Chapter Four

A Requiem for a Bride

With Romulus and Remus lying at her feet, Frederica sat at her true place of peace, the pianoforte. She played a light tune because she wasn’t alone. Father’s friends were watching her. Maybe looking for her to cry and get all weak.

No. No. Not Frederica. Not to them.

Lord Thorpe stepped near, and Remus raised his silver-gray head and growled.

Good dog. She wanted to reward the dog by rubbing his silky ear, but that would be too obvious.

“The duke’s bloodhounds are a treasure.” The man moved quickly to the door. “Again, I am sorry. If you know of anything else, please send word to me.”

“Yes, my lord.” She kept playing, wishing for everyone to be gone. “I will.”

Lord Canterfield moved from the sofa and hovered. “So, sorry my dear. This is terrible.”

She smiled politely and nodded, hoping he’d follow the Lord Mayor. No one would see her cry. None of the duke’s friends, especially the leeches. “It is. Thank you for your sympathy.”

The man sighed and went toward Lord Thorpe. Both were not that tall, both thin. Thorpe possessed short, curly black hair with tinges of gray. Canterfield was a little younger with chestnut-colored hair and thin-rimmed glasses. He turned one last time. “If there is anything I can do for you, Miss Burghley, just send a note.”

“Thank you, Lord Canterfield.”

When the door shut behind them, Frederica took a long deep breath and tugged on the billowing black sleeves of the woolen garb Martica had found. A mourning dress. The thing hadn’t been washed properly before it was stored and had shrunk an inch or two. Now it was too short. Martica. The girl was still learning. Frederica would have to instruct her better.

How ironic to wear black crepe today. She was mourning her jewel box and dressed like she was when she’d first come to Downing after her mother died.

Romulus and Remus both stood and started to bark. Frederica tensed to see who would enter, but it was only Theodosia. She was dressed in her dark blue carriage gown. Her friend was leaving.

A fresh wave of fear settled in Frederica’s heart. She didn’t want to be alone, but what choice did she have?

“I’m here if you want to talk,” Theodosia said. “Ewan’s getting things ready. He and Hartwell want you to come with us.”

Frederica stopped and bit her lip, then pressed her mouth shut when the door opened again.

Templeton and the new duchess came in with an offering of tea.

The duchess sat on the velvety sofa as the butler placed the service on the table. The dogs gave a low growl at the woman.

Frederica shushed Romulus and Remus. This was the duchess’s home now, and the duke’s pets shouldn’t disrespect the woman. “Your Grace, once the duke’s pets become used to you, they’ll be more civil. They won’t growl at all.”

“Civil is a very good thing.” The duchess fixed herself a cup of tea. She was a small woman with bright blond hair and a fragile, pale complexion that highlighted her tragic light blue eyes. She was someone who the duke could protect and treasure. That was how he liked his women, traits he’d said Frederica’s mother had embodied.

Funny. Burghley had dark skin, but very light eyes. Frederica took her height from her father. Because Frederica was tall, did that mean she’d never be treasured?

“Ladies, you needn’t be so silent because the Duchess of Simone is now sitting with you. What is it that you two talk of? Scandalous things?”

Theodosia smiled her sweet smile, the one she used in her business meetings with greedy florists. “I’m trying to convince Miss Burghley to come with me. Will the carriage be much longer, Templeton?”

The old man, the servant who’d run Downing for forty years, nodded his head. “It should be ready soon. I’ll go see, ma’am.” The butler left as if he walked on shells.

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil, please sit until it is time for you to leave.” Frederica waved her toward the cushy indigo sofa, then began playing again, this time Handel’s Messiah.

Her audience was odd, perfect for this day. Two nicely dressed women, sitting wordlessly next to each other. The duke’s beloved Romulus and Remus lay quiet, almost snoozing at Frederica’s feet. Almost. Remus eyed the duchess like she was fresh meat. The woman was new, and strangers were beefsteak to him, but the dogs had been superbly trained. They’d not move unless they felt threatened or a command was given.

Ten minutes of playing, and even the liveliest Hallelujah chorus did nothing for her human audience. So she settled down and played a slower tune. Theodosia and her stepmother merely stared, one sympathetic, the other…her stepmother.

“Your Grace, do you like Downing?” Theodosia said.

