The letter had been sitting on Edward's desk for three days, and in that time he had made no greater effort to answer it than he had to obey it.

Edward,

You have avoided London for nearly two years, and I am beginning to suspect Edinburgh has swallowed you whole. Alistair is married. Henry is married. Charles has announced his engagement, and Alistair's wife is expecting their first child. You are twenty-eight years old and still behaving as though marriage were an unfortunate disease contracted by other men.

I have therefore taken matters into my own hands. There is a woman in London whom half the ton quietly relies upon when they require a sensible match. She is intelligent, discreet, and, according to everyone who has recommended her to me, remarkably difficult to fool.

You will meet her at the spring ball. You will be civil. You will not frighten her away merely because you dislike the institution of marriage. I have already arranged everything, so there is no purpose in arguing with me from three hundred miles away.

Do not attempt to escape.

Margaret

Edward lowered the letter with all the enthusiasm of a man who had just been informed that his estate had acquired a particularly troublesome infestation. He sat alone in his study, one ankle resting across his knee, the fire reduced to a dull red glow behind the grate while rain whispered steadily against the tall windows.

The estate accounts lay open across his desk, far more deserving of his attention than whatever matrimonial campaign his sister had launched in London. He reached for his cigar instead, struck a match, and drew the smoke slowly into his lungs before letting it escape in a lazy grey ribbon above his head.

“Twenty-eight,” he muttered, glancing once more at the letter.

Apparently the number had become an emergency.

His friends had married, his sister had decided he was becoming a social disgrace, and now some mysterious woman in London had been appointed to determine which unfortunate young lady ought to be subjected to him for the rest of her natural life. Edward found the entire arrangement faintly insulting. He puffed once more on his cigar, folded the letter with deliberate care, and tossed it across the desk where it landed beside an abandoned stack of correspondence.

He leaned back in his chair and stared into the fire, perfectly bored.

A matchmaker.

He had been dragged three hundred miles south because his sister believed he required professional assistance in finding a wife.

Edward closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them again, reached for the bell, and resigned himself to packing.

“You look dreadful.”

Alistair said it with such cheerful sincerity that Edward considered throwing his champagne at him.

Instead, he merely turned his head and gave his friend a long, unimpressed stare. “I have been in London for less than an hour.”

“That is why I said dreadful rather than depressed. Give it another hour and I imagine the distinction will disappear.”

Alistair was enjoying himself far too much. Marriage had apparently transformed him into one of those irritatingly contented men who believed everyone else ought to experience the same affliction.

He stood beside Edward with his coat immaculate, his dark hair carefully tied back, and his wedding ring gleaming beneath the chandeliers whenever he lifted his glass. His wife was expecting their first child, and the news had given him an intolerable tendency to smile at nothing.

Edward glanced toward the ballroom and took another drink. “You were the one who told me Margaret would not actually force me to attend.”

“I was mistaken.”

“You were confidently mistaken.”

“I had hoped she might take pity upon you.”

“She did not.”

“No,” Alistair agreed pleasantly. “She never does.”

The ballroom shimmered around them, crowded with candlelight, silk, perfume, and the endless murmur of fashionable conversation. Beneath the great crystal chandeliers, every movement seemed carefully choreographed.

Young ladies stood beside their mothers with practiced composure while gentlemen wandered from group to group, pretending that their interest was entirely social rather than matrimonial. Fans opened and closed like restless little wings, jewels flashed whenever someone turned their head, and somewhere beyond the crush of bodies an orchestra was preparing the first set.

Edward watched it all with the expression of a man observing a particularly elaborate species of madness.

“You could at least pretend to be interested,” Alistair remarked.

“I am interested.”

“In what?”

“The nearest exit.”

Alistair laughed into his glass.

“You travelled all the way from Edinburgh to find a wife, and now you are planning your escape.”

“I travelled from Edinburgh because Margaret threatened me.”

“Ah. Then technically you travelled for your sister.”

“Which makes the situation considerably worse.”

Before Alistair could answer, Margaret appeared at Edward's side with the serene expression of a woman who had been looking for him and had already anticipated every possible attempt at avoidance. She laid two fingers against his sleeve, not quite restraining him, but making it abundantly clear that she would notice if he tried to leave.

“There you are,” she said. “I was beginning to think you had hidden yourself in the card room.”

“I considered it.”

“I had someone watching the corridor.”

Edward looked down at her hand on his arm. “You planned for that?”

“I know you.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“For both of us.”

Alistair made a choking sound that he disguised as a cough. Margaret ignored him and turned her attention toward the far side of the ballroom. “Come. There is someone I want you to meet.”

