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If only she could return to her guardian’s country estate, where the world was quiet, and her responsibilities did not include feigning perfect health for the benefit of prying eyes. Perhaps her family would grant her leave if she pleaded her case, though she dreaded their disappointment.

At length, she composed herself and rose.

Gathering her courage, she made her way back along the path to rejoin Lady Maeve, who was still in conversation.

The Dowager glanced at Joy’s face and gave a slight frown, but said nothing.

Perhaps her expression betrayed her distress, or perhaps the older woman simply wished to reprimand them both for wandering.

Either way, Joy resolved to endure with what grace she could muster.

“You look tired.” Lady Maeve cast a concerned glance at Joy. “Shall we return to the carriage?”

“Yes,” Joy said quietly. “I should like that.”

And so they moved on, the city’s bustling noise reasserting itself the moment they passed the park’s grand gates.

Another day in London, another round of constraints and carefully composed smiles.

Yet, pressed against Joy’s side, the book of poetry served as a small, comforting reminder of a world beyond the glare and hustle—a world of verse and longing, where perhaps she could escape.

If only her eyes and her courage would hold out a little longer so the pleasure of the written word would not be lost to her.

Freddy reflected that he had been blessed indeed when it came to his family.

His father, Viscount Gresham, was more of an amiable country squire than a London lord.

He rarely fussed at anyone so long as they stayed out of trouble, preferring his kennel of hounds and his wide expanse of fields to the glitter of Society.

His mother, Lady Gresham, was still considered a very handsome woman—so much so that, in her youth, she had been courted by dukes, marquesses, and earls.

Yet she had fallen in love with the then Mr. Cunningham instead, and from all Freddy could see, she was perfectly content with her choice, embracing her role as wife, mother, and a leading figure in local church charities, though she did enjoy the Season in Town.

Freddy’s sister, Vivienne, had likewise enjoyed good fortune.

She had made a good match with Lord Montford, the heir to an earldom and one of Freddy’s closest friends.

Their marriage was a happy one, despite Vivienne having been expected to marry Lord Rotham from birth.

Freddy had often marvelled at how seamlessly that union had come about with little effort on his part.

He’d resumed his carefree life in London, albeit seeking out entertainments with those he had less acquaintance with since his friends had all wed.

With such idyll, Freddy had never anticipated any severe blow from his easy-going relations.

Therefore, when the summons arrived before he had breakfasted, he was wholly unprepared for the conversation that would follow.

It was only a single note, penned in his mother’s flowing script, but its brevity said much: Come to us at once at Gresham House. Your father and I would have a word.

His parents were in Town? What the devil?

He read it twice before he found himself dressing with care—whatever it was could wait until he was properly rigged—then made his way to the town house his mother inhabited only for the Season.

He arrived to find his parents waiting in the drawing room, both wearing expressions he did not often see—the sort that signalled something truly significant was afoot.

“Has someone died?” he stopped at the threshold and asked before even greeting his beloved parents.

His mother, in a graceful gown of dove-grey silk, was seated upon a settee, hands folded primly in her lap. His father stood by the fireplace, a sheaf of news clippings in one hand. The lines of his usually genial face were set in an expression of stern resolve.

“What kind of greeting is that, son?” his father scolded. Freddy forbade to mention the curt summons he’d received less than an hour ago at an hour when he’d barely raised his head from the pillow. “The Season is set to begin and with it your mother’s annual garden party.”

Freddy supposed the Season had started last night. He closed the door behind him and dipped his head in respectful greeting. “Father, Mother,” he said. “You wished to see me?”

They bade him approach, and as soon as he drew near, his father fanned out the clippings on a nearby table.

Freddy recognized the ink and column headings of certain London newspapers, though he could not read the details from where he stood.

Still, the small glimpses he caught—words like race, Melton, scandal, and opera dancer —were enough to make his stomach twist.

“Freddy,” his mother began, her voice formal, “your father and I have grown concerned about your…activities…of late.”

His father cleared his throat. “The race you participated in near Epsom was not well-received in certain circles,” he stated.

“We gather from this article—” He tapped one of the clippings, “—that you were cutting a swath through Melton as though you fancied yourself some Corinthian daredevil. Now, while I have no objection to sport, you must understand that Society is less tolerant of certain extremes.”

Freddy knew precisely which incident they referred to. He had, along with a few jovial acquaintances, decided to see whose mount could clear the greatest obstacles in a single gallop—fences, hedges, and even the occasional low stone wall. It had been exhilarating at the time.

He attempted a light quip. “But, Father, you have always said that a Cunningham should know how to handle a horse under any circumstance.”

Unfortunately, his humour fell flat. His father frowned, and his mother pressed a hand to her bosom as though she had taken offence.

His father continued, voice grim: “The matter would not be so pressing if it were your only caper, but it seems we have a regular pattern here. Another article mentions an opera dancer —some woman known for her flamboyant costumes. Care to explain?”