“Yes, it’s a perfect house, despite the savagery. So many guests. Changes will need to be made.”

Changes should be. This woman was the mistress of Downing now, a title Frederica had inadvertently held since she was about fourteen, when the duke had discovered that she was very astute at selecting his meals. She’d learned how he liked his food, the temperature of his rooms, when to send for his tailor, a dozen remedies for his gout. This woman was his wife, and she’d take care of Papa now.

Frederica began a requiem. Mozart and Süssmayr’s “Requiem,” a piece that commemorated a wife’s death. Frederica didn’t know a requiem for a daughter.

“Your Grace,” Theodosia said, “Miss Burghley said you were to travel the Continent for your wedding trip.”

The small woman set her teacup down with the lightest clink. “I am excited, but it will be up to the duke when and if we leave.”

Translation: Any delay was Frederica’s fault. “I’m sure that you two will leave shortly.”

The duchess fidgeted with her napkin. “I suppose. I was looking forward to being alone with the duke.”

Translation: The woman looked forward to being alone with the duke—but her tone implied any delay would be Frederica’s fault.

For once, she had sympathy for the duchess. No new bride, not even her father’s, should have to delay their wedding trip.

Theodosia eased to her feet, the drape of her gown curving over her very pregnant stomach. “You shouldn’t be alone while they are gone, Miss Burghley. You should come to Tradenwood, far from the city.”

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil, you are about to go into your lying-in, and I will be busy.” Frederica stopped playing her requiem and pulled from her pocket the four responses she’d received through her advertisement in The Morning Post. “I’ve four offers of marriage. I’ll be a Yuletide bride. It will be easier to determine which one to accept if I reside in town.”

The duchess grinned wide as she quickly stood. She reached out to the letters as if the pile of multicolor stationary hid a viper. “Dear, which will you accept? Does your father know?”

“I don’t know which one to choose. Duchess, may I count on you to convince Papa?”

Her stepmother smiled. “I’ll do everything to help. What else can I do? I want your wedding to be special. A Yuletide wedding should be magical.”

Whether the woman’s goodwill was a show or not, Frederica was in no position to complain. “I’ll let you know. I’ll send word to you while you’re on your trip.”

The woman seemed to skip to the door, her perfect peach skirts swishing at her ankles. “I do want you happy, Miss Burghley. I really do.”

Maybe she did.

Frederica didn’t care. She needed to be settled, to no longer be a thorn in the duke’s side. “See, Theodosia. My world is looking up.” She started playing again. The requiem needed completing.

Theodosia came to the pianoforte, her footsteps like a waddling duck’s. “You’ve kept these offers secret for months. Why? And why say something now in front of the duchess?”

“Because I’m committed to marrying before Christmas. If she knows, she will hold me to it. She wishes me gone.”

“Frederica, does Ester know?”

“No. No one knows.”

Her friend picked up the offers and fanned them. “What has happened to us? We were all so close. We laughed and schemed together.”

Frederica dropped her hands into her lap, onto her gown, which had no lace, no pearls, nothing but blackness. “Things have changed. You’ve been busy nesting, mother swan, and loving your family as you should. Ester’s getting used to Bex ending his run in the theater and taking up politics. And the duke’s not mine to care for anymore. Everything is different.”

“Ester and I love you, and the duke, he’ll always be your father.”

“What does that even mean, Theodosia? I don’t begrudge either you or Ester. I so wished and prayed for you both to be happy that I forgot to pray for myself. Or maybe I’ve already had my blessing, the day the duke took his bastard in from his dying courtesan. I should be happy. Can’t you feel the weight of my fortunes?”

“I’m sorry, Frederica.” Theodosia put her palm on Frederica’s face. “I love you, dear.”

Bitter tears fell onto the keys, and she wiped them away with her plain, pathetic cuff. “I am a sad misfit. The unmarried waif with a sleepwalking problem. You know, when it’s said out loud it sounds like one of Lord Hartwell’s jokes.”

Theodosia rubbed her shoulder. “That’s not funny. We are friends, sister-friends, Frederica. There’s a place for you at Tradenwood.”

She drew Theodosia’s hand to her bosom. “I can be selfish about many things: bonbons, Gunter’s ice, but not your or Ester’s time. Your husbands need you more than I. I don’t like the new duchess, but I understand how she feels. It’s her turn to have the love and care of a husband. It’s her turn to take care of the duke without his baggage daughter. So if there’s a suitable offer in this pile, I’ll take it and leave here by Yuletide. Everyone will be happy.”

