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W hy was he staring at her like that?

It was not as though she had said anything particularly shocking.

True, she was unchaperoned, but this meeting had certainly not been planned, so she could hardly be blamed for that.

There were no witnesses to that fact, either.

And they were not standing in a shocking manner—to be sure, he was closer than she would like, but it was hardly her fault.

It had been Robert—it had been Mr. Peterson—bother, it was the Duke of Thraxley who had stepped so close to her.

The lake had not moved. It remained as solid and as dependable as ever, a place she had always come in the first few years after Aunt Opal had purchased Cabochon House to escape…to find a little quiet.

And now, Amethyst realized as she swallowed hard, she was standing by its glittering shores with the man she had been certain she had loved, and then loathed, and now…

Now she did not know what to think.

“You never received any of my letters?” The duke’s voice cracked. “But—But I sent one, every week for months.”

“I do not know what to tell you. I certainly never received any. Not a single one,” Amethyst retorted, trying hard not to sound as though she were accusing him.

It was not precisely an accusation. More pain at how easily he had appeared to throw her off.

Oh, she knew she was not beautiful—how could she doubt it, living with her cousins, who appeared to have gained all the good looks of a few Grecian goddesses?

Amethyst had always known that she was hardly a match for Robert Peterson.

There he stood, tall and wide, his broad shoulders that had always seemed to carry the weight of his family, that lopsided smile that came out as brilliant as the sun.

There was a gentleness in his handsome features, that sharp jawline, those kind eyes, that she had fought against when they had first accidentally run into each other here at the lake.

She had not been able to fight it for long.

“—cannot understand it,” Robert was saying, dragging a worried hand through his hair. “I assumed… I thought you were reading my letters but refusing to answer me.”

“You thought I would—” Amethyst caught herself just in time.

No. No, she was not going to bare her soul to this man, not after offering her heart and receiving nothing in return.

She would not reveal to him just how agonizing it had been, to be in London, wondering what had happened to him, why he did not write.

And it was not as though she could write first—that would have been scandalous.

Not that it wasn’t scandalous, of course, that he had been writing to her.

Day after day, week after week… How many months had it been, when she had given up entirely? She could hardly remember now.

Long ago. She had hardened her heart against Mr. Robert Peterson, and now was not the time to be softening.

Especially when just a single look from the man made her pulse quicken and her knees tremble and that place between her thighs ache.

Amethyst jutted up her chin and interrupted the man’s meanderings. “The point is, I never received a single note.”

She had hoped that would be the end of it, but the duke looked up at her with a bleak expression. “So you thought I no longer cared for you? That my affection for you had altered?”

Mouth going dry, hoping to goodness the man could not hear the rapid thumping of her heart, Amethyst attempted to say, “Of course! And I was glad, glad that I had no longer to waste any time on you. Thank you for making it so clear that you had no real intentions toward me, and I hope to never encounter you on de Petras land again!”

What she actually said was, “Hadn’t it?”

Foolish, foolish , Amethyst scolded herself—but then, she had always been one to reveal far too much.

Was that not how it had all started between them?

After hiding her ankles from paddling in the lake, Amethyst had blurted out how lonely, how isolated she had felt in a family that was hers but not quite her own, and this man…

This duke had listened. Oh, was there a more attractive quality than a handsome man who actually listened to what one said?

“Amethyst—”

“ Miss de Petras ,” Amethyst said coldly.

Far more coldly than she actually felt. After all, how could she look upon this man and actually want to be distant from him?

For a time… For a short time, she had thought their futures would be entwined.

Like the lake, unchanging and yet fresh every day, their conversations deepened and when he had kissed her—

Do not think about it!

“Miss de Petras,” the duke said quietly, that damned smile of his melting her heart despite her best efforts. “I have loved you from that day when you told me—”

“I know what I said!” Bother, her cheeks were burning. They had to have been scarlet.

“You told me that you did not long to see the world, you longed to be the world,” the irritating man continued in a low voice. “Be the world to someone, and I knew in that moment—”

“Don’t you dare,” Amethyst warned in a dark tone.

The duke did not listen. “I knew in that moment that you were my world, and nothing— nothing , Amethyst—would ever change that. Not you going away—”

“I had to return to London. My Aunt Opal, I live on their charity—”

“—not you ignoring my letters—”

“I told you, I never received them!” Amethyst said hotly.

That stopped him in his tracks, his brow furrowed. “That what in God’s name happened to them?”

Somehow, Amethyst had neither noticed when nor how, they had started to walk sedately around the lake, their footsteps returning to a path well-trodden by generations, but most recently—two years ago—by themselves.

There was a strange familiarity to the pattern, even though she and the de Petras family had not returned last summer.

Much against her wishes.

“You… You do not think…” The duke cleared his throat.

The noise attracted her attention against her will, and once looking at him, Amethyst found it rather difficult to look away.

After all, she had dreamed of the man for four and twenty months.

She had longed for his touch, to see his face, to hear his laughter.

She had desperately wanted to be this close to him, to luxuriate in his presence, just like—like the lake.

Something to step into and be utterly surrounded by.

She could not help it. “Think what?”

“Well.” His hands tightened into fists before he loosened them, then tightened them again. “You do not think that a member of your family took the letters, do you? Hid them, I mean?”

