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“I am blessed with unfortunate cheekbones. They rest in a smile.”

At that moment, the butler cleared his throat in the doorway. “My lord, Lords Rotham and Montford and Major Stuart have arrived.”

“Oh, splendid,” Freddy muttered. “Let us make this a tribunal.”

Westwood pinched the bridge of his nose.

Moments later, Rotham strode in with the easy confidence of a man who would one day be a duke. Montford followed, looking faintly concerned as always, and Stuart brought up the rear with his military bearing.

“Good God,” Rotham said, taking in Freddy’s expression. “Who died?”

“Apparently, Joy’s reputation,” Freddy replied. “And I was the assassin.”

“Oh, the race,” Rotham said, sinking into a chair. “I heard about the bets made. You took Rotten Row by storm.”

“Gentlemen, I called you here because I find myself in a rather untenable position.” Westwood snapped.

“Yes,” Montford said gravely. “You are the guardian of a creature forged of wind and rebellion.”

“And kittens,” Freddy added.

Westwood growled. He turned to the others. “Her antics are growing wilder. One cannot help but fear what may come next. And now— now —I shall have to increase her dowry .”

Freddy’s head jerked up. “Wait, why?”

“Because gentlemen do not queue up to marry wild mares, that is why! She is beautiful, yes, but she is also untamed. Half the ton thinks she is a scandal waiting to happen. The other half thinks she already has .”

Freddy coughed delicately. “You say that as if it is a flaw.”

Westwood ignored him. “If I am to secure a match befitting her name and station, I must make it worth the gentleman’s while.”

“She does not need a poor gentleman,” Freddy said before he could stop himself. “She needs a gentleman who actually accepts her.”

Westwood’s eyebrows shot up. “We are not discussing a governess or a lapdog! This is Society, Cunningham.”

“Forgive me,” Freddy said dryly. “I had quite forgotten we are all pawns in a particularly tedious chess game…except all four of you. You were the exception.”

Rotham stirred. “Joy is not the sort of girl to be bartered off with a purse and a curtsy. You increase her dowry and she will know it. And then God help the poor devil she is forced to wed.”

Montford crossed his boots. “She will make her husband’s life hell—if she marries at all, which I doubt.”

“It is hard to imagine Joy married,” Stuart mused aloud. “Her intended must agree to raise racehorses, adopt stray cats, and allow her to live in the stables.”

Freddy found himself oddly defensive. “She is not so wild. Not really. She is simply honest about what she likes, which is more than can be said for most young ladies.”

Westwood rounded on him. “You sound suspiciously admiring.”

“I do admire her,” Freddy said, folding his arms. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“No,” said Westwood and Montford simultaneously.

“She is more admired by coachmen and stable lads than Society’s matrons,” Rotham added, but with a glint in his eyes that suggested he admired her too, in his own way.

“She needs reining in,” Westwood declared. “I cannot spend my nights wondering if she has climbed onto a roof or challenged someone to fisticuffs. There must be boundaries.”

“Then set them,” Freddy said, “but don’t try to remake her. There is nothing wrong with her, Westwood. She is just not what you expected.”

There was a pause.

“She will never marry if she keeps on in this manner,” Westwood said finally. “And she will be miserable.”

Freddy leaned back. “Or she will find someone who doesn’t mind that she is herself.”

“Or be a spinster.”

“There are worse things,” Freddy said lightly. The others chuckled.

“You seem particularly invested in her future, Cunningham,” Rotham observed, tilting his head.

Freddy feigned ignorance. “Do I?”

“Yes,” Montford said. “You do.”

“I am fond of her,” Freddy admitted. “In the way one is fond of an unruly hound or a childhood friend who always stole the last biscuit. She is…Joy.”

“That she is,” Stuart murmured. “But she cannot stay that way forever. Society does not forgive eccentricity in unmarried women, only in wealthy men.”

“And poets,” added Montford.

“Which is why I should increase the dowry,” Westwood said, with a sigh. “Do you suppose twenty-five thousand pounds should do the trick?”

There was a collective murmur. Even Freddy blinked.

“Well,” Rotham said, “that ought to fetch a few offers.”

“Yes,” Freddy said quietly, “but from the wrong sort of men.”

“Joy is an original. Such damsels have succeeded in the past,” Rotham recalled.

Westwood did not answer. He walked to the window and looked out over the street. “She deserves better than ridicule. And she deserves better than scandal. I may not know how to help her, but I must try something before she becomes…ruined.”

Freddy glanced down at his hands, now clenched on the arms of his chair. He had known, of course, that Joy was a complication. But he had not realized until now how keenly he disliked the idea of her being married off to someone who viewed her as a burden to be endured or reshaped.

“She will not be ruined,” he said. “Not while we are about.”

“Indeed not,” Rotham agreed. “So long as we are careful. And so long as no one tempts her further?—”

He stopped, giving Freddy a scolding look.

“I did not tempt her,” Freddy said slightly too quickly.

“Mm,” said Montford.

“Of course not,” said Stuart.

“Perhaps you are the one who should be courting her. It would solve all your problems,” Rotham added.

Freddy stood. “If we are quite done with casting aspersions upon my problems, I shall go and walk off this shame.”

Freddy left his own breakfast room with a frown that did not lift until he was halfway down Park Lane and the breeze caught the edge of his coat.

Joy. Racing down Rotten Row like a Valkyrie, hair streaming, laughter echoing behind her.

He was not courting her. He was merely watching her—and wondering what it would take to find a world large enough for her to belong in, without apology. The worst thing in the world he could imagine was Joy being reformed into a stodgy Society matron. He could not let that happen.