Jessica stared blankly at the page of the novel in her lap, a new Gothic romance Nicolette Twistleton had sent over the morning after the incident. Far better to be busy and concentrating on something—anything—but the debacle on everyone’s lips. Or Mr. Brighton’s last vile, world-tilting accusation.

Was Lilith Brighton truly with child? Was the babe Crispin’s?

Her stomach sank and clenched as it always did when she entertained the possibility. It left a hollow, sick feeling in her belly. She didn’t want to believe the ugly accusation. Found it almost impossible to accept.

But his reputation.

Crispin had vowed his romantic escapades were exaggerated. Claimed he’d created a false persona with the intent of off-putting his betrothed. Twisting her mouth to the side, she furrowed her forehead into a scowl, directed at the unread words on the page.

Jessica wanted to believe him. Needed to believe him. Had believed him. For if the claim was valid, what was she to do?

Her tummy pitched sickeningly again.

In truth, Crispin and Lilith assuredly wouldn’t have been the first couple to have anticipated their vows and consummated the union prematurely. Still torturing the edges of the poor book, she worried her lower lip.

Yet that didn’t make sense.

Why would Miss Brighton have Crispin knocked over the head, then? Why arrange for Jessica to be caught and disgraced with him? Why elope with the viscount? It was much more likely Lord Brookmoore had impregnated the daft chit then, as Victor suggested, abandoned her.

Afterward, the wily wench had thought to entrap Crispin. Oh, how Jessica longed for five minutes with the devious snake. She’d give Lilith Brighton a tongue lashing she’d not soon forget.

Bah! How many times had those same musings circled each other in her brain, like a dog chasing its tail? Why, she’d almost made herself dizzy. And that was why she did her utmost to keep her mind occupied. Yet, she hadn’t advanced beyond the first chapter since the day Crispin had proposed.

Pinching her mouth tighter, she uncrossed her legs, stretched out before her on the rather hard settee. She wiggled her toes to ease the slight cramping of her muscles from having remained in the same position for too long.

Crispin had attended the Christmastide house party hosted by her sister and brother-in-law. Jessica had seen him at several gatherings in the ensuing months since, including the musical at the Twistletons’ and tea and garden party at Theadosia’s, where he’d lost the match of Pall Mall to her.

Not privy to his comings and goings, she had no way of knowing if he’d ventured to London regularly. Town was but a four-hour journey on horseback. But to her knowledge—and Victor believed it true as well—Crispin had only just arrived in London with the rest of his cohorts in time for the start of Parliament.

As he was a close associate of Crispin’s, Victor would know, wouldn’t he?

She permitted a tiny smile of relief to curve her mouth and the tension knotting her shoulders and neck to relax a trifle. Victor was an excellent judge of character.

During the day, Jessica fared well enough. But at night, as she lay in her too-big bed when all was quiet except for the peculiar noises a sleeping house made, and she attempted to sleep, her mind replayed the dreadful scene in Crispin’s drawing room.

With his incessant, unpleasant monologue, Mr. Brighton had been positively beastly, calling her a whore.

What was more, her deuced overly-creative imagination made a remarkable effort to fill in the lurid details she’d been oblivious to in her drug-induced slumber that night of the ball. Small mercy, that. She didn’t want to know everything that had transpired. What she did know proved distressing enough.

How could Crispin stand to face the people who’d come upon them? Her instinct was to run and hide. His, she’d venture, was to confront and demand truth. Ducal airs, and all that.

What was it about aristocrats that made people bow and scrape before them? Those same sycophants wouldn’t give her the time of day.

When that horrible night wasn’t haunting her ruminations, or the humiliation of the snubs she’d already received from several denizens, genuine worry for Crispin smothered her.

Once Brighton had departed, he’d nearly collapsed. She’d vowed to herself, right then and there, she’d not discuss any of this ugliness until he was much improved. She’d keep her worries to herself.

