Page 52 of The Duke’s Caught Bride

“You described a man who eats dinner alone and carries sleeping children, and you looked as though a lamp had been lit behind your eyes.” Lucy took her hand. “That is love, Alice. Or its nearest and most dangerous cousin.”

Alice stared at the gravel path. A bee droned between the roses above them. She could hear Freddie’s voice from the oak tree, faint but unmistakable, directing operations.

“We… We kissed. Twice. The first time, he just pulled away and left. And the second time… he called it a mistake,” she said quietly. “It was after the dinner party. He kissed me, and then he told me it was a mistake.”

Lucy’s fingers tightened around hers. “Men say foolish things when they are frightened.”

“Kenneth is not frightened of anything.”

“Every man is frightened of the thing he wants most. The ones who seem fearless are simply better liars.”

A shadow fell across the bench. A young man in a blue coat stood before them, fair-haired and slightly flushed, his hat held at his side in a grip that suggested he had rehearsed this approach several times and found the execution more taxing than the preparation.

“Your Grace. Miss Walsh.” He bowed. “Lord Fenwick. We were introduced at the Ashworth musicale last month. I wondered… That is, if you are not otherwise engaged, the Countess has a collection of Cattleya orchids in the conservatory… Quite rare. I understand you have an interest in botany, and I thought perhaps you might enjoy…” he trailed off, his color deepening.

Lucy glanced at Alice. The question was silent and unmistakable.

“Go,” Alice whispered. “I am perfectly content.”

“You are certain?” Lucy whispered back.

“Lord Fenwick is offering you orchids. I am offering you a stone bench. The choice is hardly a difficult one.”

Lucy smiled. She rose, smoothed her skirts, and took Lord Fenwick’s arm. “I shall find you later,” she said over her shoulder.

Alice watched them cross the lawn, Lucy already asking a question about root systems that made the young man’s face brighten.

The bench felt emptier. Alice sat for a moment, then rose and walked toward the edge of the lawn where she could see the oak tree.

Freddie had scaled the second branch and was directing James and Charlie from above, his voice carrying instructions that sounded suspiciously like military commands. James straddled a lower limb, grinning. Charlie sat on a branch opposite, his legs dangling, his face tilted toward the canopy. He was smiling. A real smile, loose and boyish, lit by dappled sunlight falling through the leaves.

Alice pressed her hand to her waist and felt the boning of her corset beneath the silk.

She would not carry a child. Kenneth had made that clear in the carriage, in the study, in every closed door and measured retreat. He would not risk it. He would not risk her, or himself, or the architecture of control he had built around his grief.

She understood his reasons. She could trace them back to a room thirty feet from where the twins slept, to a woman who had died bearing his sons, to guilt he carried into the lining of everything he did.

But understanding did not lessen the ache.

She watched Charlie swing his legs against the bark. Freddie leaned down and said a word that made all three boys laugh, and the sound carried across the lawn, sharp and clear and young. Alice turned away before the wanting could settle any deeper.

“Your Grace.”

Three women stood behind her, arranged in a half-circle that suggested coordination rather than coincidence. Alice recognized Lady Ashton from the dinner at Harcourt Hall. The other two were younger, dressed in matching shades of lavender, their faces set into smiles that stopped well short of warmth.

“Ladies.” Alice curtsied after they did. “How lovely to see you.”

“We could not resist introducing ourselves.” The taller woman extended her hand. “Miss Amelia Cheswick. And my sister, Miss Catherine. We are great admirers of yours, Your Grace.”

“That is very kind.”

“Indeed.” Lady Ashton stepped forward. Her perfume was cloying, rosewater layered over musk. “We have followed your story with tremendous interest. The entire town has. A wedding-day disappearance, a substitute bride, a duke left scrambling. It reads like a novel. A rather sensational one.”

Alice kept her expression neutral. “I am afraid the reality is considerably less dramatic than the gossip suggests.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Miss Amelia tilted her head. “Tell me, Your Grace, have you heard from your sister? It must be terribly distressing, not knowing where she is. Though I suppose some would say she showed remarkable judgment in leaving when she did.”

“My sister’s circumstances are private. I am sure you understand.”