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T he Taverstons never stopped moving—in several different directions all at once.

It amused Crispin to witness the bustle.

To take part in the bustle. Over the next four days, he never found himself alone for long.

He and Jasper started out each morning with a brisk ride in Hyde Park.

He had a long conversation with Benjamin about his investments and the renovations at the Binnings cottage.

Reg and Georgiana took him to a scientific lecture that he pretended not to understand, just for the pleasure of hearing Georgiana explain it.

Olivia asked him to come with her and Hannah to feed the ducks in Green Park.

He escorted his mother shopping. He was growing quite competent at holding babies, even crying ones, when the whole family gathered for tea.

It soothed his soul.

It was also his excuse. He had not yet paid a call on Camellia.

Camellia —she was no longer Miss Harrington, and he could not bring himself to think of her as Lady Bodwell.

He knew he should go to offer his condolences, out of respect for the colonel, at least. But what could he say to her?

What could he say that would sound sincere?

He pitied her, but when he searched his heart, he was still angry.

She had used him for some purpose he could not begin to fathom.

She’d believed him to be so dishonorable that he could deflower her and not care.

She mocked his bedsport. She spurned his offer of marriage.

She’d hurt him. It angered and embarrassed him to admit it, but he’d been hurt.

That morning, because of poor weather, Jasper had cut short their ride. Crispin taunted him over it. London’s misty excuse for rain was nothing. This was the closest he’d come to referring to events at Waterloo. The weather. He was starting small.

Jasper had gone to change his clothes, but Crispin went straight to the kitchen to ask Cook to prepare a half-dozen boiled eggs and a bowl of oat porridge.

Then he went to the morning room. This room had always seemed to him too formal for its intended use.

The floor was nearly black, and the walls were papered in dark blue with small golden-yellow curlicues.

It took the sunny presence of his family to brighten the place.

Nevertheless, Crispin was not going to wait for someone to join him.

He was hungry and didn’t want to watch Jasper, or anyone else, eating the tempting things he could not.

He had just sat down with his newspaper and tea when Vanessa marched into the room, boots clicking on the wood floor.

She had a strange look on her face. Concern and annoyance.

He hoped she wasn’t going to ask him again if he wanted to “talk.” She came up beside him and hovered.

Without so much as a good morning , she launched into what was bothering her.

“Your mother is trying to convince Jasper to hold a ball.”

“A ball?” He watched her tuck an errant lock of dark hair behind her ear. “Why would he do that? The Season is over.”

“Think, Crispin.” She huffed. “Why would your mother want to throw a welcome home ball for you?”

A ball for him? “Lud.” He groaned. “She wants to marry me off.”

With a short laugh, she said, “Now you know how debutantes feel.”

The thought of being swarmed by silly, young, unmarried misses gave him the shudders. “Tell Jasper no.”

“I have been, but he is folding under pressure. Your mother is very persuasive. I see now where you get it from.”

He tried to grin at her but couldn’t. “All right. Thank you for the warning. I’ll talk to her.”

Vanessa wasn’t finished. She studied him a few moments. “She isn’t entirely wrong, you know. You might start thinking about—”

“About saddling some poor chit with my sickly self?” He scowled. “Vanessa, if you are going to share breakfast with me, change the subject.”

She pursed her lips, then sat down beside him. “All right. Did you know Alice is with child?” She waved a hand at him. “Don’t give me that I’m-so-sorry look. I am thrilled for her and even more so for Hazard. Now tell me your plans for the day so I know when I should serve tea.”

She obviously didn’t want to talk about her misfortune any more than he wanted to talk about the war.

“This morning, I’m strolling over to Albany to pull the dustcovers off the furniture. I need to decide if I should keep the set or just let the lease go. It’s more convenient to stay here when I’m in London. Unless Jasper objects.”

Little inconsequential decisions. He hoped his life from now on would consist of such.

“You know he won’t object. He’d be delighted.”

“Ah, but since I haven’t ruled out the set, I’ve scheduled interviews with a couple of cooks.

The agency is sending them over this afternoon.