He’d written daily, reporting on his tactics, when he should’ve been resting and concentrating on recovering. It could not be good for his health to deal with Brighton, the rumors, the authorities, and the rest of the odiousness that now enshrouded both of them.

That was how she thought of their situation. Odious. Ugly. Vile. Loathsome.

The situation continued to deteriorate, and honestly, she hated the helplessness she felt. Despised feeling powerless to rectify the wrong done to her and Crispin. She’d agreed to wed him because, if nothing else, she was pragmatic.

A woman in her precarious position had few—very few—respectable options. In truth, she didn’t relish hieing off to some fusty corner of England or Scotland. To live in obscurity for the remainder of her days, kept company by a few cats and chickens. Maybe a goat and a donkey as well. And a darling puppy.

After all, it was her fondness for puppies that had landed her in this mess. She might as well benefit from it in some small measure. Plus, marriage to a man who could kiss her breathless and turn her bones to custard wouldn’t be so awful. She’d secretly admired Crispin, never once considering she might catch his attention.

If his sizzling kisses were any indication, he wanted her just as madly, but his letters conveyed none of the passion he’d introduced Jessica to that day.

She hadn’t known how to respond to his terse, fact-filled correspondences. It was as if he briefed a court on proceedings rather than penned missives to his betrothed. How odd to think of him as such. Except, he’d signed the letters, “Ever yours, affectionately,” followed by a flourishing C.

Ever yours? Affectionately?

The kind of warm regard one held for a long-time acquaintance? Or the tender care or fondness reserved for a beloved sister? Possibly—that was what she fervently hoped—a stronger emotion?

The man was an enigma. A puzzle she couldn’t quite piece together. These past months, she’d caught glimpses of who she believed Crispin was, and then he’d say or do something she hadn’t expected, and the image she’d built of him in her mind had to be reconstructed all over again. He was far more complex than a simple rakehell. He hid a noble side, and she found herself admiring him more than she ought.

With a sigh, Jessica brought her gaze up to the window and idly fingered the page edges, the movement strangely soothing. An ebony-headed coal tit flitted from branch to branch in the dogwood tree outside the library window. Cocking its head, the little bird scampered along, dipping and bowing, singing all the while.

She adored birds, particularly songbirds. An abundance of coal tits populated Colechester, so she was quite familiar with the sweet, little things. Looking closer, she spied another coal tit bearing slightly more muted plumage.

Ah, he was showing off, the wee gallant gentleman.

Were they already mates? Or was he trying to win her favor?

Even as Jessica contemplated the thought, the female gave what could only be called a flirtatious dip of her beak and suggestive flick of her tail before flying off. At once, the male pursued her.

Oh, to be like those birds. How much simpler their mating habits were than humans.

Hushed feminine voices in the corridor announced she was about to be interrupted. Jessica hadn’t even swung her feet to the floor when Ophelia Breckensole, Nicolette Twistleton, and Rayne Wellbrook sailed into the chamber. Each resembled a spring blossom in their colorful gowns.

“Ophelia? Nicolette? Rayne?” She shoved to her feet, delighted to see them and simultaneously concerned at the risk they’d taken. Good Lord. They’d be ruined if anyone knew they’d called upon her. She was soiled goods, and they chanced degradation by associating with her. “Surely, you know you shouldn’t be here.”

“Darling, we could stay away no longer.” Ophelia enfolded her into her soft embrace, holding her in a fierce hug. She drew back, and after bussing Jessica’s cheek, she examined her features. “I’ve been so very worried about you. How are you managing, dearest?”

Her hazel gaze overly bright, Ophelia blinked rapidly, valiantly fighting the moisture pooling in her eyes.

“Of course Jessica’s beside herself, but she’s still holding her head up, as she well should,” Nicolette declared, swooping in for a hug and smelling of lilies, as usual. “Never you mind, Jessica.” She gave Rayne and Ophelia a knowing look, her vivid, blue eyes conveying a silent message. “Your friends know the truth, and that’s all that matters.”

