LITMIR.BIZ

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words formed in his mind as firmly as if he’d spoken them aloud. It was an oath he swore to himself.

      “Talk to me of anything but the past six weeks,” Maeve pled. “What was the last play you saw?”

      “An excellent work by the most esteemed Viscountess Marwood. It involved a kidnapping and three assumed identities.” Riveted by what he saw on the stage, Tom had barely stirred in his seat, not even to flirt with a few daring widows.

      Maeve clapped her hands together. “Ah, splendid! And was there a swordfight?”

      “Between the heroine and the villain.”

      She chuckled. “Even better.”

      For the remainder of the journey to Fulham, they spoke of subjects unrelated to death and loss—a relief. They carved out a space for themselves in the midst of grief, where Tom could set aside the fact that now, he was the duke, shouldering the title’s massive responsibilities, and he and Maeve were merely themselves as they had been. The scapegrace elder brother and the sardonic but adoring younger sister.

      The carriage slowed to a stop, far faster than Tom had anticipated.

      “We’re here, Your Grace,” the coachman called down.

      In short order, Tom stepped out from the vehicle and helped his sister down. They had stopped in the front yard of a tidy farmhouse that was surrounded by trees. At another time of year, the garden might be abundant, but within the chill months of late autumn, all that clustered around the house were bare hedges. Beyond the farmhouse was a little barn and an enclosed pasture. Smoke rose in a column from the house’s chimney. Someone was inside.

      “My assignation spot?” Maeve asked, looking around.

      Tom grimaced. “Assignation has carnal associations that I’d rather not consider in relation to my baby sister. Let’s call it an appointment, instead.”

      “If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”

      He shook his head. To the best of his knowledge, Maeve and Lord Stacey had never been fully alone together. They weren’t officially affianced, and even if they had been, it was the unfortunate custom of the ton to prohibit intimacy between gentlemen and young women of good breeding.

      A stolen kiss was the best any of them could do. No wonder Tom had so little interest in polite society. He’d moved past mere kissing nearly two decades ago.

      The door to the farmhouse opened, revealing a man’s silhouette. Tom barely had time to consider the identity of the man before Maeve cried out, flinging back her veil as she ran toward the house.

      Tom followed at a deliberately sedate pace. He feigned interest in the autumnal garden as Maeve and Lord Stacey embraced.

      “Oh, Hugh,” Maeve said, “I am so glad to see you.”

      “There, my darling,” Lord Stacey answered in a soothing voice. “We’re together now.” In a slightly louder voice, he said, “Your Grace.”

      Tom stopped his sham of investigating a pruned rosebush. “Lord Stacey.” He bowed slightly to the younger man.

      Hugh Gillray, Lord Stacey, was considered by people of estimable opinion to be one of the best catches in London. He was handsome, in an amiable and approachable manner, with waves of sandy hair, bright hazel eyes, and the athletic form of a true Corinthian. Even more significant, he was the heir to the powerful and influential Duke of Brookhurst, possessing the allowance to match.

      But clearly none of that mattered to Maeve, who had her head on Lord Stacey’s shoulder.

      Maeve and Lord Stacey had met at a regatta in May and had been nigh inseparable ever since. It was merely Lord Stacey’s relative youth—only twenty years old—that prevented him from asking for Maeve’s hand. The Duke of Brookhurst had made it clear that only when his heir had reached the mature age of twenty-one could he propose.

      But Lord Stacey’s birthday was in a month, within Maeve’s period of full mourning. Fielding an offer of marriage during mourning was uncouth. And so Maeve and her beloved would have to wait to even begin their official courtship.

      A fact which was made clear by the way she and Lord Stacey had plastered themselves together today. They stood side by side, hands clasped, as though unable to permit even the smallest distance between themselves.

      “Thank you so much, Your Grace, for permitting this,” Lord Stacey said with all the fervency of youth. “The owners of this farm have been generously compensated for providing the venue as well as their discretion.”

      Tom made himself look as formidable as possible. “Don’t betray my trust by taking undue advantage.”

      “Tommy!” Maeve exclaimed, sounding mortified.

      Yet her embarrassment meant less to him than safeguarding her reputation. Perhaps it was hypocrisy to protect her virtue when Tom himself enjoyed the standing as one of the ton’s profligates, but that was the double standard that guided most of Society. He might not support that double standard, but he wouldn’t gamble his only sister’s happiness on his own opinion.

      “I won’t, Your Grace.” Lord Stacey’s gaze was earnest.

      In all of Tom’s dissipated carousing, not once had he crossed paths with the lad, leading him to believe that Lord Stacey truly was an upstanding—possibly virginal—young man.

      “How fares your father?” Tom asked.

      “He’s quite fixated on passing an upcoming bill,” Lord Stacey said. “Something to do with increasing the punishment of transients.” The lad’s eyes grew somber. “The passing of the late duke came as a blow to him.”

      “That, I don’t doubt.” In addition to sharing a friendship of over three decades, the Duke of Brookhurst and Tom’s father had been longtime confederates in the political scene. Together, they had formed one of the most dominant conservative syndicates in Parliament.

      When Maeve and Lord Stacey had shown a marked preference for each other, Tom had witnessed the Duke of Brookhurst and the late duke at White’s, toasting the continuation of their alliance and the marriage of the two bastions of England’s utmost traditional, upstanding families. It would be a union that pleased everyone.

      “He, ah, mentioned something this morning,” Lord Stacey said, his face reddening. “About you. About . . . needing your support in Parliament. He’s relying on it. For, ahem, our sake.” He glanced down at Maeve, before looking back at Tom. “Might I…speak with you in private for a moment, Your Grace?”

      Tom frowned. “As you wish.”

      Maeve made a sound of exasperation but didn’t stop Tom or Lord Stacey when they moved a small distance from her.

      Tom gazed at the young man in a silent prompt to speak.

      “Forgive me, Your Grace,” Lord Stacey said, a touch of stammer in his voice. “My condolences on your loss. But I have to tell you that I overheard my parents speaking just this morning. My father . . . he hasn’t fully decided whether or not he supports my marrying Maeve.”

      Only when Lord Stacey backed up a step did Tom realize that he scowled fiercely. “Why the deuces not?”

      “Because you were a bit wild. That’s what he said to my mother. He didn’t know if he could trust you to uphold the line’s reputation—and he wants your vote.”

      “My vote,” Tom ground out.

      “Yes, Your Grace.” Lord Stacey ducked his head. “He said to Mama that if you didn’t support him in Parliament . . .” The young man coughed. “The marriage wouldn’t happen.”

      Tom stared at Lord Stacey. “What?” he said in disbelief.

      “I’m sorry, Your Grace. That’s what he said. And I would never impose myself on you in any way, only . . .”

      “Think

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