“That’s crazy talk, Frederica. This is why you need to confide in Ester or me. You can’t make grand schemes without us, not good ones. If one of these letters were of interest, you’d have shared it.” Theodosia rubbed her stomach, her low-carrying stomach. “I’m sorry, but you know that none of these is the answer.”

“I’ve been too picky, but now I must have my own household. My time is up.”

Theodosia cupped Frederica’s cheek. “Even if you don’t love your husband?”

“It wouldn’t be the first marriage that is of convenience.” Frederica picked at the pianoforte keys again, this time to “The Orphan Song,” by Abrams. “I need something of my own. Something that can’t be taken away. You understand that, better than anyone.”

Her friend nodded and drummed her short nails on the pianoforte’s top. “We’re the lucky ones who broke the generational brothel curse. But these offers?”

“Someone in this pile will work.”

Theodosia flattened her hands upon the lid of the pianoforte. “I know of a widower who you seem to get along with, who once placed an advertisement in the same paper for a wife. Perhaps you could consider him? Especially, since you may have recently awakened with him in a rather compromising situation.”

It was another not so subtle hint about Theodosia’s brother-in-law, Lord Hartwell. And the man had surely spilled about how they’d awakened this morning. Frederica shook her head and went back to playing the requiem again. “He’s a fine man, but he has three daughters. I can’t share, and I’m one daughter. Can you imagine three of me?”

Theodosia frowned. “You’re a very giving person, but hopefully you weren’t so last night.”

“Nothing happened, Theodosia.” That’s what Hartwell said. Frederica would trust him, as she always did. “Nothing.”

“Lord Hartwell didn’t sound so sure.”

Her heart thundered. “What? But he said—”

“Then you don’t quite remember, either?” Theodosia caught Frederica’s fingers mid-chord. “I’ll tell you what I remember. I remember him hovering about you during the wedding, trying to get you to smile as he did during the engagement party and a dozen other events this past year. I specifically remember him taking your glass last night when he thought one of the duke’s friends tried to get you drunk. Don’t you remember him sending you off to bed?”

“I don’t. Everything’s a blur. I don’t even remember how I ended up in Hartwell’s bed.” After seeing that closet, she only knew that if she hadn’t, she’d be dead.

“I know you like him, Frederica. You like him a great deal. But these past three months, you didn’t want to be in a conversation with him more than a few minutes. Has he offended you?”

A tear started up again, but she sniffled and willed her eyes dry. “I don’t like dreams that I can’t possess. I like Hartwell. He makes me laugh. He treats me like a lady. But he’s not looking for a wife, especially not one only a smidge elevated from the brothels.”

“Maybe he does, since he tried to bed you last night in the duke’s house. One word to your father and there will be wedding bells.”

Frederica sucked in a short breath, then forced her mind to put the viscount back into that safe bonbon box in the back of her brain. The candy box read: friend, brother, dreadful marzipan. Hartwell was marzipan, that thick pasty sugary thing, the confection she always left for last.

“I know you like him, Frederica. And if you insisted, you two could come up with an agreement.”

“Perhaps something with unlimited bonbons.” Frederica chuckled but the image of waking up next to Hartwell, pressed tightly in his arms, persisted. Safe with her friend. No, the marzipan needed to stay in the box.

And any thought of wanting him to be more than a friend had to die.

She started playing the requiem again.

“Frederica. You’re playing off key.”

“Hartwell’s fault.” She adjusted her fingers and focused again on the piece.

“What’s my fault?”

Romulus and Remus barked loud, so loud that graves in St. Mary’s had to open.

“Calm down,” she said to the dogs as Lord Hartwell and Fitzwilliam-Cecil entered the drawing room. Remus listened and quieted. Romulus licked his jowls and stared at them as if dinner were served.

She reached down and soothed the bloodhound’s ear. “Calm.”

This time Romulus obeyed.

“I typically love dogs,” the viscount said. “Maybe if they weren’t the size of my Anne.”

Frederica caught his gaze. “They’ll not harm a child, but a man is another story. You’re afraid of their bite, aren’t you, Hartwell?”