Amethyst’s mind whirled back to the house, where her four cousins, their spouses, their children, and her aunt and uncle were presumably drinking lemonade, sleeping in the hot afternoon sun, or perhaps burning the house down to the ground, if her three youngest and most rambunctious nephews had anything to do with it.

Was it possible… Could it be that the people she loved the most, those who had taken her in when orphaned, who had made space for her not only in their lives, but also in their hearts, would betray her like this?

“No,” Amethyst said quietly, and she knew the truth of it the moment she’d spoken the syllable. “No, they would not.”

“I did not think so. I hated to even suggest it—but I did write those letters, Amethyst,” the duke said urgently, and with such warmth that she could not help but permit the familiarity. “I promise you.”

“I promise you.”

That was what he had said, the last time they had walked together around this lake. Amethyst shuddered as the memory of it, so potent, roared through her.

“I promise you, Amethyst,” the duke had said, when he had been only a Mr., the son of a baronet whose ill health had worried his only child for many years.

“I promise you that I will ask you an important question the next time I see you. it is a question that I hope you will offer in the affirmative, but you must not consider yourself bound to—”

“Oh, but I am. I am bound to you.” That had been the reply she had given, and Amethyst could still recall the flush that had singed her cheeks as she had taken the man’s hands in hers.

The man she loved. “I am bound to you, Robert Peterson, far greater than any other vows could make me. You will come to London.”

“I may not be able to make the journey.”

“You will come to London,” Amethyst had repeated, and she could remember that teasing smile she had attempted. “It is a statement, my love, not a question. You will come to London, and you will ask me that…that important question. And I will say yes .”

That had been then.

This was now: Amethyst, burning cheeks and bitter heart, walking alongside the man who had not come to London nor asked her anything of the sort.

Not asked her the question that she had been certain would come.

“So where did they go?”

Amethyst blinked, lost in memories and painful thought. “‘Go’?”

“The letters. My letters to you,” the duke said quietly, halting and turning to look out across the shimmering waters. “They could not have vanished into thin air, and if we are certain that none of your family apprehended them…”

Do not , Amethyst told herself sternly, feel warm when the man says ‘we.’ Do not think about a future together. Would he not have proposed the moment he had seen her if he truly wished to marry her?

Would he have not traveled to London? Yes, his family was poor—had been poor, but if the duchy had come with a fortune…and had he not been the Duke of Thraxley for months? Had he not sufficient opportunity to seek her out, discover if she was still unmarried, and then take her in his arms and—

“What do you think?” the duke asked, turning to her.

Amethyst swallowed. Precisely what she was thinking in this moment was not something that she wished to divulge. “I…I do not know what to think.”

That, at least, was the truth.

Oh, it was so strange, being here with him again. Every nerve in her cried out to run, to protect herself, to protect the heart that he’d already broken…but so much more of her was crying out that this was their chance to be together.

If he even wanted her still.

“I…I came to London,” he said.

Amethyst almost slipped into the lake—would have done, if a swift and strong hand had not lunged out and caught her arm.

“Amethyst!”

The strong hand pulled her to safety, but it was the safety of his arms and Amethyst’s head swam with the sudden movement.

It was not, she told herself as she stared up into the duke’s eyes, because she was in the arms of the man she loved.

It was not because it was dizzying to be standing in his arms, his strength intoxicating and his scent delicious.

It was not because her breasts were pushed up against his chest, her panting breaths from the shock of almost falling reminding her just how good, how delicious it was to be so close to him.

It was because she had almost fallen into the lake. That was all.

The duke’s sparkling eyes held a bit too much mischief. “Careful. You’ll fall.”

Amethyst swallowed. Oh, bother.

“You came to London,” she breathed, unable to forget the statement that had caused her sudden slip.

The duke nodded, his lips coming painfully close to hers and yet not close enough. “Three months after my father died. The estate was settled, the will executed, and I…I knew then that I had more to offer you.”

That had been…what, five months ago? Amethyst tried desperately not to care that he had come to London, that he had still wished to see her after all that time. Five months ago. Five months ago, he had still cared for her.

“You didn’t visit,” she whispered, wishing her voice was stronger.

The duke shook his head, his gaze flickering to her lips as his arms held her in his embrace.

“No. No, I…I didn’t know how to—it felt wrong.

I hadn’t heard from you, so I was certain I would not be welcomed.

And our meeting after that was to be at a place we had never been together, telling you that I still—but here. Here it feels right.”

By their lake.

How many hours had they spent here? Those two months that the de Petras family had summered at Cabochon House, most of it, from what Amethyst could recall, had been spent here with him.

And now he was here, and she was here, and she was in his arms—and he had promised her he would ask her a question.

“It feels good.”

Heat flushed Amethyst’s cheeks. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

“Being here. With you.” The duke’s smile was faint. “It’s been a strange few months.”

“Lonely. I suppose,” was all that she could say.

Oh, he was going to kiss her. He was going to kiss her, and she would kiss him back because how could she not? And then he was going to ask her to marry him and—

“Well, yes. But not as lonely as it could have been,” the duke said lightly with a shrug. “I have had the Duchess of Thraxley, after all.”