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good family. The conversation will be about the succession. The question is inevitable and the answer will be no.’

      ‘I had thought to see you settled before I died.’

      ‘Perhaps you shall. I am sure we have plenty of time.’

      She continued as if there had been no interruption. ‘I let you wait, assuming you would make a choice in your own good time. But I have no time. No time to let you handle things. Certainly no time to let you wallow in grief for losses and mistakes that are ten years past.’

      He bit off the retort that was forming on his tongue. She was right in this at least. He needn’t reopen his half of an old argument.

      ‘You are right. The girl is of marriageable age, but her prospects are poor. She is all but an orphan. The family lands are mortgaged and gone. She has little hope of making a match, and Lady Cecily despairs of her chances. She fears that her charge is destined for a life of service and does not wish to see her own fate visited on another. She has approached me, hoping that I might help …’

      ‘And you offered me up as a sacrifice to expiate the wrong you did forty years ago.’

      ‘I offered her hope. Why should I not? I have a son who is thirty-five and without issue. A son who shows no sign of remedying this condition, though his wife and heir are ten years in the grave. A son who wastes himself on whores when he should be seeing to the estate and providing for the succession. I know how quickly life passes. If you die, the title falls to your brother. Have you considered this, or do you think yourself immortal?’

      He forced a smile. ‘Why does it matter to you now? If St John inherited the title, it would please you above all things. You’ve made no effort to hide that he is your favourite.’

      She smiled back, with equal coldness. ‘I am a fond old woman, but not as foolish as all that. I will not lie and call you favourite. But neither will I claim that St John has the talent or temperament to run this estate. I can trust that once you are settled here, you will not lose your father’s coronet at cards. Your neglect of your duties is benign, and easily remedied. But can you imagine the land after a year in your brother’s care?’

      He closed his eyes and felt the chill seeping through his blood. He did not want to imagine his brother as a duke any more than he wanted to imagine himself chained to a wife and family and trapped in this tomb of a house. There were enough ghosts here, and now his mother was threatening to add herself to the list of grim spirits he was avoiding.

      She gave a shuddering breath and coughed.

      He offered her another sip of water and she cleared her throat before speaking again. ‘I did not offer you as a sacrifice, however much pleasure you take in playing the martyr. I suggested that she and the girl visit. That is all. From you, I expect a promise. A small boon, not total surrender. I would ask that you not turn her away before meeting her. It will not be a love match, but I trust you to realise, now, that love in courtship does not guarantee a long or a happy union. If she is not deformed, or ill favoured, or so hopelessly stupid as to render her company unbearable, I expect you to give serious thought to your offer. Wit and beauty may fade, but if she has common sense and good health, she has qualities sufficient to make a good wife. You have not, as yet, married some doxy on the continent?’

      He glared at her and shook his head.

      ‘Or developed some tragic tendre for the wife of a friend?’

      ‘Good God, Mother.’

      ‘And you are not courting some English rose in secret? That would be too much to hope. So this leaves you with no logical excuse to avoid a meeting. Nothing but a broken heart and a bitter nature, which you can go back to nurturing once an heir is born and the succession secured.’

      ‘You seriously suggest that I marry some girl you’ve sent for, on the basis of your casual correspondence with an old acquaintance?’

      She struggled to sit upright, her eyes glowing like coals in her ashen face. ‘If I had more time, and if you weren’t so damned stubborn, I’d have trotted you around London and forced you to take your pick of the Season long ago. But time is short, and I am forced to make do with what can be found quickly and arranged without effort. If she has wide hips and an amiable nature, overcome your reservations, wed, and get her with child.’

      And she coughed again. But this time it was not the delicate sound he was used to, but the rack of lungs too full to hold breath. And it went on and on until her body shook with it. A maid rushed into the room, drawn by the sound, and leaned over the bed, supporting his mother’s back and holding a basin before her. After more coughing she spat and sagged back into the pillows, spent. The maid hurried away with the basin, but a tiny fleck of blood remained on his mother’s lip.

      ‘Mother.’ His voice was unsteady and his hand trembled as he touched his handkerchief to her mouth.

      Her hand tightened on his, but with little strength. He could feel the bones through the translucent skin.

      When she spoke, her voice was a hoarse whisper. The glow in her eyes had faded to a pleading, frightened look that he had not seen there before. ‘Please. Before it is too late. Meet the girl. Let me die in peace.’ She smiled in a way that was more a grimace, and he wondered if it was from pain. She’d always tried to keep such rigid control. Of herself. Of him. Of everything. It must embarrass her to have to yield now. And for the first time he noticed how small she was as she lay there and smelled the hint of decay masked by the scent of the lilies.

      It was true, then. This time she really was dying.

      He sighed. What harm could it do to make a promise now, when she would be gone long before he needed to keep it? He answered stiffly, giving her more cause to hope than he had in years. ‘I will consider it.’

       Chapter Two

      The front door was oak, and when she dropped the heavy brass knocker against it, Miranda Grey was surprised that the sound was barely louder than the hammering of the rain on the flags around her. It would be a wonder if anyone heard her knock above the sound of the late summer storm.

      When the door finally opened, the butler hesitated, as though a moment’s delay in the rain might wash the step clean and save him the trouble of seeing to her.

      She was afraid to imagine what he must see. Her hair was half down and streaming water. Her shawl clung to her body, soaked through with the rain. Her travelling dress moulded to her body, and the mud-splattered skirts bunched between her legs when she tried to move. She offered a silent prayer of thanks that she’d decided against wearing slippers or her new pair of shoes. The heavy boots she’d chosen were wildly inappropriate for a lady, but anything else would have disintegrated on the walk to the house. Her wrists, which protruded from the sleeves of the gown before disappearing into her faded gloves, were blue with cold.

      After an eternity, the butler opened his mouth, probably to send her away. Or at least to direct her to the rear entrance.

      She squared her shoulders and heard Cici repeating words in her mind.

       ‘It is not who you appear to be that matters. It is who you are. Despite circumstances, you are a lady. You were born to be a lady. If you remember this, people will treat you accordingly.’

      Appreciating her height for once, she stared down into the face of the butler and said in a tone as frigid as the icy rainwater in her boots, ‘Lady Miranda Grey. I believe I am expected.’

      The butler stepped aside and muttered something about a library. Then, without waiting for an answer, he shambled off down the hall, leaving her and her portmanteau on the step.

      She heaved the luggage over the threshold, stepped in after it, and pulled the door shut behind her. She glanced down at her bag, which sat in its own puddle on the marble floor. It could stay here and rot. She was reasonably sure that it was not her job to carry the blasted

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