“Yes. We were to have been married last December.”

“What happened?”

Sophia worried a crease in the tablecloth. “I lied to him, and to all my friends and family, and then I ran away.”

“What dreadful act could Sir Toby have committed, to make you flee your home?”

“No, no,” Sophia said. “Toby was a perfect gentleman. The dreadful acts were all mine, I’m afraid. I can’t regret making the choices that led me to Gray, but I’m still ashamed of how I treated Toby.”

Bel inhaled slowly, absorbing this new information. Sir Toby, once engaged to Sophia! So much for claiming the gentleman’s undivided attention.

Gray swore under his breath. “The man’s an oily bilge rat. He’s angry with me for taking his bride, and now he’s just trying to get back at me by—” He bit off the sentence when Sophia threw him a sharp look.

“By marrying me,” Bel finished for him. “I see. You assume the only reason Sir Toby would propose to me is to get back at you. He couldn’t possibly be interested in me. Is that what you’re implying?”

“Bel, no.” Gray scrubbed his face with his hand. “Of course, any man would be desperate to marry you. But considering past events, and the speed with which he pursued you—”

“But how could he harbor any such scheme?” Bel asked. “Sir Toby didn’t even know my name.”

They both stared at her.

“Is that true?” Sophia asked. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Bel insisted. “When we … left the ballroom together, he had no idea I was Gray’s sister. When I told him my name, he was shocked indeed—and even more surprised that I did not recognize his. He was sure you would have mentioned him to me.”

“I should have,” Sophia said. “I’m so sorry, I should have told you earlier.”

“Don’t apologize,” Gray told his wife. “How could you have predicted last evening’s events?

Normally, there’s time between introductions and betrothal to discuss such things.” He sighed.

“Bel, you must admit, this ‘proposal’ happened with suspicious alacrity.”

“That wasn’t entirely his fault, either. I’m the one who broached the topic of marriage.” Bel pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m not certain what came over me,” she said, too stunned to censor her comments. “One moment, he was a handsome stranger, and the next I was conversing with him as though I’d known him for years. He … he put me so at ease. He made me smile.”

And he’d kissed her. It wasn’t as though she could neglect that bit. She’d lain awake all night, trying to erase the sensation of his lips against hers. Trying to forget the taste of him, so forbidden and sweet.

“Don’t worry,” Gray said. “When the rat comes calling today, I’ll send him scurrying. You’re not going to marry him.”

“But I must,” Bel protested. “Or what will people say?”

“They’ll say you’ve come to your senses, recovered your wits.”

They’ll know I lost them. They’ll see me as another flighty, impressionable girl. Bel said, “I’m going marry Sir Toby.” She turned to Sophia. “What’s past is past. I don’t see why your prior engagement should affect mine. Say what you will, I cannot suspect him of any malicious intent.”

“To be truthful, neither can I,” Sophia said.

While Gray harrumphed and made a show of busying himself with his food, Sophia pushed aside her plate to make room for a stack of newspapers tied with twine.

“You ought to see these,” she told Bel. “I know you do not read The Prattler. I’m not so fond of the scandal sheets as I once was, but Lady Kendall saved these and passed them along to me.” She picked open the knot and opened the top paper to the third page. “There,” she said, pointing out an illustration with her fingertip. “This appeared in February, a full month before we arrived in London and my marriage to Gray was announced.”

Bel took the paper from her sister’s hand to examine it more closely. The image was most definitely a likeness of Sir Toby, though his harmonious features were thrown out of balance by the caricaturist’s pen. His forehead was too wide; his jaw, unnaturally square. Regardless, he remained breathtakingly handsome, even rendered in unkind strokes. Bel read the caption aloud. “The Rake Reborn.” Then beneath it, a line in smaller print:

“London’s famed Lothario survives to carouse another day.” In the background of the illustration, a group of ladies struck desperate postures, hands to their foreheads and shoulders limp. Ribbons of speech flowed from the ladies’ mouths. “It’s his golden-haired beauty,” one sighed. “No, his silver tongue!” argued another. The third fanned herself and declaimed, “How he gives me the vapors! We must recover by the sea.” At the bottom, the caricature was signed, H. M. Hollyhurst.

Bel looked up, puzzled. “Recover by the sea? I don’t understand.”

“When I disappeared, my parents spread the word that I’d taken ill and been sent to the seaside to convalesce. Instead of focusing on the scandal of my disappearance, the gossipmongers—

and this Mr. Hollyhurst—took a keen interest in Toby. They labeled him the ‘Rake Reborn,’

insinuated that he rejoiced in my illness and used it as an opportunity to prolong his debauched bachelor life.”

Bel looked at the illustration again, cringing. She’d suspected him to be a rake, but seeing the evidence in print… Sir Toby surrounded by fair-haired, slender, classical beauties adorned with plumes and jewels. A dozen Sophias.

She laid aside her toast. “I understand why Sir Toby said he’s weary of gossip.”

