But even more important was what he would give Elinor. The freedom from worrying about her baby sister.

It was a small enough sacrifice after all Nell had done for her. And it wasn’t as if she’d had any choice. Charles Reading had never said or done anything to suggest she was of any importance to him. She only knew that he was beautiful and scarred and that she was no possible mate for someone in need of an heiress. She’d seen him only a few times, and for some reason when it came to him her instincts failed. She couldn’t read anything in his stormy gaze, in his polite behavior. Not admiration or desire or even regret. And she was mad to dream about anything else.

Etienne had been the one to bring her out here, when she’d been secretly hoping Charles Reading would appear by the carriage, and he’d come to visit each day, drinking tea and giving her such long accounts of all the ways Viscount Rohan had robbed him of his birthright that Lydia ought to be outraged at the injustice of it all. Lydia had listened to the repeated litany of offenses and murmured all the right things, and Etienne had slowly begun to calm himself and even preen a bit.

And surely that was a good role for a woman in life. He was a doctor, a man given to helping people. And she could help him, by soothing him, bolstering him, tending to his feelings of ill usage and resentment.

It just wasn’t what she wanted.

But what she wanted didn’t matter. At least, not to her. She’d never been able to do much for Elinor, to help shoulder the burden of living with Lady Caroline, and for all Elinor’s efforts their mother only had eyes for Lydia. She could only assume her dislike for Elinor’s father had been passed on to his daughter, but it was cruel and wicked and Lydia had hated her for it.

Now she could finally pay her sister back, just a little. How could she possibly resent such a choice?

She’d left her bedroom door ajar. Mrs. Clarke poked her head in, her plain face smiling. “You’ve got a visitor, dearie.”

Lydia rose. Etienne again. He’d said he wouldn’t be able to come today, announcing it with the air of a great treat to be denied her. She’d said all the right things, of course. She knew her duty, she owed it to Elinor. She smoothed the front of her dress, one of the pretty ones that Rohan had provided, put the perfect smile on her face and followed Mrs. Clarke down the broad staircase of the château with its odd architecture.

It was bisected—one half was kept locked, and Mrs. Clarke warned her against wandering into those parts. Her imagination had gone wild, and she’d tried to peek through windows when she’d walked out on the grounds, but it all looked distressingly normal. A little ornate and ostentatious, unlike the comfortable quarters of the rest of the house, including her bedroom.

“He’s in the library, miss,” Mrs. Clarke said, barely concealing her smile. Lydia paused by the door, just for a moment to remind herself why she was doing this. Clearly Mrs. Clarke approved, though she hadn’t seemed to have much of an opinion of Etienne before, and Etienne treated the housekeeper like a peasant. But if Mrs. Clarke had decided she liked him then clearly there was more to Etienne than Lydia had at first imagined.

She pushed open the door, breezing through. “Etienne, I had no idea you’d be able to make it today…” Her words trailed off, and Charles Reading turned to look at her, and she froze where she was halfway across the room.

“I’m sorry, I’m not Etienne,” he said, his rueful smile twisting his face.

Oh, merciful heavens, she thought, swallowing. How was she going to get through this? If she was just assured that she’d never have to see Charles Reading again, never be alone with him, never look into his dark, unreadable eyes, then she might be able to do what she needed to do.

“Why…why are you here?” she stammered. “I’m sorry, that’s unforgivably rude. It’s just I was so surprised. May I have Mrs. Clarke bring you some tea? You’ve had a long ride. Perhaps something to eat? It’s no trouble, I assure you, I can just…”

While she nattered on he crossed the room to her, taking her hand. “Hush,” he said. “Hush, Lydia.”

She stared up at him, and a sudden dread filled her. For him to have used her name meant dire things were afoot. “Has something happened to Elinor? Is she all right?”

“She’s fine. Rohan says she may leave, and I thought I would see if you wanted to return to Paris.”

“He’s letting her go?” The panic did a quick dip into pain. Elinor loved him. Lydia knew it as well as she knew her own heart, hopeless as it was. She’d hoped for some kind of happiness for one of them. If he was letting her go then that hope was dashed.

“He is.”

She suddenly realized he was still holding her hand in his gloved one. She pulled it away quickly. “And where will we go?”