” He pinched his lip. “I know what I need, someone who will put up with my persnickety requirements and not mix flour and cream into my food, thinking I won’t be able to tell.

But I’ve only ever hired a valet. If you are available, I could use your input. ”

She squeezed his arm and smiled. “ I would be delighted. Do you have their names? References to go over?”

He looked at her blankly. “Should I?”

Vanessa laughed. “My word. You do need help.”

*

To Crispin’s surprise, the first decision came easily.

He found he felt rather attached to his apartment.

Surveying the nearly empty shelves of his library, he had an urge to fill them.

His own books. His own space. He wouldn’t mind a little privacy.

His siblings had detached themselves from Jasper’s coattails.

He should as well. And it was likely true that when none of his family were in London, he would feel less lonely here than wandering the empty rooms of 8 Grosvenor Square.

Crispin cast another look around his library. He might change some of the furnishings. The previous owner had been elderly and must have been short. If this was going to be his London home, he should at least have a desk chair better suited to his height.

He moved to his parlor and examined the walls, which were covered with a large expanse of green-and-yellow floral paper.

A few paintings would be nice to break that up.

He sat down in his most comfortable chair to take a mental inventory.

There were heavy brass trimmings on the mahogany side tables.

Very staid. If he removed two of the four tables, could he fit a pianoforte?

But he’d already bought one for Binnings.

Binnings. Autumn was a good time to be at the lake. He could stable Mercury there. Perhaps add another horse or two. Maybe a broodmare—that was something to consider, wasn’t it? A few broodmares. Ah! He was waking up to the possibilities of civilian life. And his family could come visit him .

As Crispin rested back in his chair, letting his mind wander far afield, he grew aware of someone knocking on his door.

Who would come calling? He should have brought Gerald.

An earl’s brother shouldn’t be serving as his own porter.

He couldn’t very well announce to an unwanted visitor that he wasn’t at home.

He roused himself, went to the entry hall, and pulled open the door.

Unbelievably, there, on his doorstep, bathed in sunshine, stood Camellia. His pulse quickened. She was draped in black, like a medieval nun, just as she’d been the first time he’d seen her, with that uncanny tuft of white hair slipping out from under her bonnet. Still beguiling.

And still mad. She must be mad. To come here alone? Why in God’s name…was she going to attempt to seduce him again? He felt a surge of desire. An unwanted response to the unlikely possibility.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice rasped as though he’d stuffed his mouth with gravel.

She stared at him, but said nothing. That was how she had played it the first time, slipping soundlessly into his bedchamber.

“How did you know I was here?” he demanded. Was she following him about? Spying?

“I-I took a chance. You were not at home yesterday, so I thought perhaps you would be today.”

She didn’t know he had been staying at his brother’s. How unfortunate she had come to Albany at a time when he happened to be there.

“Well, don’t stand on my doorstep. I don’t want it spread about I have widows calling on me. They will line up around the block.”

After she stepped inside, he closed the door, turned his back on her, and walked to the parlor, chased by a faint scent of lilacs.

He heard hesitant footsteps, as though she were peering about to ascertain if they were alone.

For a minute, he considered leading her to his bedchamber.

Just to make her uncomfortable. What was wrong with him?

She was not the enemy; there was no reason to be cruel.

Except that she had caught him off-guard. An unpardonable offense. She always caught him off-guard. He had intended to call upon her . That was the acceptable way of doing things. Why must she always choose the unacceptable?

In the parlor, he gestured to the couch, a comfortable couch with deep cushions and rolled arms. It looked designed for trysting. At least, it did now. He’d never thought that before. “Have a seat, Camellia.”

She scowled at him. “Thank you, Crispin .” She said it sourly.

Not as though they were friends, but rather acknowledging that they were purposefully disrespecting one another.

She stepped to the couch and sat. Black crepe billowed around her.

She looked very small. Small and sad. Small and sad and determined.

“I should offer my condolences,” he said, forcing the words from his mouth. “You’ve suffered loss, and I am sorry for you. You know how much I admired the colonel.”

She nodded and murmured, “Thank you.”