Not as reassuring as Nicolette, no doubt intended. Truth, Jessica had concluded during her short stint in London, seldom accounted for as much as titillating on dit.

Nicolette arced a long-fingered hand between herself and the other women. “Besides, our being here is part of a grand plan contrived by our ducal friends, their duchesses, and a few others who aren’t to be trifled with. My mother, as well as my brother, also lend their support.” She quirked her mouth into a wry smile. “Though as much as Ansley deigns society, that’s not much help, I fear.”

That was true. Ansley, Earl of Scarborough, was a unique man. Kind but subdued, and he tossed off nearly all social strictures in favor of his preferred interests and regimens.

Nicolette stepped aside so that Rayne could buss Jessica’s cheek. More reserved than either Ophelia or Nicolette, she clasped Jessica’s hands in her own. “Is it true? You’re to wed Bainbridge?” A naughty grin tipped her mouth. “He is devilishly handsome.”

How, precisely, had they learned that tidbit? Ah, part of the grand plan, no doubt.

“He’s proposed, and I’ve accepted.” No need for her to tell them neither of them had any choice in the matter. It was an unstated fact. No one with a lick of sense would attempt to spin a romantic slant on the situation.

Theadosia glided in and glanced around with satisfaction. “Excellent. I shall request tea. You girls are precisely what Jessica needs.”

Her sister should chastise their friends for taking such a chance, but Jessica couldn’t deny she was grateful they had. The fickle world of London Society seemed a trifle less daunting when surrounded by her dearest friends.

Subdued laughter and forced gaiety filled the next two hours. Everyone avoided mention of the puce hippopotamus in the room. Namely, the sordid events that had taken place at the ball. She could tell by their side-eyed glances they were dying to know the details but would bite off their tongues before asking.

Not ready to reveal all just yet—she mightn’t ever be—Jessica studiously turned her attention away when she noticed their inquisitive gazes.

Finally, Nicolette peeked at the watch pinned to her spencer and released a loud, distinctly disgruntled sigh. “I’m loathe to be the one who puts an end to our lovely visit, but Mama wishes me to walk Belle in St James’s Park with her this afternoon.” She pulled a face. “Which means she’s probably arranged for a gentleman or two or three to accidentally come upon us. Mayhap Belle will bark and growl and dispel any need for conversation.”

The sweet-tempered pug was more likely to beg to be picked up and petted.

Nicolette still hadn’t completely recovered from being jilted two years ago. She now viewed men as one would a pox sore or a carbuncle. Her mother, a consummate matchmaker, used ploy after ploy to introduce her most reluctant daughter to eligible gentleman.

And Nicolette, being Nicolette, rebuffed them all, refusing to take a chance on love again.

Another round of hugs commenced, with many murmured assurances that all would be well, when in fact, each woman knew that wasn’t precisely true. Jessica had only ever wanted to marry for love. Now her wedding gown was a shroud of ruination, her bridesmaid, a tarnished reputation. At least the groom was pleasing.

She looped her arm through the bend in Ophelia’s elbow as they walked to the entrance.

Ophelia slowed her steps until they trailed several paces behind Rayne and Nicolette. Her soulful hazel eyes searched Jessica’s. “Tell me true, dearest. How are you really? I cannot think you are happy to marry a stranger, no matter how handsome he might be.”

“Miss Brighton is with child.” Why had Jessica blurted that out?

Ophelia’s eyes went round as the moon. “Oh no,” she whispered, her voice equal parts aghast and stunned. She darted a swift glance at the other women then turned her head side to side, before hauling Jessica into a secluded corner. “What will you do? Is it…? Is it Bainbridge’s?”

Jessica filled her lungs.

Is it?

No. She felt confident it wasn’t. She released the breath in a whoosh and shook her head. “I’m confident it’s not. I cannot explain how I know, but there’s a decency in Crispin, which he conceals behind wastrel and libertine ramparts and bastions. He’s not the sort who’d father a child on a woman and leave her to deal with the situation.”