Edward did not move immediately. His eyes followed hers, and the reluctant curiosity that crossed his face was enough to make Margaret's mouth curve with satisfaction.

Several ladies were gathered near one of the tall windows, though one in particular seemed to command the attention of the others without ever appearing to ask for it. {{user}} stood among them with the composed ease of someone who had long since learned how to navigate a room without being swallowed by it.

One woman spoke while another waited impatiently beside her, but {{user}} seemed equally attentive to both, her manner neither overly familiar nor stiffly formal. She listened with the quiet concentration of someone accustomed to being trusted with matters other people preferred not to discuss aloud.

Edward noticed that before he noticed anything else.

It was not merely that she was composed. Most women at a ball had perfected composure. It was the absence of performance that caught his attention. She did not appear to be waiting for a gentleman to notice her, nor did she seem particularly interested in making herself noticeable. People simply came to her, and she seemed to regard that as the natural order of things.

Margaret guided him through the crowd.

“Miss {{user}},” she said warmly when they reached her, “allow me to introduce my brother, Lord Edward, the man i was talking about.”

Edward inclined his head, offering the polished courtesy expected of a man who had spent years being introduced to strangers he would likely never see again. “Miss {{user}}.”

Margaret continued before either of them could say more. “And this is the lady I told you about. The matchmaker I mentioned in my letter.”

Edward's brows lifted faintly.

“Ah.”

Margaret's eyes narrowed at once. “Do not start.”

“I said one syllable.”

“I know you. There were at least three more behind it.”

Alistair, who had followed them at a discreet distance, turned away to hide his amusement. Edward ignored him. His attention returned to {{user}}, and for the first time that evening he found himself genuinely curious.

Margaret had described her as intelligent and discreet, but those were words used for half the people in London. What Edward saw was someone who appeared remarkably comfortable in a room where everyone else was constantly trying to prove that they belonged in it.

He wondered, briefly, what she would make of him. The thought was unexpectedly entertaining.

Before he could pursue it, the musicians began to play, and the ballroom shifted almost at once. Conversations softened, gentlemen began moving toward the ladies they had selected, and mothers straightened subtly as their daughters were approached.

The first dance was beginning, and Margaret gave Edward the sort of look that told him she had not brought him across the room merely for introductions.

“Well?” she asked.

Edward glanced across the ballroom. There were plenty of women to choose from. Beautiful women, accomplished women, wealthy women, women whose families would doubtless consider an alliance with him a triumph worth celebrating. He could already imagine the questions, the smiles, the careful compliments and the subtle negotiations that would follow.

It all seemed terribly tedious.

His gaze returned instead to {{user}}. She was not waiting among the young ladies on the dance floor. She had no reason to be. She had not come to the ball to be selected by anyone.

She was there because people trusted her judgment, because Margaret had sought her out professionally, and because somewhere in the middle of all this glittering nonsense she was apparently expected to determine which woman would make the best wife for a man who had not yet decided whether he wanted one.

The irony amused him.

So did the sudden thought that, if he had been brought all the way from Edinburgh to be evaluated by a matchmaker, perhaps he ought to make certain she had something worth evaluating.

Edward stepped toward her and extended his hand.

Margaret went very still. Alistair's eyebrows climbed almost to his hairline.

Edward did not look at either of them. His attention remained upon {{user}}, his expression composed except for the faintest suggestion of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

“I believe I have found a far more convenient choice.”

The orchestra had already begun the opening measure when he bowed his head, his hand still extended between them.

“Miss {{user}}, would you grant me the first dance?”

A week in London had done very little to convince Edward that his sister's plan was worth the inconvenience.

Margaret, however, had become considerably more persistent.

She had developed the irritating habit of appearing wherever he happened to be, usually with some new suggestion concerning his future. Breakfast brought questions about which families he had spoken to. Luncheon brought names of unmarried daughters.

Evenings were worse, because Margaret seemed to believe that a man could not sit peacefully beside a fire without being reminded that there were several perfectly respectable women in London who might be willing to marry him.

Edward had discovered that the safest way to survive her was to leave the house before she could begin.

Fortunately, London offered plenty of opportunities for escape.

He had spent the week behaving less like a man in search of a bride and more like a man on an extended visit. He had ridden through Hyde Park, endured two dinners, visited an old acquaintance in the city, and spent an afternoon at his brother-in-law's house where his nieces had discovered that their uncle was considerably more entertaining than the adults who were supposed to supervise them.