“He may not be,” Ewan said as he came toward his wife. “But he may not remember his mythology and realize the duke owns Cerberus, Hades’ killer hounds. Tell me they’ll not be going to Tradenwood with you, Miss Burghley. Their racket woke us out of a good sleep. Theo hasn’t been sleeping well lately.”

Theodosia patted her stomach. “This wiggle worm won’t get comfortable.”

Frederica felt for her friend. This pregnancy did not look to be an easy one. “My father will take his puppies when he travels. Now if you all would—”

“What was I being blamed for now, dear ladies?” the viscount asked. “When I came in, it seemed as if I had been singled out. You haven’t done that in a while.”

She felt his gaze upon her, hot and thick, accusing her heart of the unspoken crime of ignoring him. How could that be when she had committed a worse sin, wanting this man who was married? It didn’t lessen her crime because his wife was deceased.

The man—tall, in wrinkled clothes, his hair more red than blond today—came closer, and her traitorous pulse raced.

If she dropped her fevered face against the keys again that would admit defeat, wouldn’t it? Simone’s daughter wasn’t defeated, at least not on the outside. So Frederica smiled at his big chest, his crumpled white waistcoat. “Nothing of consequence, marzipan…Lord Hartwell.”

“Pet names so soon. I feel as if we are rushing.”

Cheeks burned clean off, she began her requiem in earnest and thought marzipan, marzipan, marzipan.

But didn’t she choose marzipan as a last resort?

Theodosia went to him and tweaked his crooked cravat. “I need you to convince Miss Burghley to come with us to Tradenwood. Being away from the city, especially while the duke goes on his wedding trip, would be good.”

“Sister. You needn’t fret. Miss Burghley is going to Tradenwood today. I’ve arranged it with the duke.”

“No.” Frederica groaned then played her death music with more enthusiasm.

Hartwell chuckled. “A lively funeral tune. Only you, Miss Burghley could turn something so dreary into something wondrous.”

The man had the nerve to hum the notes.

“Hartwell, please. Ple—” Theodosia put a hand to her stomach.

Frederica stopped playing.

Ewan and Hartwell seemed to hold their breath.

Theodosia waggled her fingers before clutching her belly again. “It’s just a kick. I’m fine. My little girl is up, too.”

Hartwell’s face changed, his lips drained of a smile. “Brother, get her off her feet. No more strain. Take your wife home. It’s safer for her and the baby boy.”

“A girl, Hartwell.”

Ewan shook his head. “Either is good.”

The boy-versus-girl banter had started last month and wouldn’t end until the baby’s entrance.

“Tell her, Ewan,” Hartwell said. “She’s carrying a boy.”

“My brother has endured a couple more births. He’s my resident expert, Theo.”

Theodosia frowned. “Wouldn’t Lady Hartwell be more the expert?”

The room quieted. Theodosia had invoked the sainted memory of Maria, the late Lady Hartwell. A wonderful mother, the love of Hartwell’s life—another reason the viscount was marzipan.

Hartwell folded his arms. “Ewan, take the maid, Martica, with you. Miss Burghley will be there soon enough, and the duke wants her to be comfortable.”

“You’re taking my Martica from Downing?” Frederica popped up but then remembered how her ankles were exposed in the mourning garb and plopped back down. “Martica’s new and nervous. Theodosia?”

“I’ll sit her by me and hold her hand. I’d do so with you, but I suspect Hartwell has more convincing to do.”

“Yes, sister. I suspect I do.” Hartwell dumped his big bones onto the sofa, rubbing his hands on the velvety nape of the fabric.

“I’m not sure what is going on,” Ewan said, “but you, Theo, are going to Tradenwood now. No more days at the ball, Cinderella. Philip and I are waiting on this new babe. I promised him no earaches or sickness. I won’t let my son…my stepson down. I won’t, not again.”

Theodosia linked her pinky about Ewan’s lapel and craned her forehead to his. The walls had ears. Outside of Tradenwood, everyone had to pretend about Philip’s parentage. Oh, how it must kill Ewan to not be able to claim his son to the world. Everyone knew how much the man loved him.

The playwright scooped Theodosia up into his arms

“Bonbons await. Maybe a seamstress. You’re dressing pretty dowdy,” Theodosia said as he ushered her out and shut the door.

Frederica prepared for her next lecture.

