She needed Mr. Hart to like her enough to propose to her in very short time. And if he didn’t, well, there was simply no other option.

  Chapter 12

  July 11, 1825

  Roderick closed the ledger and smiled to himself.

  There. He’d done something helpful for his brother. He’d finished an accounting of the yields from the north fields. A task duller than counting blades of grass, but he’d done it, and it had only taken—he looked at the clock—two hours? He licked his dry lips and got up to pour a drink. There were twelve other ledgers to finish.

  The thought made his head pound.

  “Finished already?” Weirick asked.

  “I finished one,” Roderick replied.

  “If you hadn’t stopped to refill your drink every two sips you might have finished two.”

  Weirick sat across the desk, still bent over correspondence as he spoke.

  “I’m not used to sitting for this long.”

  Weirick snorted. “What you really mean is you’re not used to thinking for this long.”

  Roderick curled his lip. “I’m a man of action.”

  “You’re a man of insolence,” Weirick retorted.

  Roderick was almost irritated, but the brandy tempered his mood, which was good. Fighting with his brother was only enjoyable when it was done for amusement, not over serious matters.

  “What is Violet up to?”

  Weirick shrugged. “Probably with Mother or visiting—oh wait, I expect Bernie will come here, as will Chester.”

  Roderick’s blood heated. And just maybe Anne will come.

  “How delightful,” Roderick mused aloud. “How is the Marsden estate doing?”

  Weirick looked up. “It’s still standing. I pay more than what is fair for using their land for grazing pasture.”

  “But what else could we do to help?” Roderick wondered as he stroked his chin.

  What would impress Anne?

  Weirick raised one eyebrow. “What else? I’ve done all I can. Everything else is entailed or I’d buy it. But that won’t fix Marsden’s stupidity when it comes to caring for his own estate. He’s off doing god knows what most of the time instead of managing things. My solicitor says Anne does most of the correspondence now.

  Her name said aloud made his pulse race. Could he discuss her without letting his brother know just how pathetic he’d become?

  “Anne?” Roderick repeated lamely.

  For weeks, he’d been strategizing but coming up with nothing that would draw them closer together. Their lives existed in different orbits. The only time their paths crossed was if the sisters came to have tea with his mother and exchange books, but since the argument in the billiard room, Anne had not come at all.

  He needed to do something. Just hearing her name made him want to jump out of his chair.

  Then inspiration struck.

  He gripped the table. “I’ve got it. We’ll have a house party.”

  “What?” Weirick looked up from his ledgers with a glare. “We hate those.”

  “We have many male friends and our closest, dearest neighbor has many daughters. Daughters who need to marry before their father dies or they starve. It’s perfect.”

  “You have many friends.” Weirick returned.

  “Fine. I have many friends I’m willing to sacrifice for the Marsden daughters.”

  Weirick leaned back in his chair. “Why do you care so much?”

  Roderick frowned. “Why don’t you? Perhaps I should speak to Violet. She understands the magnitude of the situation. I’ll tell her how much you don’t—”

  “Fine,” Weirick growled. “We’ll have a house party. You can invite your sheep and explain why the only women present are all related.”

  Roderick grin. “Gladly.”

  This was a perfect idea. Anne would have to attend a house party that was put on solely for her benefit. And that mean she’d be spending her days, if not her nights, here.

  Roderick happily dedicated the next two hours to another ledger.

  By the time his stomach was rumbling for food, Bartle arrived to announce the arrival of guests for luncheon.

  “I didn’t know about this,” Weirick said.

  “Neither did your guests, Your Grace, but the dowager duchess and Her Grace insisted Miss Marsden and her family stay for a meal.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  Roderick put on his jacket and followed his brother without comment. His head was practically buzzing with joy—and perhaps that last finger of brandy—at the idea of Anne’s sudden appearance.

  Mayhap she had forgiven him by now?

  Dear God, he wanted to kiss her again. He could practically taste her. He’d had such sordid dreams of her, he might ruin his pants at the sight of her.

  He ran his fingers through his hair just before they entered the Queen’s drawing room to greet their guests. He schooled his expression into one of polite boredom.