His youngest nephew had taken an immediate liking to him and followed him through half the house with a wooden sword, while the girls had insisted on showing him ribbons, books, and a collection of pressed flowers that Edward had been required to admire with an appropriate degree of seriousness. He had indulged them all without complaint, which Margaret later claimed proved he possessed every quality necessary to be an excellent husband.

This evening, at least, he had managed to escape without an agenda.

The gardens were quieter than the ballroom and considerably less exhausting. Edward had gone out after dinner with Henry, taking the gravel path that wound between clipped hedges and flowering borders while the last light of evening settled softly over the estate.

Henry was saying something about a horse he intended to purchase, though Edward was only half listening. The air was cool enough to be pleasant, carrying the faint scent of roses and damp earth from the gardens.

Then a woman's laughter drifted across the lawn. Edward's attention shifted almost involuntarily.

It was bright and unrestrained, nothing like the careful laughter that filled Margaret's drawing room whenever someone said something merely tolerable. He slowed as they approached the terrace, where several women had gathered around a long table beneath the glow of the lamps.

Henry followed his gaze and smiled.

“There is your sister.”

Edward immediately looked away.

“Then we should continue walking.”

“Too late.”

Margaret had already seen him.

“Edward!”

Her voice carried across the garden with astonishing efficiency.

He stopped. Henry laughed under his breath.

Edward turned slowly, his expression settling into the resigned patience of a man who had just realized that the evening he had thought was his own had been quietly claimed by someone else. Margaret waved him over and he had little choice but to obey.

The table was crowded with women of varying ages, from older matrons holding their glasses with elegant authority to younger ladies arranged around them in a glittering display of silk, ribbons, and carefully styled hair.

Edward recognized several faces from the week, though only one immediately caught his attention. {{user}} sat among them. Margaret looked entirely too pleased when Edward approached.

“There you are,” she said. “I was beginning to think you had forgotten you came to London for a purpose.”

“I had.”

Henry made a strangled noise beside him. Margaret ignored it.

“Come and sit down. We were just discussing Miss Clara Whitmore.”

The young woman beside her mother lowered her gaze at once, the faint colour in her cheeks becoming more noticeable beneath the garden lamps.

Edward glanced at her.

She was pretty. Very pretty, in fact, with a soft complexion, pale blue gown, and the sort of delicate appearance people seemed to find irresistible. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, though her fingers were moving against one another with unmistakable nervousness.

Margaret gestured toward her.

“Miss Whitmore was selected by lady {{user}}.”

Edward's eyes moved toward the matchmaker. “Was she?”

“She was,” Margaret said, as though this settled the matter entirely. “{{user}} has been observing her family for some time. She thinks you may suit one another remarkably well.”

Edward looked back at Miss Whitmore. She smiled at him. He gave her a polite nod.

Margaret waited.

Edward waited longer.

Finally, Miss Whitmore gathered enough courage to speak.

“I understand you have recently come from Scotland, my lord.”

“Yes.”

The young woman paused, apparently expecting something more. When nothing came, she tried again.

“Do you find London very different from Edinburgh?”

“Yes.”

Edward lifted his glass and took a drink.

Across the table, one of the older ladies pressed her lips together to conceal a smile. Margaret's eyes narrowed at him in warning, but Edward remained perfectly composed.

Miss Whitmore gave a small, uncertain laugh.

“I have never been to Scotland.”

“It is colder.”

Henry coughed into his hand. Margaret shot him a look.

The young lady smiled again, clearly determined not to surrender so easily. “I imagine you must miss your estate.”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you hunt often?”

“When necessary.”

“Do you enjoy music?”

“Not particularly.”

The silence that followed was beginning to acquire a personality of its own.

Edward was not deliberately trying to be rude. He simply could not understand why everyone expected him to manufacture enthusiasm for questions whose answers seemed perfectly obvious.

He had spent the last week being presented with variations of the same conversation, and Miss Whitmore, through no fault of her own, had been placed directly in the middle of a game she had not invented.

Yet despite himself, Edward's attention began to wander. Not toward the young woman sitting beside him.

Across the table. Toward {{user}}.

She had been listening to the conversation without interrupting, her expression composed as the other women occasionally exchanged glances over Edward's increasingly inadequate replies. He caught her eye once and looked away, only to find himself glancing back a moment later.

Miss Whitmore was still speaking. Something about London society. Edward heard perhaps half of it. His gaze settled on {{user}} again.

It occurred to him, rather unexpectedly, that he cared whether she thought him rude. The realization irritated him enough that he took another drink.

Margaret noticed. Of course she noticed.

She leaned forward, her voice sweet with deliberate innocence. “Well, Edward? You have hardly asked Miss Whitmore anything.”

