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But what was a duchess, after all?

Just a title. Simeon was merely the only man for whom she’d allowed herself to feel desire. There were likely hundreds of desirable men waiting for her to discover them. She could direct the solicitor to unravel the weave of their marriage lines, go to London, and begin flirting with every man she met.

She felt as sad as the raindrops.

When Lucille appeared, full of excitement about the dismantling of the house, she put on her clothes without saying more than a word. Why should she seduce Simeon as she had planned? Surely that would be the worst possible footing on which to start a marriage. Likely he would blame her thereafter, thinking her a Jezebel who lured him into a marriage he didn’t want.

She rejected the delicious gown her maid suggested and pointed to a blue-black one, sprigged with blackberry vines. It was sedate; it was proper. She wore it to go to church.

By the time she emerged from the bedchamber, Cosway was already seated at the desk in the sitting room, a stack of papers before him. Isidore felt a flash of irritation at him, for being so beautiful, so restrained, so not in love with her.

Not that it was his fault.

“If you will forgive me for my intrusion,” he said, rising, “I thought we might break our fast together. The Dead Watch apparently have entered the pit and cleaning has commenced. Honeydew asked that we serve ourselves, as he has the entire household staff guarding the silver, at least those who are not consigned to guard parts of the house.”

“Goodness,” Isidore said, seating herself at the table before he could help her. “Are we giving hardship pay to those assigned to the fumes?”

“An excellent suggestion.”

She picked up a muffin and buttered it, very precisely. They could be friends. There was no reason for her to feel melancholic. A whole world of men lay before her. “What work need you do today?”

“I have left the most difficult letters for the end,” Simeon said.

“Difficult in what sense? Are their requests unlikely?”

“No. I took your advice and paid all those about which I had doubts.”

She put down her muffin and felt her smile growing. “That was very generous of you, given your fear of being swindled.”

“I didn’t do it out of generosity,” Simeon said. “In fact, I don’t think I am particularly kind.”

She couldn’t think what to say to that, so she took a bite of her muffin.

“I like to keep what is mine,” he continued.

I was yours, she thought, somewhat bitterly.

“These are letters that hint at other transgressions,” Simeon stated.

“Of what kind?” Isidore asked interestedly.

Simeon rose, extracted a sheet of tinted note paper, and handed it to her. It was written in a sloping, elegant hand and still smelled faintly of roses. It wasn’t long, though bitterness made the phrases pungent.

Isidore looked up. “Your father’s mistress, I presume?”

“One of them.”

“One? How many are there?”

“There are four such letters. Then there are five or six of a less imploring nature.”

“Five or six! That’s—”

“At least ten women,” Simeon said flatly.

Isidore bit her lip. “As I understand it, it is a common practice. Ten may seem a great many, but your father was a man of many years, and he—”

“The ten letters are all dated within the last six years of his life.”