Chapter 22

W ordlessly, the duchess escorted Livian through a labyrinth of secret corridors that led directly to Livian’s chambers.

“This is a secret panel to your rooms,” Her Grace said, soto voice. “I must return to the parlor before guests begin to notice so many have gone missing.”

“Thank you,” Livian whispered through a tear-clogged throat.

The duchess appeared as though she wished to say more, but with a tight nod, she headed back in the direction from which they’d just come.

The moment she’d gone, Livian let herself inside the suite shared by she and Billy.

Billy, busy reading at the window seat, glanced up.

Shock filled the younger woman’s eyes. “Gor, Livvie !”

Tears pricked Livian’s eyes. The young woman gave up the pretense of lady’s maid and became the friend and sister she’d really always been. Livian had never been more grateful for her presence.

“I’m fine.” With Livvie’s throat and mouth as dry as parchment, she fumbled to get that lie out.

“Who’s the sod?” That single hissed curse in Billy’s cockney packed a whole host of emotions—shock, outrage, and a horrified understanding about the fate her mistress had found herself.

Livian squeezed her eyes shut. That horrifying fate she would have met had Lachlan failed to arrive when he did.

Billy growled. “I’ll bluidy kill him.”

“N-No. He…w-was…” “You’ll die this day, Forfar… “ Taken care of,” she settled for.

“Latimer see to it?”

Livian managed a nod.

Her sister grunted in approval.

“Let’s get you seated, Livvie.” Billy slipped an arm through hers and helped her over to the bed.

After Livian sank onto the edge of the mattress, Billy dashed to the armoire.

“…Not many of them,” the young woman said, snatching both pretty panels open. “You don’t need me to tell you that.” Billy flipped quickly and efficiently through the garments hanging there. “…but Lachlan Latimer,” Billy continued, directing her soliloquy into the corners of Livian’s closet. “He’s a good one, he is.”

“Yes,” Livian managed. Yes, Lachlan Latimer was just that: honorable, dependable, loyal, honest.

A short time ago, with her own eyes, she’d witnessed his transformation into the ruthless killer he’d once insisted to her that he was.

But he wasn’t. He was good and kind and gentle.

That same trembling that had started within earlier, returned. Livian hugged herself tight to keep herself from splintering apart.

With rage contorting Lachlan’s exquisite face into a macabre mask of death, he’d been prepared to kill for Livian. He would have.

Death by savage beating had been the fate Forfar would have met if Livian and Lord Wakefield hadn’t stopped him. Lachlan would have forfeited his life to defend her honor, and she didn’t want that of him, or for him.

Everything passed in a blur. A bath arrived, and Billy helped Livian through her ablutions. A short while later, after Livian was dressed and her hair lovingly brushed and plaited by her sister, a knock sounded at the door.

“Enter,” Livian called out over Billy’s protestations.

The duchess slipped inside. “If we might speak alone, Miss Lovelace?” she said without so much as a greeting for Billy.

Billy’s face hardened. “Miss Lovelace would benefit from rest.”

At that bold challenge, the duchess finally spared a look at Livian’s younger sister and frowned.

“That won’t be necessary, Billy,” Livian said on a rush. “I am fine.”

Billy hesitated.

“Aye, Miss Lovelace.” Dropping a curtsy, Billy hastened from the room.

After she’d gone, the duchess contemplated Livian’s white gown, trimmed in purple hibiscus, she’d just donned.

Livian fought to keep from squirming under the other woman’s eagle-eye scrutiny.

“Hmm. White ,” she mused as if talking to herself. “I remember when I too wore white.”

Of anything she’d anticipated—an inquiry about Livian’s well-being, an update on Lord Forfar, a discussion about the potential scandal brewing—remarks about Livian’s gown had not been something she’d considered.

The Duchess of Argyll gave her head a little shake; she shifted an all-knowing gaze back to Livian’s.

“You’re an innocent, Miss Lovelace.”

Not anymore. Never, however, would Livian regret giving herself to Lachlan.

“Nothing to say?” the duchess said when Livian remained silent.

“There are many ways in which a young woman may be innocent.” Or not.