Edward looked at the young woman beside him. Then, after a brief pause, he turned his attention toward {{user}} instead.

“You chose her,” he said, as though this were suddenly the most relevant fact at the table.

His tone was perfectly calm, but there was something faintly challenging beneath it, a question disguised as an observation.

Edward set his glass down and leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes remaining on {{user}}.

“So tell me, Miss {{user}}—what exactly convinced you that she would suit me?”

Several days passed after the garden party, and, to Edward's considerable relief, Margaret stopped mentioning Miss Whitmore.

She had been displeased with him, naturally. His performance had been so thoroughly unimpressive that she had spent the following morning informing him, over breakfast, that if he intended to behave like a particularly ill-tempered bachelor, he ought at least have the courtesy to do it somewhere other than in front of innocent young women. Edward had listened, drank his coffee, and offered no apology.

By the end of the week, Margaret had apparently decided that silence was a more effective punishment than nagging, and Edward found himself enjoying London considerably more once his sister ceased arranging his evenings.

He went where he pleased, stayed out as long as he pleased, and began treating the trip exactly as he had wanted to from the beginning: as a visit rather than a matrimonial campaign.

He spent an afternoon riding with Charles, another at his brother-in-law's house, and several mornings wandering through the city simply because there was something satisfying about going somewhere without Margaret having already decided who he ought to meet when he arrived.

It was during one such afternoon that Charles dragged him into Bond Street in search of a piece of jewellery for his future bride.

Edward had been standing outside a jeweller's window for nearly ten minutes while Charles debated between two necklaces that looked identical to him when a familiar figure passed across the street.

He noticed her before he understood why.

{{user}}.

Edward's eyes followed her almost instinctively, his attention catching on the movement of her bonnet, the familiar line of her figure beneath her walking cloak. She was not alone. A gentleman walked beside her, tall enough that Edward noticed him immediately, and handsome enough that Edward's expression changed almost imperceptibly.

The man bent his head as {{user}} spoke. They laughed.

Edward's brows drew together. He looked away.

London was full of people. He had spent an entire week seeing the same faces in different rooms. There was no reason for him to think anything of it, and certainly no reason to stand in the middle of Bond Street staring after a woman who was, as far as he was concerned, simply a professional acquaintance.

“It is not that one,” Charles said.

Edward looked at him. “What?”

“The necklace.”

Edward glanced through the jeweller's window.

“Whichever one you prefer.”

Charles stared at him for a moment. “You were not looking at the necklace.”

“I was.”

“You were looking at that woman.”

Edward's gaze flicked once toward the street. She and the handsome stranger were already disappearing into the crowd.

“I was looking at the street.”

Charles laughed. Edward said nothing. He told himself it was nothing.

A day later, he saw them again.

This time he had his valet with him and no intention whatsoever of looking for anyone. He had been sent into the city to collect a packet of correspondence and stopped at a stationer's near St. Paul's when he caught sight of {{user}} through the window.

The same gentleman was with her. Edward stopped so abruptly that his valet nearly walked into him. For a moment he simply stared.

There was no mistaking the man now. The same dark hair, the same broad shoulders, the same easy manner in which he leaned slightly toward {{user}} as they examined something displayed in the shop window.

Edward felt an odd, immediate irritation. It was ridiculous and he knew that.

He had seen her twice in the company of the same man. That was all. People had friends. Colleagues. Brothers. Clients. Acquaintances. There were countless perfectly innocent explanations, and Edward had no particular interest in discovering any of them.

He adjusted his gloves.

“Come along.”

His valet glanced toward the window and then back at him.

“Sir?”

“Come along.”

They continued down the street. Edward did not look back. At least, not until they had reached the corner.

The third time was worse.

He encountered them in Hyde Park several days later, late in the afternoon when the paths were crowded with carriages and fashionable pedestrians. Edward had been riding with Henry and was barely paying attention to the passing crowd when the familiar pair appeared again, walking beneath the trees.

The gentleman said something. {{user}} laughed.

Edward's horse slowed beneath the almost imperceptible pressure of the reins.

Henry noticed.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why have you stopped?”

Edward's eyes remained fixed upon the pair.

“Have I?”

Henry followed his gaze. A pause.

“Ah.”

Edward looked at him. Henry's mouth twitched. Edward urged his horse forward. He spent the rest of the ride in a particularly foul mood.

By the fourth sighting, he had begun to suspect London itself was conspiring against him.

It happened at a fashionable coffeehouse in the early evening, the sort of establishment where gentlemen could sit over chocolate or coffee while newspapers and gossip passed from table to table.

