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“Lord Love! Stop romancing the young miss and come join us!” someone called. Matthew vaguely recognized the voice of Mr. Griffey, the bachelor poet and most boisterous of the bunch.

Matthew turned to Amelia to confide as much, but she was not there.

Or rather, she was—but she’d retreated at least two feet, her back making friends with the wall.

“Lord Love,” she repeated.

“Love is my patronym,” he said. “Matthew Love.”

“And he is not a lord,” Lillian cut in, smiling sweetly. She carried two cups of tea. “But that does not stop everyone from calling him Lord Love.”

The color in Amelia’s cheeks burned brighter than before. Despite the clear offer from Lillian, she clasped her hands together tightly in front of her.

“Thank you, Your Grace. But I am tired from our misadventures today. Excuse me,” she said, already turning as the last syllable passed her lips.

“Miss Darrow, it is past time to retire. Thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace.” She bobbed a curtsey to Lillian.

And then she fled without explanation or another word.

Matthew accepted the tea from his sister, tossing it back with disregard for the scalding heat. And wished it was something stronger.

*

“Yes,” Matthew said when Tarin, the Duke of Burnham and his brother-in-law, held up the decanter of whisky.

Lillian frowned from the chaise where she’d planted herself when the last of her guests had retired for the evening. “What is that? Your fourth or fifth of the evening?”

“I don’t count.” Matthew sighed, sinking deeper into the cushions of the wingback. He’d resigned himself to the chair when Amelia retired for the second time that day, again without a backward glance in his direction.

“Clearly.” Lillian pinned him with her gaze. “You were much too busy paying all your attention to Amelia Wartham.”

Amelia, who had studiously avoided him all evening.

He’d tried to speak to her when the guests came down for supper. But she’d seated herself beside Mrs. McTavish and spent most of the night nodding along to the young woman’s nearly incomprehensible Scottish brogue.

Matthew had tried to puzzle out where it went wrong. She had said little in their brief conversation, it was true. But it had been honest and easy between them. Until they were interrupted.

Tarin handed him a generous pour of whisky. Christopher wrinkled his nose. “Aren’t you going to tell off your wife for her impudence?”

“Unlike you, I do not sleep alone. And I intend to keep it that way,” the duke said as he joined his wife on the chaise.

The deep gold of the whisky was the exact shade of the highlights in her silky brown hair. At least, he imagined it would feel like silk when he got his hands on it. If he got his hands on it. Bloody hell.

“Miss Wartham is not your usual sort of guest,” Tarin observed.

No. She was not effervescent or loquacious. She was contemplative and serious. And perfect.

“She is rather reserved,” Lillian agreed. “But her companion is an absolute gem, and I could hardly leave them stranded in the village for a week when we are having a party here.”

“You have my thanks,” Matthew said. Tomorrow was a fresh start. Perhaps she was just exhausted from her day. But after a night in one of Lillian’s luxurious beds, they would begin again.

“She is not the usual sort,” Tarin repeated. This time, he said it as a warning. Matthew straightened in his chair. “She’s an heiress—”

He snorted at his brother-in-law. “Since when do I care about that? I have plenty of money.”

“—and, from what Miss Darrow says, a confirmed spinster,” Tarin finished.

“I’ve never had much taste for debutantes,” Matthew said over a sip of whisky.

It was true. He’d never had much taste for anything beyond dalliance.

Usually, his sister’s parties were the perfect place for such activities, rife with widows and spinsters who did not have reputations to mind.

Matthew would never have dreamed of ruining a debutante, even if his sister had invited one along to one of her parties.

But Amelia was different. He could not have said how, but he knew a dalliance with her would never be enough.

There is no predicting love. Bloody everlasting hell.

“You are smitten,” Lillian said softly over the rim of her husband’s whisky, which she’d pilfered right from his hand. She shook her head slowly. “She is only here for a week.”

“Then I’d best use my time wisely.” Matthew knocked back the rest of his whisky. He needed to sleep and plan. He would dream of her.

“Be careful,” Tarin warned again.

“I would never bring disgrace down on you. Let alone upon her.”

“That is not what I mean,” Tarin said, though his eyes were ringed with humorous disbelief. “Her elder sister has very highly placed friends.”

“Higher than a duke and duchess?” Lillian chuckled. She did not often boast about her status, but she did lift a golden eyebrow at her husband.

“Yes,” Tarin said, eyes never leaving Matthew’s. “The highest placed of all.”

Matthew blinked. There could be only one thing he meant by that. Royal friends.

How was Amelia involved with the king and his court? Not Amelia—her sister. Maybe that played into her reserve, her seriousness. Matthew wanted to know every detail. Not because he particularly cared about the Hanoverians. But because he wanted to know everything about her .

He nodded goodnight to his sister and brother-in-law, but they were already in a whispered conversation. For once, Matthew’s chest panged with longing.