“Good, you didn’t tell her.”

“Tell her what, my lord?”

“Must you always be difficult, Miss Burghley?” Hartwell’s voice was low, but it would build like a crescendo.

Frederica picked at a key, a B flat, striking it a few times before deepening the requiem’s pitch, suffocating the room with a heavy rhythm.

“See there you go, being difficult.”

“I’m difficult, Hartwell. I’m complicated. I’m not easy, not at all. And I don’t care what you think of me or what happened last night. You don’t control me.”

He put an arm behind his head as he burrowed into the tufting of the sofa like it was his pillow. “But the duke does control you. He says you’re coming. Shall you tell him no?”

Everyone knew the answer. She played louder.

“Do you wish to leave the way my sister-in-law did, tucked in my arms, or by your own free will?”

She glanced up at Hartwell and saw no smile. “You won’t mind if I verify this story with my father? You might be known to lie, just like when you said nothing happened.”

Hartwell moved to the piano, even as Romulus or Remus growled. He put both palms on the lid of the pianoforte. “Did I deflower you, Miss Burghley? No. But something happened between us. You came to my room to avoid a killer. I think that’s something.”

Her breath caught. He’d never been so direct. “Oh, so now I’m believed. Or is this just another joke?”

“Miss Burghley, I may have been dismissive as you flung me out the window.” He slipped his hand in his pocket and drew out a piece of cut-up fabric and waved it as a flag. “But I have more evidence. Someone is trying to harm you.”

She looked at him, his assessing gray-blue eyes, and no words came.

“Miss Burghley, I want to understand what we are dealing with.” He put the cloth back into his jacket. “Your safety matters to me. Tell me what you remember.”

I matter to Hartwell?

With a shake of her head, she looked back at the keys. “I remember being scared. I’m not sure how I happened into your room.”

He bent over the piano, his shadow enveloping her. “I’m glad it was mine. Not one of the other fools you flirt with.”

She hit a wrong note, then took her fingers from the keys. “I don’t want to think of this anymore.”

“You want me to say the truth, Miss Burghley?”

“No.”

“Your errand man has always struggled to take your orders. I’ll say it plain, so you will act accordingly. You escaped an attempted murder. No one slashes up a woman’s clothes without an intense anger or passion.”

“What do you know of passion? Nothing, just mourning.”

His lips flattened to nonexistence. His fingers tensed on the edge of the pianoforte. “I have many passions, but I’m also a man given to reason.”

“What’s more reasonable? To be frightened about someone threatening me? Or to focus on living and bonbons?”

“Miss Burghley, if the fiend had found you, he’d have slit your throat. That was hate, impassioned hate.”

She couldn’t, wouldn’t accept that. “Papa said it was a thief. A thief took my jewel box. The duke is always right.”

Hartwell sat beside her on the bench and caught her thumb so she couldn’t press a key. “A thief is in want of money. This man intended you harm. I’m sure if you hadn’t come to me, he’d have hurt you badly, probably killed you.”

No longer caring that her ankles showed, she bounced off the seat. “You’re just trying to scare me. No one would do that to the Duke of Simone’s daughter. No one.”

“No one in his right mind, no matter how precarious your situation.”

She stepped over the dogs and went to the mantel. “You accidentally fall into bed with someone, and I suppose they feel they have a right to be rude. Thank you, Lord Hartwell, for reminding me who I am.”

A tear stuck in her throat. It had the beginning of one of those nasty sobs, but she wouldn’t be a sad waif, not in front of Hartwell. She leveled her shoulders. “At least you’ve finally said the obvious. But there are more apt words to describe my precarious position. I’m sure you snicker at them.”

Romulus growled, but Hartwell still came to within an inch of her. His stare had become an impatient scowl, and the eyes she’d always seen full of mirth brimmed with fire. “Don’t say it.”

“Don’t say the duke’s b—”

His hand covered her mouth, and she silenced in an instant.

His skin was rough, smelling of raw ivy. His pointing-out-her-wrongs index finger traced her lips. The touch was light, and when he lingered upon the Cupid’s bow up top, her stomach filled with heat, her knees almost buckling in a quest to draw closer to his control.

“Do not use those words when I am about. Don’t use them ever.”