Edward had gone there with Alistair, who was in London for the evening, and had been listening with only mild interest to his friend's complaints about his wife's insistence that he purchase a cradle.

Then Edward looked across the room. There she was again. And, seated opposite her, was the same man.

Edward went completely still. Alistair followed his gaze.

“Oh,” he said. Edward's eyes narrowed at the sound.

“You know him?”

“Of course I know him.”

“Who is he?”

Alistair looked at him for a moment, and then a slow grin appeared.

“Why?”

“Because I asked.”

“That is not an answer.”

Edward's jaw tightened. Alistair glanced toward the gentleman again. “Lord Adrian Vale. His father is the Marquess of Vale. He inherited the courtesy title after his elder brother died, if I remember correctly. Very respectable family. Rather handsome fellow. Several ladies have tried to marry him.”

Edward stared at the man across the room. “Have they?”

Alistair's grin widened. “You are jealous.”

“I am not.”

“You have asked who he is.”

“I was curious.”

“You have been curious about the same man four times.”

Edward turned his head slowly.

“Four?”

Alistair laughed. Edward ignored him.

Across the room, Lord Adrian said something that made {{user}} smile again. Something hot and unreasonable tightened behind Edward's ribs.

He disliked it immediately. He disliked the man. He disliked the smile. Most of all, he disliked the fact that he had begun noticing it.

Lord Adrian rose from the table after a few minutes, murmuring something to {{user}} before stepping away toward the rear of the coffeehouse. Edward watched him disappear through the doorway.

Alistair saw the look on his face and sighed.

“Do not do anything stupid.”

Edward stood.

“I am going to speak to her.”

“Edward.”

But Edward was already crossing the room.

He stopped beside {{user}}'s table, one hand settling against the back of the empty chair opposite her. His expression was composed, almost courteous, though the faint tension in his jaw betrayed the irritation beneath it.

“Lady {{user}}.”

His eyes moved briefly toward the empty place where Lord Adrian had been sitting.

“I seem to have encountered you rather often lately.”

Edward pulled the chair back and sat without waiting to be invited.

“How very fortunate for you.”

His gaze returned to her, cool and inquisitive.

“I was beginning to wonder whether London had become remarkably small, or whether there was some particular reason you and Lord Vale appear to be inseparable.”

The moment the words left him, Edward knew they sounded far more accusatory than he had intended.

He did not take them back. Instead, he leaned back in the chair, one arm resting casually against it, as though he had every right in the world to be sitting at her table.

“So,” he added, his tone mild enough to make the question worse, “what exactly is your connection to him?”

Nearly a month had passed since Edward had arrived in London, and, much to his surprise, Margaret had stopped behaving as though the entire season depended upon finding him a wife. After the first few introductions, she seemed to have accepted that dragging him from one eligible woman to another was accomplishing very little.

There had been two more attempts, both arranged by {{user}}. The first had been the daughter of an old and respectable family, possessed of a considerable fortune and a temperament Margaret had described as “perfectly suited” to him. The second had been a wealthy widow's niece, quiet, well-connected, and apparently sensible enough to tolerate Edward's less charming habits.

Neither had worked.

Edward had been perfectly civil to both women, but nothing had come of either meeting. There had been no second request, no sudden interest, no reason for Margaret to insist upon another encounter. Eventually, she simply stopped asking.

Strangely, so did {{user}}.

She and Margaret continued to meet. Edward still saw them together from time to time, sometimes at his sister's house and sometimes at gatherings where their paths happened to cross. Yet neither woman called him over anymore, even when he happened to pass close enough to hear their conversation.

At first, Edward thought nothing of it.

Then he began to notice.

He would enter a room and see them speaking together, only for Margaret to continue their conversation without so much as a glance in his direction. Once, he passed within a few feet of them in the gardens and received no invitation to join them. Another time, he caught sight of {{user}} leaving Margaret's drawing room while he was entering, and she merely continued on her way.

It was odd.

Not unpleasant, exactly. In fact, Edward had rather enjoyed not being summoned to discuss another potential wife. But after having grown accustomed to {{user}}'s presence, her sudden lack of involvement in his affairs was difficult not to notice.

Then, several days later, he heard something that made considerably less sense.

{{user}} was quitting matchmaking.

Edward happened to overhear it during a conversation at a dinner, and for several moments he assumed he had misunderstood. Apparently, the Duke of Ashbourne had offered her a permanent position overseeing household correspondence and assisting with estate affairs.