“He’s an honorable man…”

“Lord Rohan?” Lydia said, walking away from him. Her earlier approval had vanished with his release of Elinor. Clearly she’d mistaken his interest. “I take leave to doubt that.”

“He has an honor of his own. He’ll see to it that she has enough money to return to England and live there.”

“That’s a high price for a short-term whore,” she said bitterly.

“You shouldn’t call your sister names.”

“It’s not my sister’s fault. And you, you’re part and parcel of this. Did you take your turn at her as well?”

The ice had built up in his eyes again, and his expression was blank. “Hardly,” he said.

“Oh, that’s right, the Revels were in full swing. You probably had half a dozen other women to service.”

He looked at her long and hard, and then a light came into his eyes. “No,” he said simply.

“No? Don’t tell me you’ve reformed?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. But I lost interest in whores long ago, I’m afraid.”

“How noble.” She didn’t know her voice could sound so harsh. “And what do you do instead?”

“Fall in love with unsuitable young ladies.”

That silenced her for a moment. And then she rallied. “How many?”

“How many what?”

“Unsuitable young ladies have you fallen in love with?”

“Only one.”

She was halfway across the room from him, the settee in between them. She liked it that way; he wouldn’t see that her knees were trembling. “And what do you intend to do about it?”

He turned, so she could see only the ruined side of his face. He did so deliberately, the foolish man, not realizing that she loved both halves of him. The whole of him. “I thought I’d be stupid enough to see if she would marry me anyway, instead of the wealthy doctor and heir to a title. She’d be a fool to do so, and I don’t think she’s a fool, but something Francis said convinced me that I couldn’t possibly be as stupid as he’s planning to be and turn my back on my heart’s desire.”

She took a deep breath. “So we’ve established that she’d be a fool to have you, and you’d be a fool not to have her. How in the world do you reconcile such a dilemma?” She kept her face sober and concerned, while inside her heart was singing.

“I would think I’d have to ask her, just to make certain I’d done everything I could. But I’d warn her. I have no money, no prospects, an exceedingly ugly face, and my dearest friend is the King of Hell.”

“You think that would stop her?”

“I have no idea. Would it, Lydia?”

She looked into his eyes, the eyes she could never read, and shock washed over her. Of course she hadn’t been able to read the look in his eyes. She was used to admiration, lust, flirtation, acquisitiveness. She’d simply never seen love before.

“Nothing would stop her, if she loved you,” she said. “And she does, Charles. She loves your pretty face and your scarred face. She loves your past and your present and she most especially loves your future. Just ask.”

“Marry me, Lydia.”

Nanny Maude would have been most distressed. Lydia leaped over the low-backed settee and threw herself at him. He caught her, quite handily, and kissed her, more thoroughly than she’d ever been kissed, with such tender longing that she wanted to weep. When he lifted his head to look down into her eyes she knew they were swimming with tears.

“I’m sorry I’m fool enough to want you, dearest,” she said, looking up at him. “But since you’ve suddenly become so wise you’ll have to instruct me.”

He kissed her again, and no instruction was needed.

Her cousin’s carriage was warm and well-sprung, though a far cry from the elegance of Rohan’s equipage. The coach took off immediately once they were inside, and within moments they were far away from Maison de Giverney. Away from Rohan, with his cold, cold words.

She still felt numb inside. She sat back in the corner, the cloak pulled tight around her, pain and sorrow threading through her body. She sat silent, lost, until she saw that they were following the river, the wrong way to the château.

“Where are we going? You said you’d take me to Lydia,” she said sharply. If one more man betrayed her—

“My dear cousin,” he said smoothly, “I told you I had much to report. Your dear sister is fine, staying with her fiancé, Etienne de Giverney. You needn’t worry, there are proper chaperones, and they’re planning a small wedding as soon as they can manage it. She sends you her love, and tells you not to worry about her.”

“She’s going to marry Etienne?” Elinor said, doubtful. It had seemed the best solution, but she remembered Lydia’s wailing confession that she loved Charles Reading. Something had brought her to her senses—love was a trick, a trap, an illusion. Etienne would take care of her—there was no need for this sudden apprehension.

“Apparently he’s been visiting her out at the château every day, pressing his suit, and she finally agreed. It’s just as well he took her from under Rohan’s roof, don’t you agree?”