She’d never been. Not as this woman or even Livian’s own sister always thought. And now that she’d made love to Lachlan, not in so many ways.

“Ah, yes, that is very true.” The young widow took the liberty of venturing closer. “I know that from experience.”

She stopped when only three or so feet separated them and gave Livian another probing look.

“You believe I don’t. I can see as much in your eyes, Miss Lovelace.” She paused. “Just as I can see in your eyes, what a poor liar you are.”

Livian tensed. For such an offense, men had the luxury of calling other men out. “I am no liar, Your Grace.” Somehow, she managed to keep her voice even.

The duchess pressed a palm against her ample chest. “Oh, Miss Lovelace! I did not mean to offend you.”

“Well, you did,” Livian said carefully. Though the regal peeress had been so generous as to open her home and assist Livian in an attempt to secure a husband, Livian had too much pride to allow her—or for that matter, anyone—to question her honor.

Honor? This from the woman who made love to the duchess’ soon-to-be betrothed.

Livian’s heart spasmed.

“Forgive me for offending you. That was not my intention, Miss Lovelace. All I intended to point out was how much we have in common.”

The duchess truly believed she, a noble-born woman, and Livian, a bastard born to a bigamist, had anything in common? Imagine that, after everything that transpired this evening, Livian found herself fighting a smile.

“You think I am wrong,” the astute peeress remarked.

“No, Your Grace.” Livian didn’t think; she knew . “I would not say that.”

“Ah, maybe not out loud, anyway.”

Unnerved, Livian struggled to maintain eye contact with the older, shrewder woman.

“No need to worry, Miss Lovelace.” Amusement rang in the widow’s musical tones. “I can’t and shan’t be offended.”

“Very well, I believe it would be fair to say, that given our backgrounds and circumstances, we are not at all alike.”

The duchess seized on Livian’s words. “And that is it exactly!” She jabbed a long, gloved finger in Livian’s direction with such ferocity she nearly poked her in the chest. “You look at your origins and see yourself as one who has known a hard, cruel life.

Displeasure lent a tightness to the austere lady’s countenance which somehow managed the seemingly impossible—it contorted her beauty into a thing of ugly.

Before Livian, stood a potential, and terrifying, enemy. Livian, however, had known enough fear and uncertainty to be uncowed by the lofty duchess.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Livian began softly. “I went without food. There were too many times we didn’t have wood to heat our fires, and even more winters I shivered badly from the harsh, cold London rains and the infrequent, but always freezing, snows.”

The duchess remained still and expressionless as Livian spoke.

“Even having survived through all that, Your Grace?” Livian continued. “My life was neither hard nor cruel. I had the love,” and still do, “of family.” Family whom, after this heartbreak, she’d need more than ever.

A slow, hideous smile brought the young widow’s lips tipping up in a macabre rendition of amusement. “How fortunate you were then.”

The other woman sounded anything but happy at Livian’s avowal.

At last, the Duchess of Argyll let go all pretense of warmth or mirth.

“Given that heartwarming soliloquy, Miss Lovelace, it appears your life has been charmed. It now occurs to me, that you were the one with a storybook life.”

Livian bit the inside of her cheek to keep from pointing out there’d never been a storybook Livian had come across or read about which featured the bastard daughter of a bigamist.

“I gather you are trying to say your life has been anything but,” Livian murmured.

“I’m not trying to say it,” the duchess snapped. “I am saying it. Do you know anything about my past?”

She knew some.

Yet again, Livian found herself treading carefully. “As one who finds herself frequently spoken of and about,” she said, “I would never dare engage in any such gossip or discussions about anyone.”

Her Grace stared a moment and then tossed her head back and howled with laughter. “Goodness, my dear, you are far more skilled with prevaricating then I’d given you credit for,” she declared, wiping the amusement from the corners of her eyes.

It appeared, with the duchess’ clear desire and appreciation for directness, she and Livian shared some common ground after all.

“I’m aware of your father’s history, Your Grace,” Livian said with a gentleness the bitter widow clearly both needed and deserved. “And in that, I stand corrected and ask your apologies because we both, regardless of our stations and birthright, know what it is to be daughters to dishonorable fathers.”