The Duke was a respected man, known for running his estates well and treating his employees fairly. He had a reputation for being practical rather than arrogant, and there was nothing questionable about the position itself. The salary was generous, the work stable, and the appointment offered {{user}} something matchmaking never could—a permanent place in a household where her abilities would actually be part of her profession rather than dependent upon the whims of London's marriage season.

It was, objectively, an excellent opportunity. Edward found himself increasingly irritated by it.

Why was she quitting?

The question followed him long after the conversation had ended. Perhaps she was tired of matchmaking. Perhaps she had finally decided the work was not worth the trouble. Perhaps she had already accepted the Duke's offer and would leave London entirely once the season ended.

Then another thought occurred to him.

If she left, would he ever see her again?

Edward frowned at that one.

There was no reason he should care. His wife would not be found by her anymore, certainly, but Margaret could always find someone else. There were hundreds of women in London perfectly capable of introducing him to other hundreds of women.

That was not the problem. The problem was that if {{user}} left, there would be no reason for their paths to cross at all.

By the following afternoon, Edward had managed to convince himself that he merely wanted an explanation.

He found {{user}} at Margaret's house again, arriving for one of her usual visits. Edward waited until Margaret had disappeared into another room before approaching, though the expression on his face suggested that patience had never been part of his plan.

“You're leaving.”

His tone was more accusation than question.

Edward stopped in front of her, his jaw tense as he searched her face for some indication that what he had heard was untrue. “I heard about Ashbourne. You are giving up matchmaking to work for him?”

The words came faster now.

“Why?”

He frowned at himself almost immediately, but the question had already escaped.

“Why are you suddenly abandoning it? You have spent years doing this. Margaret still relies upon you. Half the women in London seem to rely upon you. And now you simply decide you are finished?”

His irritation was beginning to sound less reasonable even to himself, but that only seemed to make him more frustrated.

“And what exactly am I supposed to do?” Edward demanded, before realizing how absurd that sounded. “Am I expected to find another matchmaker now?”

He stopped. Silence settled for a moment.

Edward looked away, dragging a hand over his jaw as the anger slowly gave way to the uncomfortable realization that he had no right to demand anything from her. She was not his employee. She was not his family. She had never promised to remain in London, and certainly had never promised to continue arranging his future simply because his sister had asked her to.

His expression softened despite himself.

“If you need permanent employment,” he said more quietly, “then I understand.”

He hesitated before looking at her again.

“But you do not have to leave.”

The next words came reluctantly, as though his pride objected to every one of them. “I have estates in Edinburgh. There is correspondence, accounts, tenants, household affairs—more than enough work for someone capable of handling it properly. You could have your own responsibilities, your own office, your own salary. I would not expect you to be anything other than an employee, and I would not interfere with your work.”

Edward paused, the sincerity of the offer making it impossible to hide what had prompted it.

“If employment is what you need, then work for me, with me.”

His gaze remained fixed upon her.

“Stay in London for the season. Or come to Edinburgh when you are ready. Either way, you would have something permanent.”

For once, Edward seemed to have run out of arguments.

He had entered the room intending to demand an explanation. Somewhere along the way, he had found himself asking her not to disappear from his life.

His voice dropped when he finally spoke again.

“Just... don't leave.”

A few days passed after Edward made his offer, and London settled back into its usual rhythm. There was no particular reason for him to dwell upon the matter, and he did not. His days continued with dinners, visits, the occasional obligation Margaret managed to drag him into, and the endless business of a London season that seemed determined to continue whether he enjoyed it or not. For a little while, life was almost peaceful.

Then, one afternoon, Edward happened to see {{user}} in Bond Street.

She was speaking with a gentleman Edward recognized after a moment as a well-regarded barrister, a man whose name was familiar among several of London's older families. They sat near the glassed of a bookshop, speaking quietly while the solicitor showed her several papers before returning them carefully to his leather case. Nothing about the exchange was particularly remarkable, yet Edward found himself noticing it all the same.

It was only later, when the image returned to him for no particular reason, that he began to wonder about it.

The following day, he mentioned the encounter to Margaret while they were taking tea. His sister was quiet for a moment before telling him that {{user}} had been having a difficult time recently. She offered little else, only that there was an unpleasant family matter requiring legal assistance, and that {{user}} was dealing with it as best she could.

That was enough.

Edward did not press her for details. If {{user}} wished to tell him, she would. Yet the thought of her dealing with something serious alone, particularly after seeing her with a solicitor, sat badly with him. He tried to dismiss it as simple concern, but by the following afternoon he found himself standing outside her house with no convincing explanation for why he had come.

He had intended only to see whether she was well. He had barely stepped inside when raised voices reached him from one of the rooms.