His low voice, clipped and deliberate, made her thoughts churn. Images of awakening, his thick, strong arms wrapping about her, lodged in her throat, making her mute. She nodded, wanting to obey, maybe for the first time, someone who wasn’t the duke.

“Good. We’re clear.”

His eyes glittered with darkness, a deeper blue.

She had to look away. Lips vibrating, she stepped back. Things had changed between them.

He lowered his hands to his sides. “Miss Burghley, I know you to be a spirited young woman. You’re talented and beautiful but…”

“There’s always a but. Let me say it delicately. My illegitimacy or mixed race makes me the butt of many jokes. Probably some of yours, when you tell of our morning.”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. And since I’ve kissed those pouting lips at least twice, mum’s the word.”

He could count three if one could include the touch of his fingers. Frederica put a hand to the bruise on her face. “I wish I could remember. Then I could laugh, too.”

“For what it’s worth, Butterfly, a kiss is a wonderful way to awaken. My second favorite.”

“What’s the first?”

His lips curled, and she instantly regretted asking.

“At least you’re honest, Lord Hartwell. I like that about you.”

She escaped his outstretched arm and went back to her pianoforte. Music and the dogs would ground her shaky emotions, not Hartwell.

Unfortunately, he gave chase, again avoiding the barking dogs, to plant himself at the curved side of the pianoforte. “Miss Burghley, perhaps the reason no one has designs on you isn’t from your precarious position at all, but your flirting. You’re a terrible flirt.”

She played the lively Scottish tune, “Robin Adair.” “Yes, eye contact, a few swats of a fan, and a dance keep away serious commitments.”

“Perhaps. I do think most miss the substance behind your eyes, for you’re far too busy fluttering about, Simone’s butterfly.”

What? Where was this resentment coming from? “You don’t have to remind me how I act. It’s a role, like in one of your brother’s plays. It’s a necessity. I pay attention and noodle away preferences, then use it to disarm the unwashed heathens. You like music, don’t you, Lord Hartwell?”

His eyes widened. Perhaps he understood or marveled at her power. For she’d charmed him—why else would the good viscount do errands for her?

“It’s harder to be cut-direct when men and women are amazed at the Blackamoor who mastered the ebony and ivory keys.”

He tugged at his rumpled waistcoat. “My toiletry routine has been interrupted. We should be going so I can lose my unwashed heathen ways.”

“I have business here in town, sir, you’ll have to unmake your deal with my father.”

“It’s not that simple. Nor is it safe for you to stay. What business is so important that you’d risk staying?”

She lifted the letters to him and waved them. “Four offers of marriage. I must meet with each and determine my fate. Apparently, they have designs on Simone’s butterfly baggage. Some still refer to me as Burghley’s daughter, the spawn of the great courtesan.” She winked at him.

The viscount’s eyes grew wide, and she laughed inside. Perhaps the unevenness she’d felt between them would be reset.

“Four offers, Miss Burghley? Not from the newspaper? Not a newspaper advertisement. Not you, too.”

“Yes, me.”

He took the letters and scanned them. “Some of these date back to the summer? Have you not answered them?”

“No, not all of them. But they are still offers.”

He took them, almost crumpling them in his palm and stuffed them into his pocket. “One of these men might not have taken kindly to being put off. One of these could be the thief.”

“Why do you persist in trying to frighten me, Lord Hartwell?

“Because I’m frightened.”

He turned away, ran a hand through his hair, and went to the window. “Miss Burghley. We should give these to the Lord Mayor.”

“No. One might be an acceptable candidate to marry. And since you’re so busy making deals with the duke, you’ll help me figure out which offer to choose, my lord.”

“Me? Play matchmaker? No man will do that, not to another. That’s not an errand I will accept.”

“Please.” She made her voice soft and played his favorite, Thomas Moore’s, “The Last Rose of Summer.” She made the tune somber and haunting, calling to the soul she knew liked her and was protective of her.

“It’s not rational. You don’t need to marry, especially not a stranger.”

“I’ll have to charm them, so much so that they love me. Love is stronger than hate.” Frederica knew she had the good sense not to choose a killer, but having Hartwell’s blessing, someone the duke admired, would make the plan more acceptable to her father. “Yes, I’ll just have to make the right man love me.”

Playing the music of the complexity of love, of losing and remembering that last rose, she purred at him. “Please, Lord Hartwell.”

She waited for him to turn, to yield, to agree.