“He must be,” Sophia said, riffling the papers, “for he’s been in The Prattler every day for months. If it’s not one of Mr. Hollyhurst’s caricatures, it’s a notice in the society column. They’ve cataloged his attendance at every ball, boxing match, opera house, and gaming club. The paper has even gone so far as to tally the number of his paramours, since his near escape.”

The number of his paramours? Bel almost asked Sophia to relate the estimate, then stopped herself. “Surely you don’t credit any of it? Sir Toby told me himself, one shouldn’t believe everything in the newspapers. Do you believe such behavior of him?”

“No,” Sophia said. “At least, not to this degree. But I am amazed that he has tolerated such treatment.” She lowered her voice. “Do you realize, he could have made an immense scandal when I eloped, or even sued my father for breach of our marriage contract? Yet he said nothing, at least not publicly. He allowed the illusion of my illness to stand and took a drubbing in the papers all the while.”

An unhappy realization settled on Bel. “He must have been very much in love with you.”

Gray coughed violently.

Sophia pursed her lips. “No, actually. I don’t believe he was. But his pride must have incurred deep wounds, even if his heart remained intact. It must have been difficult for him to endure all this”—she indicated the newspapers—“so quietly. I don’t know why he did, after the way I used him so ill. But he has borne the brunt of public speculation regarding our broken engagement, and if he had not, I would have been ruined. We should not have been welcome in Society. Your own prospects for marriage would have been destroyed.”

“We owe him much, then.”

“Yes, we do.” Sophia gave her a meaningful look. “We owe him the chance to find happiness. I did not love him as a wife should, but I cared for him—I care for him too much to see him trapped in a polite society marriage.”

“Trapped?” Bel’s teacup met its saucer with a loud crack. “Are you saying Sir Toby shouldn’t marry me? Am I not good enough for him?”

“No, that’s not it at all,” Sophia replied.

“Bel, he’s not good enough for you,” Gray said.

“I don’t mean to say that, either.” Sophia took a deep breath before continuing. “Bel, Toby will make some lady a fine husband. And you are everything he could dream of in a wife. Together, I daresay you could be very happy indeed—if you loved one another.”

“She’s not in love with the man.” Gray’s knife clattered to his plate. “She only met him last night.” He muttered an oath.

Bel cringed. Love. It seemed there was no escaping that word lately. Her brothers, Sophia …

they all exhorted that she must marry for love. As if by saying this, they granted her some grand indulgence, a gift any young lady would be delighted to receive. But to Bel, this insistence on a love match presented an unwelcome obstacle. “I don’t wish to marry for love. Not romantic love, at any rate.”

“Whyever not?” Sophia asked.

She hedged. It seemed impolite, and most likely in effective, to decry romantic love to two people so thoroughly steeped in it. Her parents had married for love, as had both of her brothers. Of the three matches, two had ended in desolation and the third—successful as it appeared thus far—was just a few months old. She avoided love for the same reason she eschewed spirits: she’d witnessed, firsthand, the ravages of both.

“I have so many plans, so much work to do,” she said. Striving for a diplomatic tone, she added, “And I’ve noticed love has a way of altering a person’s priorities.”

“As well it should, if the thing’s done right,” Gray said.

Sophia touched her wrist. “Of course you could not be in love with Toby so soon. But deep in your heart, if you search, do you detect some inclination to affection? Could you grow to love him, with time?”

I hope not. Bel pushed back from the table and stood. “Sophia, please understand. I am delighted that you and my brother have found one another. I know you mean to be kind. But I do not wish to marry for love; and I would ask you to consider that perhaps Sir Toby feels the same. Otherwise, why did he propose to you?”

Sophia made a subtle wince. Bel’s was overt. Those were the most uncharitable words she’d ever spoken to her sister. Perhaps the most uncharitable words she’d spoken to anyone. But here she’d resolved to embrace this engagement with optimism, and Sophia seemed determined to ruin it all—first with her revelations, then her stack of scandal sheets, and now this questioning.

“Please,” Bel said, sinking back into her chair, “I know you mean well, but Dolly …” She turned to her brother, knowing he was powerless to deny her anything when she employed a soft tone and his pet name from their youth. “Dolly, you promised I might marry whom I choose. I choose to marry Sir Toby.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“For … several reasons.”

Not because she desired him, or because she’d allowed him to kiss her on the terrace. Truly, that wasn’t it at all. It wasn’t.

“I want a marriage that will place me in the public notice and make me a lady of influence.” She gestured toward the stacked copies of The Prattler. “Sir Toby is perfect. All London takes an interest his exploits, he will soon serve in the House of Commons, and by Sophia’s own account he is a fine man.”

“Toby told you he would be serving in Parliament?” Sophia asked.

“Yes. Did he never mention it to you?”

“No.” She looked stunned.

Gray studied Bel for a moment, then put a hand to his temple. “Bel, it’s not that I—”

The sound of the doorbell interrupted them.

“That must be him.” Bel stood up again. Blood rushed to her head. Goodness, she’d been up and down so many times, she might as well have been in church. “Do I look well enough?”