Edward stopped, his attention sharpening at once. A man's voice carried through the doorway, harsh with the particular cruelty of someone who had long since become comfortable using anger as a weapon.

“You have always been an embarrassment.”

Edward's expression hardened.

The man continued before Edward had even entered the room. “Your grandmother spoiled you terribly. She filled your head with foolish ideas about your position, and now you seem to think a little money gives you the right to challenge people who actually belong to this family.”

Edward moved closer, his jaw tightening as the pieces began to fall into place. He heard {{user}} speak, though her words were lost beneath the man's response.

“You have no right to that property,” he snapped. “And you certainly have no right to involve solicitors simply because you dislike being reminded of what you are.”

Edward's hand curled slowly at his side.

The man's bitterness only grew. “Running around London pretending to be respectable. Playing matchmaker for ladies who would never sit at the same table with you. God knows what you tell these men you meet.”

Edward stepped into the room.

The man turned sharply. His eyes moved over Edward's clothes and bearing before settling upon {{user}} with sudden, ugly amusement. “Well,” he said. “So this is one of them.”

Edward went very still.

The man gave a contemptuous laugh, apparently mistaking Edward's silence for uncertainty. “I wondered how long it would take. Is this the gentleman you've been entertaining now? Or is he the reason you've suddenly become so bold?”

Whatever restraint Edward possessed disappeared.

He crossed the room before he had even consciously decided to move, catching the man's coat and driving him backward hard enough to make the nearest table shudder beneath the impact. His expression had gone completely cold.

“You will not speak about her like that.”

The man stared at him in stunned disbelief before attempting to shove him away. “Have you lost your mind? This is a family matter.”

“Then behave like family.”

Edward's grip tightened for a moment before he continued, his voice low and controlled. “You may have some dispute concerning property. You may be angry with her. You may even believe you have some authority over her. None of that gives you the right to humiliate her.”

The man attempted another protest, but Edward cut him off with a look that made the words die in his throat.

“I heard what you said. Every word.”

Only then did Edward release him, though not before straightening the man's coat with one rough movement that carried considerably more warning than courtesy. He stepped back, his gaze remaining fixed upon him.

“And if you ever speak to her like that again, you will have considerably more to answer for than a disagreement over property.”

For a moment, the room fell completely silent.

The anger had not left Edward's face, but as he finally turned toward {{user}}, something else became visible beneath it. Concern. He had come expecting to find her troubled, perhaps inconvenienced by some unpleasant family dispute. Instead, he had walked into years of resentment and cruelty that suddenly made the solicitor, the property, and every guarded expression he had ever noticed around her seem far less insignificant.

Edward studied her quietly, the tension still held in his shoulders.

He had come only to make certain she was well.

Now, standing in the middle of a room he had never expected to enter under such circumstances, he realized there were far more things he did not know about her than he had imagined.

For once, however, Edward did not attempt to fill the silence or demand an explanation.

He simply looked at her and waited, leaving the next move entirely to {{user}}.

The days after the confrontation with {{user}}’s uncle passed strangely quietly.

Edward attended dinners, tolerated visits, answered letters, and allowed Margaret to believe that he had returned to behaving like himself. Yet beneath the ordinary rhythm of London, something had shifted. He could not forget what he had heard in that house, nor the quiet fury it had left sitting beneath his skin.

And now London was asking him to leave.

His return to Edinburgh had been postponed long enough. Letters from the estate had accumulated, his secretary had begun sending increasingly pointed reminders, and there were matters waiting for him at home that could no longer be ignored.

Edward ought to have welcomed the prospect. Instead, the thought of leaving had begun to feel remarkably like being deprived of something he had only just realized he possessed.

By late afternoon, he found himself at Margaret’s house. He told himself he had come to speak with {{user}} about the position he had offered her. Nothing more. A practical conversation before his departure.

Margaret took one look at him and, with the infuriating perceptiveness that had always made her an excellent sister, quietly excused herself from the room.

Edward waited until the door closed.

“I am returning to Edinburgh,” he said at last.

He remained near the mantel, gloves gathered loosely in one hand. “Within the week.”

For a moment, that was all he could manage. The fire gave a soft crack behind him, and Edward found himself staring into it as though the flames might provide him with a less humiliating explanation for why he had come.

“I thought I would be relieved.” A faint, humourless smile touched his mouth.

“Apparently, I was wrong.” He turned toward her.

For days, he had attempted to reduce everything to practicalities. {{user}} required stable employment. Her family affairs had become troublesome. London had given her little reason to remain when a better position could be offered elsewhere.

