She wasn’t her mother, however. Names notwithstanding.

And yes, it was hot here on the tiled edge, no wind reaching this part of the garden thanks to the high brick wall that encircled the geometric layout of flower beds and pathways. Birds chirped from the blooming fruit trees, and up above, on the currents of what appeared to be a gathering storm, a hawk sailed around, no doubt looking for a spot of dinner.

Amelia was at Chesterfield Markum’s house … or so Mr. Harris had informed Gin prior to the visitation. And that was fine enough. There was no one here to see, really, and Field and Amelia had been friends since they had been in diapers. Nothing romantic or sexual there.

A professor. God, Gin found the expulsion debacle at once wholly believable and totally inconceivable. Then again, she didn’t really know her daughter very well at all—which was probably the why of the liaison, wasn’t it. Or maybe she gave herself and her absenteeism too much credit: her own parents might not have been big players in her life day to day, but she’d had Miss Aurora.

And yet look at how well she had turned out.

Feeling faint, Gin removed her cropped jacket, but left her Hermès scarf in place. She was of half a mind to jump in the pool with her clothes on—and in an earlier incarnation of her rebellious self, she would have. Now, she simply didn’t have the energy. Besides … no audience—

“So is the wedding off or just the reception?”

Gin closed her eyes briefly at the sound of that too familiar voice. “Samuel T. I thought you weren’t coming.”

As his footsteps approached from behind her, she refused to look at him or welcome him.

“How could I not pay respects to your family,” he drawled. “Oh, were you speaking of your nuptials?”

There was a shhhhcht sound and then she caught the fragrant scent of tobacco.

“Still with the Cubans,” she muttered as she focused on her feet moving around in the aquamarine water.

“So which is it? The e-mail you sent a mere half hour ago was not specific. It also had two spelling mistakes in it. Do you need me to show you where spell-check is in Outlook?”

“I’m marrying him. But there won’t be a reception.” She waved a hand over her shoulder, indicating the house. “As you see, people have a rather dim view of us at the moment. What’s the saying? Oh, how the mighty have fallen?”

“Ah. Well, I’m sure you’ll find a way to repurpose the funds. Perhaps into some clothes? A little bauble to match your ring—oh, no, that’s Richard’s job, isn’t it, and he’s certainly starting off on the right foot. How much does that sparkler weigh? A pound? Three?”

“Do fuck off, Samuel.”

When he didn’t say anything, she twisted around. He hadn’t left, though. Quite the contrary, he was standing over her, his brows down under his aviators, a straw boater in one of his hands, that cigar in the other.

“What?” she snapped as all he did was continue to stare at her.

He indicated her with the cigar. “What’s that on your arm?” Turning back to the water, she shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s a bruise.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

Next thing she knew, he crouched down beside her and took her wrist in his grip.

“Let go of me!”

“That’s a bruise. What the hell, Gin?”

She yanked herself free and put her jacket back on. “I had a little too much to drink. I bumped into something.”

“Did you. Then why does it look like a man’s handprint?”

“You’re seeing things. It was a doorway.”

“Bullshit.” He pulled her around to him and then looked lower than her face. “What’s under the scarf, Gin.”

“Excuse me?”

“Take off the scarf, Gin. Or I’ll do it for you.”

“You’re finished removing my clothes, Samuel T.” She got to her feet. “And you can leave now. Or I will. Either way, this conversation is—”

“You never wore scarves when I was with you.” He got right up in her face. “What’s going on, Gin?”

“Nothing—”

“I’ll kill him if he lays a hand on you. I’ll fucking kill that bastard.” Abruptly, Samuel T.’s face became a mask of rage, and in that moment, she saw him for the hunter he was: He might have been in one of his patented seersucker suits, and yes, he was handsome as F. Scott Fitzgerald … but there was no doubt in her mind that he was capable of putting Richard Pford, or any other living thing, in an early grave.

But he wouldn’t marry her. She’d already asked him and he’d told her no.

Gin crossed her arms. “He was just trying to keep me from falling.”

“I thought you said it was a doorway.”

“I hit the doorjamb first and then Richard kept me on my feet.” She rolled her eyes. “Do you honestly think I would ever marry someone who was rough with me—when I didn’t deliberately ask him to be?”

In response, Samuel T. just took a puff on that cigar, exhaling off to the side so the smoke didn’t get in her face.

“What,” she snapped. “I hate when you look at me like that. Just say it, whatever it is.”

He took his damn sweet time, and when he finally spoke, his voice seemed falsely level. “Gin, you’re not in as desperate a situation as you think. This financial stuff—it’ll work itself out. People will keep buying that bourbon, and your family will rebound. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Richard can afford me.” She shrugged. “And that makes him valuable whether my family has money or not.”

Samuel T. shook his head like the thing hurt. “At least you’re not even trying to pretend you love him.”

“Marriages have been built on far less. In fact, there is a grand tradition of marrying well in my family. And not to doctors … or lawyers. To real money.”

“I should have known that was coming.” With a curse, he smiled coldly. “And you never disappoint me. Have fun with your man, especially when you’re lying back and thinking of England. Or is it Bergdorf’s?”

She lifted her chin. “He treats me beautifully, you know.”

“You’ve clearly picked a winner.” He muttered something under his breath. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. My condolences on the loss of your father.”