“Be c-careful,” Evie suggested softly. “From what we’ve heard of Lord St. Vincent, it doesn’t seem in character that he should concede so easily. If he approaches you again, promise that you will not agree to go somewhere alone with him.”

Lillian stared at her concerned friend with a smile. “Evie, you sound positively cynical. Very well, I promise. But there is no need to worry. I don’t believe that Lord St. Vincent is foolish enough to make an enemy of someone as powerful as the earl.” Desiring a change of subject, she turned her attention to Annabelle. “Now that I’ve shared my news, it’s time for yours. What is it?”

With her eyes dancing, and the sunlight moving over her light satiny hair, Annabelle looked all of twelve years old. Her gaze darted to the side to confirm that they were not being overheard. “I’m almost positive that I’m expecting,” she whispered. “I’ve had signs recently…queasiness and sleepiness …and this is the second month that I seem to have missed my courses.”

They all gasped with delight, and Daisy surreptitiously reached across the table to squeeze Annabelle’s hand. “Dear, that is the most wonderful news! Does Mr. Hunt know?”

Annabelle’s smile turned rueful. “Not yet. I want to be absolutely certain when I tell him. And I want to keep it from him as long as possible.”

“Why?” Lillian asked.

“Because as soon as he knows, he will be so overprotective that I won’t be allowed to go anywhere on my own.”

Knowing what they did of Simon Hunt and his passionate absorption with all things Annabelle, the wall-flowers silently agreed. Once Hunt learned of the coming baby, he would hover over his pregnant wife like a hawk.

“What a triumph,” Daisy exclaimed, keeping her voice low. “A wallflower last year, a mother this year. Everything is turning out beautifully for you, dear.”

“And Lillian is next,” Annabelle added with a smile.

Lillian’s raw nerves stung with a mixture of pleasure and alarm at the words.

“What is it?” Daisy murmured to her sotto voce, while the other two conversed excitedly about the coming baby. “You look worried. Having doubts? …I suppose that is only natural.”

“If I marry him, we’re guaranteed to fight like cats and dogs,” Lillian said tensely.

Daisy smiled at her. “Is it possible that you are dwelling too much on your differences? I have a suspicion that you and the earl may be more alike than you know.”

“In what ways could we possibly be alike?”

“Just consider it,” her younger sister advised with a grin. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

Having summoned both his mother and sister to the Marsden parlor, Marcus stood before them with his hands clasped behind his back. He found himself in the unfamiliar position of trusting his own heart, rather than following the dictates of reason. That wasn’t at all like a Marsden. The family was renowned for its long line of coldly practical antecedents, with the exception of Aline and Livia. Marcus, for his part, had followed the typical Marsden pattern …until Lillian Bowman had entered his life with all the subtlety of a hurricane.

Now the commitment he was making to a headstrong young woman was bringing Marcus a sense of peace he had never known before. An amused grimace tugged at the small muscles of his face as he wondered how to tell the countess that she would finally have a daughter-in-law—who happened to be the last girl she would ever have selected for the position.

Livia sat in a nearby chair while the countess, as always, occupied the settee. Marcus could not help but be struck by the difference in their gazes, his sister’s warm and expectant, his mother’s flat and wary.

“Now that you have roused me from my midday rest,” the countess said tartly, “I beg you speak your piece, my lord. What news have you to deliver? What matter is so imperative that I must be summoned at so inconvenient an hour? Some inconsequential missive about that ill-begotten brat of your sister’s, I suppose. Well, out with it!”

Marcus’s jaw hardened. All inclinations to break the news in a gentle fashion had vanished at the uncharitable reference to his nephew. Suddenly he took great satisfaction in the prospect of informing his mother that every single one of her grandchildren, including the future heir to the title, would be half American.

“I’m sure you will be pleased to learn that I have heeded your advice and finally chosen a bride,” he said smoothly. “Although I have not yet made a formal proposal to her, I have good reason to believe that she will accept when I do.”

The countess blinked in surprise, her composure faltering.

Livia stared at him with a wondering smile. There was a sudden wicked enjoyment in her eyes that inclined Marcus to think she had guessed at the identity of the unnamed bride. “How lovely,” she said. “Have you finally found someone who will tolerate you, Marcus?”

He grinned back at her. “It would seem so. Though I suspect it would behoove me to hasten the wedding plans before she comes to her senses and flees.”

“Nonsense,” the countess said sharply. “No woman would flee from the prospect of marrying the Earl of Westcliff. You possess the most ancient title in England. On the day you marry, you will bestow on your wife more peerage dignities than any uncrowned head on the face of the earth. Now, tell me whom you have decided on.”

“Miss Lillian Bowman.”