The duchess’ throat worked several times; the proud, formidable, seemingly unflappable hostess displayed her first sign of vulnerability.

Graciously, to allow the proud woman to compose herself, Livian averted her gaze.

Only after the duchess cleared her throat several times, did Livian allow herself to look up.

“I’m not speaking about my father, the earl,” Her Grace said flatly, her tones as chilled as her gaze. “I’m referring to my marriage to the Duke of Argyll.”

Livian started.

“As the daughter of a nobleman, or I’ll allow the legitimate daughter of a nobleman,” the duchess clarified with a matter-of-factness that erased any hint of meanness, “certain responsibilities were placed upon me. My heart belonged to one man, and yet, he was an orphan who’d been raised on the streets.” A bitter, anguish-laden laugh exploded from the older woman’s lips. “And I, of course, the daughter of that immoral earl, had no choice but to marry another.”

Grief so strong contorted the dowager’s features, and in a remarkable, uncharacteristic crack in her composure, the duchess whipped her face away.

Livian felt the woman’s sorrow as if it were her own. She needn’t point out there’d actually been a choice. If she’d loved that man enough, the duchess would not be suffering still all these years later.

When the duchess again spoke, she did so with her usual aplomb.

“The Duke of Argyll was a very handsome man, charming. Young and old ladies alike lusted after him. As for me?” The duchess’ expression darkened. “With every fiber of my being, I despised him. He was a debauched, vile reprobate still in love with his dead wife.”

Livian felt another stirring of pity, and she understood what accounted for the beautiful woman’s icy veneer.

The duchess’ crimson painted lips twisted into a grimace. “Whenever His Grace visited my rooms, which he did nightly, he’d make me pretend to be his late wife.”

Horror filled Livian.

“It mattered not that I came to him a virgin.” Her words came faster and faster. “He introduced me to a lifestyle he claimed the previous duchess loved. He vowed I would come to crave such an existence.”

The duchess caught herself. She drew in another deep breath and passed her palms over her cheeks.

A sick, cancer-like poison infiltrated Livian’s veins and spread like fire throughout. Lachlan had spoken of a business partnership. But what the duchess’ confession revealed was this match meant something more to her…

“You love Mr. Latimer,” Livian said, her tones flat to her own ears, her body hurting inside.

“That is what you heard, my dear?” Latimer’s wife-to-be laughed. “We’ve only just met. I’m not some starry-eyed ninny who believes herself in love with some man I just met.”

The look she slanted Livian’s way couldn’t have been clearer.

Livian’s heart pounded uncomfortably in her chest.

“That is, unless, one believes in love at first sight.” A sudden, and patently overdramatic, understanding dawned in the duchess’ eyes. “Never tell me, you do , Miss Lovelace?”

“Where love is concerned, there is no set time frame that makes sense, Your Grace,” she said softly. “For there is nothing at all rational about the emotion. In a single moment, one can find oneself going about their everyday life, only to next find oneself face to face with a stranger whom their soul binds to.”

How strange to think how terrified of Lachlan Latimer she’d been, only to have lost herself so completely to him.

Livian’s eyes slid shut. “And you’re almost instantly filled with the most profound, unimaginable, all-powering emotion that is love; it defies all logic and reason, and leaves you twisted so you don’t know which way is up or down.”

“That’s not love , Miss Lovelace.” The duchess’ bluntly-cold avowal snapped Livian from her warm haze. “What you described is lust .”

Livian stayed quiet. Be it the years Her Grace had on Livian, or the lady’s elevated station, the other woman had convinced herself she was the wisest and only true knower of all matters related to the heart.

The duchess bowed her head. “My apologies, Miss Lovelace,” she murmured. “Given your earlier life until your sister’s marriage to the earl, and the nature of your father, I’d not taken you for na?ve.”

“Given the warmth you’d shown me and the work you’ve done to help those outside your station,” Livian quietly remarked, “I’d not taken you as jaded.”

The duchess’ eyebrows arched with something a cross between surprise and admiration.

With a cool smirk, the duchess wandered casually about the guest rooms and touched her gaze upon the various knickknacks and furnishings scattered about as if she herself weren’t the owner who had lent the rooms to Livian.

