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“That is why he was desperately looking to marry you off.”

“Marry me off? But he never mentioned anything to me.”

“Nevertheless, he did. We are in the same circles. Men talk and gossip as much as women do.”

“Then why did no one propose?” she asked.

“He was looking for the best candidate. The richest one. I heard one time, he found someone, but the agreement was broken off because of my brother.”

“Your brother?”

“You were flirting with him. Don’t deny it. You were. I saw you two. The smiles. The batting of eyelashes. You two giggled like two children. Because of his reputation and you two being so close, there were concerns about your purity.”

Eventually, those concerns had led to Spencer’s death.

She frowned and put her fork and her knife down. “My purity? Most of what we talked about was art. He told me about his childhood. About you. He was a good friend. I never flirted with him—I was only enjoying his company. Nobody else wanted to have anything to do with me.”

“But tell me, honestly, swear that you never thought he was interested in you as a woman.”

“I suppose you can call me naive, but I didn’t. Have you seen the kinds of women Spencer was interested in? Gorgeous widows. Sophisticated, beautiful, perfect married women who were bored with their husbands. And me…clutching at a wall in the ballroom, burning from embarrassment if a man threw a glance at me? I always believed he thought of me as something like a younger sister.”

Preston had never noticed how she burned from embarrassment. Whenever a young man had come to talk to her, she’d given one of those gorgeous smiles that lit her up from the inside, that lit up the whole room like a small, personal sun. She’d never looked shy or embarrassed.

“Little sister?” Preston scoffed. “He already had one. That night, when he went out to the docks and got beaten to death…that night, we argued about you. He was sure you liked him. He loved you. He wanted to propose. That was what we argued about.”

Penelope froze, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion, her big eyes wide. She shook her head. “He wanted to propose?”

“He did. But I told him he was making a big mistake. Just from watching you, it was clear to me you did not return his feelings. I was sure that the affection you showed Spencer was false.”

Preston remembered that doomed night as if it were happening in this moment. It had happened in this house, in Spencer’s study.

The room smelled like brandy, Spencer’s cologne—peppery and crisp—freshly washed clothes, and him.

Spencer threw back his brandy and placed the glass on the desk. “You only say she is fake because you’re judgmental. You have never even talked to her. But you’re wrong. No one understands me the way she does. She sees me for who I am. Not as a rich duke.”

“You’re delusional!” cried Preston. “That is exactly how she sees you. All I’m trying to do is save you from a life of unhappiness. She has not a penny in her dowry, so she needs a rich husband to pay off her papa’s gambling debts. The thing she loves best about you is your fortune.”

“Go to hell.” Spencer stormed out but stopped at the door and turned. Little did Preston know, this would be the last time he’d see his brother alive. “You’re your own worst enemy,” Spencer had said. “Your quick judgment and your stubborn unwillingness to change your opinions. Your pride will drive away all who would love you. Do not come to my fight tonight.”

Preston should have insisted. He should have shoved his pride aside and insisted on going along to support him despite their disagreement. But his brother had just told him to go to hell.

“Very well,” said Preston despite a heavy feeling in his stomach. “I have better things to do anyway than sit in your sweaty, dirty boxing pit.”

And then Spencer had left. And that was the last thing Preston would ever tell his brother.

If Preston had gone with him that night, he would likely still be alive. Perhaps he would have proposed, and Penelope would be his wife. And Preston’s sister.

So shouldn’t he feel a horrible remorse for being glad that he had her now? Wasn’t it as though he wished his brother dead?

“I was never interested in your brother that way, Preston,” she said gently. “I did not know he misinterpreted my friendship as romantic affections. I’m sorry I gave him the wrong impression, it wasn’t willingly. And I’m glad we didn’t marry because we both would have been unhappy.”

Preston’s skin was covered in sweat. This shouldn’t matter. Her words shouldn’t matter.

But despite himself, he searched for the hidden meaning… They, Spencer and she, would have been unhappy.

“Out of all Seaton brothers,” she said, “it was always meant to be you.”

Heat scalded him whole. It was always meant to be you…