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K ynthea walked slowly out of the tack room. Her body was steady, but inside every part of her was shaking. In the space of five minutes, she’d gone from the heights of delight to the cruelest pain she’d ever felt.

And what a ridiculous statement that was, she admonished herself. She had felt aching grief—still did—whenever she thought about her parents. A man could not compare to the loss of her parents. Especially a man she’d known only a very short time.

It was the depth and speed of the fall that so shocked her. She’d had a few days to prepare for her parents’ deaths. This swing had happened in minutes. And it had shattered everything inside her.

She found a bench to sit upon. It was a lovely place amid the flowers. Even the sun shone on her face if she tilted her head just right.

These feelings inside her were her own fault.

She’d known from the beginning that a duke could not love her.

She’d known that anything they did together was just a dalliance.

And yet she’d allowed it. She’d wanted it.

Whenever he was near, her body overcame her reason.

And when he touched her… Well, there was no space for clear thinking.

She doubted she would have stopped him if he’d tried to take her maidenhead.

And that made her ten thousand times a fool.

It was time for her to grow up. Only silly girls dreamed at night about a duke. Romantics spoke of love. She could not afford to be either. She had days at most before she would be out on the street. It was time for her to think of a solution other than the perfidious duke.

She wiped her tears away and stared hard at a sunlit weed.

That was her, she decided. Somewhere else, she might be a prized plant.

But here, she was an outcast, soon to be uprooted and tossed aside to die.

But she was hardy, and she refused to go quietly.

She’d heard of weeds that came back year after year, growing in the sunlight despite everything a gardener did to keep them out.

She was not going to Spain or Russia. That was a death sentence.

She could not go back to Cornwall. Too many people knew of her, and it would be a miserable life.

Excited by fantasies of the duke, she’d imagined being his mistress.

No matter what she’d said to him—or herself—she now knew that her heart had always been planning to be his.

Why else would she have gone so blithely into the tack room?

Because she loved him. And that was a stupid, ridiculous, idiotic thing to do.

She couldn’t be his mistress now. Even if he wanted her—which he clearly did not—her stupid heart couldn’t take it. She wanted more with him, and since he could not give it…well, she would have to look elsewhere.

But could she do that with someone else? She’d thought so, but now that she’d tasted physical intimacy, the thought of doing that with anyone else made her physically ill. Damn it, she hadn’t known what it felt like. If she’d never experienced what they’d done, then maybe…

But she had and she did and now…

What was she going to do?

She heard voices coming up the walk. Women’s voices, laughing as they carried food toward the kitchen. The housekeeper and the cook, perhaps, back from shopping. She smiled at them, trying to be friendly and because she desperately needed a friend right then.

They saw her, of course. They had to walk right by her. But once they realized who it was, they gave her their back. One whispered comment between the two of them, and they turned in unison, walking steadily to the servant’s entrance.

That was a shock. She’d never been given the cut direct by the haut ton.

At least not yet. She knew that servants had their own, even stricter codes of acceptance.

It was no surprise that the staff at a ducal residence would be stiffly correct.

But to be cut by a servant when she was a guest in the duke’s home?

Good God, she’d fallen far. And she feared that she hadn’t hit bottom yet.

She swallowed, her gaze falling back on the sunlit weed. She wondered how many servants had trampled it, and yet it still grew. How many souls cast it ugly looks, and yet it still absorbed sunlight and proudly displayed its leaves.

If she were in charge of this household, she would end such uncharitable attitudes. She would, of course, teach Zoe how to handle such things, but the girl was sixteen. She was in no way prepared to handle a ducal household.

Oh, the things she could do if only she were given the chance. But that was not to be. And yet somehow, some way, she would survive.

First things first, she needed money. After all, she hadn’t forgotten that her brother was due back in a few months. She had learned from Madame Ille that virginity was highly prized. So highly, in fact, that it might cover her expenses for as much as a year.

She could do that, right? She could sell her virginity. Indeed, what other choice did she have? The question was…to whom?

Only one man came to mind. It was, of course, the one man she’d been thinking of since this whole debacle had begun. He wasn’t opposed to the idea, she was sure of that. She just needed to make him pay for it.

And she needed to be sure her heart did not get broken in the process. Or more broken.