The other woman stopped at the vanity and picked up one of the few items which, in this palatial holding, didn’t belong to her.

The Duchess of Argyll casually fanned those yellowed, tired pages.

Dumbly, Livian stared at the ancient, beloved copy of poems she’d hand-written, now held in this diffident woman’s hands.

Suddenly, the duchess stopped her finger at the top corner; the loud rising sequence split the uncomfortable silence as she riffled the pages.

Not even Verity dared touch Livian’s private collection. Only Livian knew its contents. Livian, and Lachlan .

And now, this woman.

They three, Livian, Lachlan, and the duchess, completed a trio of the most twisted triumvirate—Livian who loved Lachlan with all she was, and Lachlan, who cared for her but loved his business, which would lead him to marry this grand beauty, a woman who now so heedlessly handled Livian’s cherished belonging.

Livian wanted to throw her head back and howl her fury and grief and—

“Hmm,” the duchess’ musings slashed across rapidly spiraling sorrow.

“Your Grace?” she asked, dumbly.

“It appears I needn’t have asked; that the answer to my question was here all along, Miss Lovelace,” the duchess teasingly chided.

Confused, Livian shook her head.

With a knowing glint in her too-beautiful-for-words eyes, the duchess carelessly wagged Livian’s book.

At the latest offense on her journal, Livian winced.

Either not noticing or caring about Livian’s concern over that hand-made volume of poems, the Duchess of Argyll held it aloft before her, the way she might a church hymnal at Sunday sermons.

“As You Like It,” the duchess recited.

“No sooner met but they looked;

No sooner looked but they loved…”

The duchess paused a moment and lingered there.

Oh, God. Livian curled her toes tight into the floor.

Her Grace resumed reading.

No sooner loved but they sighed;

No sooner signed but they asked one another the reason;

The duchess’ fervent oration climbed to the rafters.

I’m going to die. For this poem is me, and the duchess needn’t look far to know…

“No sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy…” The beautiful widow briefly moved her gaze from the page to Livian.

The Duchess of Argyll snapped the volume closed and without taking her eyes from Livian, she finished the recitation. “And in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage…”

In a display of power and control, the sophisticated widow drew Livian’s leather journal against her chest and wandered with deliberate, slow steps back Livian’s way.

All the while Livian’s head, heart, and stomach revolted.

Oh, God. She already knows. She knows I am madly, deeply, in love and will forever belong to Lachlan.

At least, Livian’s heart and soul would.

The exquisite beauty before her would belong to him in all the ways Livian never would: in name, in the eyes of God, with the world as witness to their blessed union, sanctioned by the church. The duchess would soon be Mrs. Lachlan Latimer. She would share Lachlan’s bed and know the heady power of his touch.

Livian’s stomach muscles seized. She fought to keep from doubling over, pounding the floor, and howling like one of the Wailing Women of old.

Wordlessly, the Duchess of Argyll held Livian’s book out.

This belongs to me. While Lachlan wouldn’t, his future wife couldn’t take this from her, too.

With greedy fingers, Livian snatched it back. Now, safely returned, and in her possession, how strange to note the emptiness of this triumph.

“I’m not a fool, Miss Lovelace,” the duchess said frostily. “I’m aware you’ve been fucking Mr. Latimer.”

Mortification sent Livian’s entire body ablaze with heat. “I…You…We…”

“What is that, Miss Lovelace, hmm? I’m wrong? I shouldn’t speak so crudely? You can’t believe such profanity?” Unlike Livian, the refined and worldly duchess managed an equanimous composure as she spoke. “And the we , I take to mean? You and Mr. Latimer?”

Livian flinched.

The duchess snorted. “What I do, however, happened to notice missing from your stuttering is a denial, which is fine,” she said over Livian’s attempt to choke out a denial. “He is a handsome man. One might even say savage.”

In hearing the duchess speak of him so, Livian’s rage knew no bounds.

“He is none of those things!” Livian seethed.

“Come now, I saw him, covered in blood, standing over his battered prey, and rage bulging from all those magnificent, strapping muscles.”