Freddy blushed, hardly wishing to expound on such a matter in front of his mother. “She is a friend of a friend,” he prevaricated. “I did attend the performance, but I fail to see how that alone constitutes?—”

His mother cut him off, waving a hand in mild exasperation. “We have been more than patient, allowing you to sow your oats, as it were. But, Freddy, when does it end? We understand you must feel adrift since all of your closest friends have recently married.”

Freddy opened his mouth, then closed it, deciding it was best to remain silent.

His father took a step closer, folding his arms over his broad chest. “It is time to settle yourself, Freddy. We have indulged you, hoping you would take a sensible step on your own, but it has become clear that you need a firmer hand.”

A hush fell over the drawing room, broken only by the sounds from the street outside.

Freddy swallowed hard. This was the confrontation he had scarcely imagined would come.

Yes, he was nearing his thirtieth year, but he had never thought his father would issue such an ultimatum, not when the elder Cunningham had always seemed content with Freddy’s easy-going ways.

His father’s brow furrowed. “Have you nothing to say for yourself? Do you not question why we must take these measures?”

Freddy mustered what dignity he could. “What, precisely, do you wish for me to do?” he asked.

At that, his mother threw up her hands as if in a silent appeal to Heaven.

She rose from her seat and paced a small circle before turning back to him.

“Settling yourself, Frederick,” she declared, “means behaving like an adult, choosing a wife, establishing a household, and attending to your lands and tenants.”

The last phrase caught Freddy off guard. “My lands and tenants?” he repeated carefully. He glanced at his father, whose eyes gleamed with some unspoken plan. “Are you suggesting something is amiss at Gresham Park? Are you ailing, Father? Do you need for me to come home and take the reins?”

To Freddy’s surprise, his father let out a hearty laugh that shook his shoulders.

“Nothing is wrong, son, not a whit. As far as I know, I remain in excellent health, but that does not change the reality that I cannot manage everything forever. And, more importantly, you must think of your future. Our line extends beyond me. You are the next head of the family, and it is time you acted in such a manner.”

His mother added in a softer tone, “We are concerned for your happiness, Freddy. We want to see you established, with a good woman at your side. A man of your station cannot drift aimlessly, nor can he remain a bachelor forever.”

Freddy felt his jaw tighten. Drifting aimlessly .

That was how they perceived him, then. Perhaps there was truth in it, for his days had passed pleasantly enough in a whirl of sporting events, dinners, and mild flirtations.

He had never considered himself irresponsible or reckless, though he now realized that from his parents’ perspective, his escapades might appear exactly so.

“I see.” He swallowed, aware of a dryness in his throat. “And how do you propose we rectify this perceived aimlessness?”

His father’s gaze sharpened. “I shall settle your grandmother’s Kent estate upon you when you marry.

Then you shall take charge of that estate and learn to live off its revenues.

As from six months hence, I will no longer support you in the manner to which you have grown accustomed.

That is a fair amount of time, I believe, for you to choose a wife as the Season is in full swing. ”

Freddy’s stomach dropped. He managed to keep his voice steady, though inside he was reeling. “Six months?”

His mother nodded. “That should bring us just beyond the end of the Season. I shall remain in Town to oversee the details of your engagement, once you declare yourself. You may rely on my assistance in selecting an appropriate match.

Lord Gresham set his hand on the table, palm flat. “By the close of the Season, I shall be looking to return to London for your engagement ball. Am I understood, son?”

Freddy attempted to speak, but the words lodged in his throat. It would not do to argue that he knew many others who behaved with far less circumspection. With some effort, he managed to choke out, “Yes, sir.”

An uncomfortable hush followed. He could tell from his mother’s pinched expression that the matter weighed upon her heart. His father, though gruff, had not made the decision lightly. They genuinely believed this step necessary.

Freddy, on the other hand, felt as though the floor had shifted beneath him.

He had never intentionally avoided matrimony—he merely enjoyed the freedom of his bachelor state, and none of the ladies he had encountered had inspired him to relinquish it.

Indeed, many of his friends had already succumbed to wedded life.

Lord Montford, his own brother-in-law, seemed blissfully content with Vivienne.

Another great friend, Lord Westwood, hailed the transition as the best decision of his life.

Freddy did not begrudge them their happiness.

He simply had never found the impetus to follow suit.

Now, he was being pushed into that very step. Six months , he thought again, the words echoing in his mind. In half a year, he would either be affianced or cut off from the paternal purse. No more comfortable allowances to spend on horses, travel, or the occasional flirtation of any sort.

His father dismissed him with a grave nod. “Off with you, then,” he said, though not unkindly. “Use your time wisely, Freddy. Prove to us that you are capable of managing your life, and I shall happily establish you as master of your own estate.”

Freddy inclined his head in a semblance of deference, murmured farewells to his mother, and exited the drawing room. In a daze, he crossed the threshold into the bright midday sunlight, blinking as though he had woken from a dream.