If he were such a cad, he wouldn’t have offered for her. He’d have left her to deal with her tarnished reputation alone.

Jessica brushed her hair away from her face. “He kissed me.”

Her blasted tongue seemed to have acquired a mind of its own today. The good Lord only knew what else might come spilling forth.

Ophelia’s jaw went slack, practically hitting her bosom. Then a wide, delighted smile spread across her face. “And you liked it.” Her grin widened, and she gave a little, excited hop. “You did! Why, Jessica Miriam Emerald Brentwood, you liked it very much, indeed.”

“I did.” Oh, she had. Indeed, she had. She’d like to kiss Crispin again. And again. And again.

What would’ve happened if Victor hadn’t interrupted? For certain, they’d not have ended up naked on the divan. Once in a lifetime was more than sufficient to be discovered as such.

Squinting, Ophelia glanced upward in concentration. “Forgive me for overstepping, but we are the dearest of friends, after all. I couldn’t help but notice the way you’ve watched him these many months. And you admit you enjoyed his kiss. Aren’t you a just little pleased about the match?”

More than a little pleased, and yet dismay also marred what should’ve been joyful anticipation.

“I am, but I wish the union weren’t forced upon us.” It didn’t hurt to admit the truth to Ophelia. She’d guard the secret with her life. “It’s not the ideal way to begin a marriage.”

Jessica dropped her attention to her hands. Untold numbers of people before they had entered into arranged marriages and marriages of convenience and still had managed to carry on with their lives.

Yes, but many had also trudged along, wretched and bitterly unhappy.

“I’d hoped for a love match,” she admitted, unable to keep the forlorn note from her voice.

“But…” Ophelia hesitated, her gaze keen and probing. “Oh. I see.” She leaned near and drew Jessica into her arms. Offering the comfort only a dearest friend who knows one as well as one knows oneself can provide. The kind of friend who never judged but accepted and loved unconditionally. “You love him?”

Do I?

I do. I do. I truly do.

God, help me. That’s what this…this turmoil is.

How could she not have been aware all these months?

This weighty, aching sensation wasn’t at all how she’d anticipated love would feel. No rainbows and stars and gaiety. No dizzying sensations of floating. No sparkling eyes and incandescent smiles.

She’d expected a fluttering pulse whenever she’d seen Crispin. For warmth to spiral outward from her middle when he spoke to her. His presence to muddle her thoughts and despondency to cloak her whenever they were apart.

What she felt at present was excruciatingly magnificent. An agony of splendor. A mélange of hurt and joy so entangled it was impossible to distinguish the pleasure from the pain.

She loved Crispin. Adored him.

When had it happened? How had it sneaked up on Jessica, catching her unawares?

How could she not have recognized falling in love with the seductive scoundrel?

Oh, love—the tricky devil—had wooed her. Won her.

Steadily. Stealthily. Slyly.

She was in the thrall of the insidious emotion. Snared, well and good. Much like a drunkard’s dependence on spirits. The process wasn’t instant or overnight. Nay. The twin demons of time and exposure gradually worked their wiles until, one day, one realized they craved the substance—were miserable without it.

Or as in her case, only felt whole when she was with Crispin.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. How could Jessica have been so foolish?

Blinking away the moisture stinging her eyes, Jessica gave a shaky, self-deprecating smile. “Is it that obvious?”

Likely, her dratted calf-eyed glances had given her away, despite her valiant efforts to mask her sentiments.

“No, it’s not, if that reassures you.” Ophelia stepped back, still holding Jessica’s forearms. Forehead furrowed, sympathy shone in her eyes. “You’re not happy about it, though, are you?”

Happy? Hardly. It was one thing to give her body to him.

But her heart? Her soul?

Such vulnerability terrified Jessica. She might very well lose herself, her identity, her self-respect.

“He doesn’t love me. Yes, he wants my body, but I’m not completely convinced a man such as he is capable of enduring fidelity, Ophelia, let alone love.”