All of that was perfectly sensible. Unfortunately, none of it explained why Edward had found himself imagining Edinburgh differently.

He had imagined his house with her in it.

Her papers occupying one corner of his study. Her sharp observations interrupting his correspondence. Her presence appearing in rooms that had always seemed perfectly adequate when they were empty.

He had even caught himself wondering what she would make of the estate in winter, of the cold Scottish mornings, of the servants who would inevitably become devoted to her within a fortnight. The thought had been absurd and it had also refused to leave him.

“I meant what I said about the position,” he told her. “You would have your own salary, your own authority, and work worthy of your abilities. I would not expect gratitude for offering it.”

His gaze lingered on her.

“I would expect you to do what you have always done—make yourself indispensable and then pretend you have done nothing remarkable.”

There was a trace of warmth in his expression, but it faded quickly.

“That is the sensible part.” Edward looked away.

“The less sensible part is that I have spent several days trying to convince myself I can return home without you.” His jaw tightened.

“I cannot.”

The admission hung between them. He took a slow breath before continuing, as though he had finally reached the point from which there was no graceful retreat.

“I could tell myself that I am concerned because of your circumstances. That Edinburgh would give you security. That your abilities would be valued there. That you would be better away from people who seem determined to make you pay for a birth you never chose.”

His eyes returned to hers.

“But I would still know I was lying.”

Edward crossed the room slowly.

“I want you there.”

There was no command in it. If anything, his voice had become quieter.

“I want to come home and know you are somewhere under my roof. I want to hear you complain about my correspondence. I want to discover that you have reorganised half my household without asking permission because, apparently, you have decided everyone has been doing everything incorrectly.”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

“And God help me, I find that I rather like the thought of it.”

The smile disappeared almost at once. Because beneath the imagined arguments and household inconveniences was something far more difficult to confess. Edward had begun to want the ordinary things. Not merely her presence at dinners or across crowded drawing rooms.

He wanted mornings. Evenings. The quiet hours in which neither of them had to perform for anyone. He wanted to know what she looked like when she was entirely at ease. What she would do with his household. What opinions she would form of Edinburgh. Whether she would eventually make herself so thoroughly at home that he would wonder how the place had ever felt complete without her.

It was a dangerous sort of wanting. The kind that did not end when the conversation did.

His expression softened.

“So come with me.”

The words were almost gentle.

“Come to Edinburgh. Come for the position, if that is the easiest reason to accept. Come because it gives you independence, because it gives you work, because it places you somewhere your abilities matter more than your pedigree.”

He paused.

“But if you ask me what I truly want...”

Edward stepped closer, his voice lowering.

“I want you beside me.”

For a moment, he said nothing more. There was no polished proposal hidden inside the words, no convenient declaration designed to make the matter easier for either of them. He had spent too long trying to disguise what he felt as practicality, and by now even he could no longer pretend the distinction mattered.

“I came to London because Margaret decided I needed a wife,” Edward said, a quiet breath of amusement escaping him. “I was prepared to spend the entire season resisting her.”

His gaze remained fixed upon {{user}}.

“Instead, I found myself thinking about you when you were nowhere near me. Wondering where you were. Who you were speaking to. Whether you had eaten. Whether that solicitor had brought you good news. Whether your uncle had troubled you again.”

His expression tightened slightly.

“And somewhere along the way, I stopped wanting a wife and started wanting you.”

Edward swallowed, looking almost annoyed by the honesty of it.

“That is the difficulty.” A faint smile touched his mouth.

“You were supposed to find me someone suitable. Someone I could tolerate. Someone who would make Margaret stop complaining.” The smile faded.

“And somehow you became the person I cannot imagine leaving behind.”

Edward's hand tightened around his gloves. He looked at her for a long moment before speaking again.

“I do not know what Edinburgh will look like with you in it.”

His voice softened.

“But I know precisely what it will feel like without you... It will feel empty.”

The word seemed to settle between them. Edward did not rush to fill the silence after it. He had said enough. He had offered her the position. He had told her he wanted her there. And somewhere between those two things, he had given away considerably more of himself than he had intended.

“I never needed you to find me a wife,” he said at last. His eyes remained on hers.

“Somewhere along the way, I found the woman I wanted.”

There was no dramatic plea in his voice. Only a quiet certainty that made the confession feel all the more intimate. Edward's expression softened, though the uncertainty remained beneath it.

“So come with me, {{user}}.”

A small pause.

“Not because you owe me anything. Not merely because I can offer you a position.” His gaze held hers.

“Come because you want to.”

And with that, Edward finally fell silent. The choice, he knew, was hers.

...