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God, she hoped it was someone halfway decent. What would she do if, for example, her father tried to match her up with Viscount Platton, who pinched serving girls in full view of everyone? Or the Earl of Chesey, who always smelled of onions? They were both valuable political allies for her father; she’d not put it past the duke to trade his daughter’s hand for a few more votes whenever he needed them.

His answer, however, was worse than she’d even anticipated. Her father shrugged. Shrugged!

“I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve selected a groom,” he said. “In the meantime, be prepared to be wed Saturday next.”

“What?” The word was even more high pitched this time, but Grace couldn’t worry about it. It wasn’t full-blown hysteria, so she was considering it a victory. “You haven’t even found someone yet?” She felt like her insides were shaking, so she clenched her hands as tight as she could, lest this become visible. “What if you can’t find anyone?”

Her father looked faintly affronted and mildly perplexed, as if he’d just heard an insect ask, “What if you cannot squash me under your boot?” Like what she’d said was surprising and strange, but ultimately below his notice because he could, of course, squash whatever he wanted whenever he wanted.

“Of course I’ll find someone; don’t be absurd, Grace. You’re the daughter of a duke, and you have a substantial dowry.” He paused, then added as an afterthought, “And I suppose you’re not without personal charms. That will certainly be enough for some men to overlook your spotty reputation.”

Grace wanted to scream. Scream and scream until glasses broke and ears bled.

But she’d used up all her screams, those first weeks in the North.

So she just sat, staring blankly, and wondered how, in all the mad workings of heaven and earth, her life had ended up here.

Her father was already turning back to his paperwork, rotating the key in its lock, and pulling the documents from the drawer. When he glanced up and saw her still sitting there, he seemed surprised.

“That’s all, Grace,” he said. “You can go.”

He’d turned back to his work before he’d even finished speaking.

So Grace went, wondering how, yet again, she’d allowed herself to miss the crucial moment to act—and had allowed herself to get trapped all over again.

CHAPTER 3

“You’re gettingmarried?”

This was how, two days later, Grace learned the details of her own betrothal—over breakfast, as she was trying to scoop out a sliver of grapefruit with her spoon. At the sound of Frances’ voice—and Grace’s first thought, before anything else, was that she’d never heard Frances sound like that, not even when she’d seen Francesclobber a woman in the skull with a log—Grace’s grip slipped so profoundly that she nearly stabbed herself directly in the palm with the narrow utensil.

The sliver of grapefruit went flying. Grace didn’t even know why she tried. It was never worth the effort. Oranges existed, after all.

Putting down the offending citrus, Grace glanced up at her friend. Frances was waving a copy ofThe London Timeswith uncharacteristic fury. Her cheeks were so bright that they nearly matched her bright red hair. Frances’ husband, Grace’s brother Evan, was doing nothing to soothe his wife’s temper. Instead, he looked as though he might be even angrier than Frances.

“Good morning,” Grace said pleasantly—because no matter how dramatic these events, she would never,everlose the little sister instinct to see if she could drive her brother insane. “What’s this, now?”

“Married!” Frances repeated. “This says you’re gettingmarried.” Her mouth plumped into a frown, and Grace realized her friend was hurt, not angry. “This is the first I’m hearing of it, and it’s from theTimes?”

Grace reached out to take the paper that her friend was still shaking at her. “It’s the first I’m hearing of it, too,” she assured Frances. “Well, the second, I supposed.”

She hadconsideredtelling her friends of her father’s dramatic proclamation. The day prior, she’d even drafted a letter. But she’d worried that a note that said,Dear all, I am to be married on Saturday next to someonewas the kind of thing that would make her friends assume she’d been kidnapped again and was sending some sort of coded plea for help. And while it might have been fun to see her friends spring into action—as, the last time they’d done so, she’d been too busyactually being kidnappedto observe—Diana’s baby had colic, so it simply wouldn’t be polite to frighten them so.

“What doesthatmean?” Evan demanded, frown thunderous.

On the second attempt, Grace managed to grab the paper from a flailing Frances.

“Father,” Grace explained absently, scanning the page of newsprint. “Oh, no you don’t!” she added when she saw her brother pivot, as if he was prepared to take off in the direction of their father’s study. “For goodness’ sake, just sit—both of you. Let me read for a moment.”

She skimmed until her own name jumped out at her.

Lady Grace Miller is to be married. Lady Grace, the daughter of the Duke of Graham, was recently returned securely to her family after being assumed dead for a period of several years. During her absence, the late Duke of Hawkins was hanged for the crime of killing her, which he evidently did not.

“Do you know,” Grace muttered, half to herself, “they almost make it sound like they blame me for Hawkins’ death.”

Lady Grace’s father is, of course, esteemed Parliamentarian Frederick Miller, the Duke of Graham, whose political prowess led to the passing of such transformative laws as the Importation Act of?—

“Did you get to the bit about the Importation Act?” Evan interrupted. “Peopleriotedover that bloody law; it made the price of bread so high.”