“He is a good man, and you’d make him out to be a beast when it is the viscount deserving of your ill opinion,” Livian spat.

“Ill opinion?” The Duchess of Argyll’s lips formed a little moue. “Once again, you mistake me. You, dear child,” she said gently, in such superior tones, they set Livian’s teeth on edge. “You may have shared Mr. Latimer’s bed, but you are as innocent as the day you were born. I’m not disgusted by Mr. Latimer. I find myself lusting for him.”

Livian wanted to claw the duchess’ heavy, desire-filled eyes from her head.

“That is all it is, Miss Lovelace,” she said, still as infuriatingly patronizing. “You had him between your legs, and you have taken that to mean you are in love with him. Women of my age and experience know the difference. As do men of Mr. Latimer’s age and experience.”

In other words, Livian was a mere child, while Lachlan and the Duchess of Argyll, shared a like sophistication. Livian’s gut seized at the other woman’s accurate reminder.

“I trust if you consider all your exchanges with Mr. Latimer,” the duchess remarked, this time, more matter-of-fact than cruel, “you will see he is a man of the world. He loves the work he does. He loves sex just as much. And he can, just like me, separate emotion from lovemaking.”

Unlike Livian, who couldn’t. The older woman didn’t even bother pointing out that unkind detail. Livian, already knew it, anyway.

Lost in misery, Livian hugged her arms around her middle.

The duchess—no, the soon-to-be Mrs. Latimer—rested a graceful hand upon Livian’s shoulder.

Somehow, even while aching inside, Livian managed to look at the duchess.

“I’ve been passed over before,” the young duchess quietly continued. “That defection saw me marked as an object of society’s pity and scorn, Miss Lovelace.”

“I am so sorry, Your Grace,” Livian murmured, as the emotion that thickened the other woman’s mouth indicated just how much she’d been hurt by that shame.

As for Livian, she didn’t give two jots what society had to say about her.

I just want him.

“You misunderstand me, Miss Lovelace. What I mean to say, is this: if you tell me, Mr. Latimer declared his love for you…” she ventured, with worried eyes, “if that is the case, I bid you tell me, Miss Lovelace,” she said, too emphatic for her sincerity to be feigned.

Livian bit the inside of her lower lip.

The duchess lightly squeezed her shoulder. “If your feelings are reciprocated, I will not pursue my connection with Mr. Latimer. I would not let myself come between two people in love.” A sorrowful smile quivered on the duchess’ lips. “I was a victim of such, and I would never be so cruel.”

The gloriously beautiful peeress was making it impossible to hate her. “You have my assurance, Your Grace,” Livian spoke softly. “Lach—” She caught herself, too late. “Where I’m concerned, Mr . Latimer’s heart is not engaged.”

Sadness filled the widow’s eyes. “But yours is.”

Livian could not force a denial from her mouth. Her lips quivered into a strained smile that hurt her face. The lie, however, was too much.

The Duchess of Argyll made for the door.

Before she could go, Livian called out. “Your Grace!”

Lachlan’s future wife looked back, a question in her eyes.

“Does it…become easier, Your Grace?” Livian asked, the unlikeliest person about her all-encompassing grief. “The pain?”

Livian found herself speaking, nay, rambling on before the duchess could answer. “My s-sister, she is very much in love with her husband, Lord Maxwell, and his love for her runs just as deep. M-My mother did not know about my father’s sordid past and simply believed his heart belonged entire to her. As such, I do not know a-anyone who,” had theirs broken as Livian’s had been, “that is…”

Through her misery, Livian caught the flash of pity in the duchess’ eyes.

This time, Livian managed to compose herself.

She drew in a jagged, but steadying breath. “Did you ever find yourself not hurting so?” As if someone reached inside the wall of my chest and squeezed the organ until it ceased to beat.

“I wish I could lie to you, Miss Lovelace,” the duchess said gently. “It doesn’t.”

Of course, it doesn’t. She’d not expected it did. She’d just… hoped .

“There are days that are better. There are people whose company you come to enjoy and distractions and diversions, and at those times, the thoughts come less, and you almost make it through the day without wondering if and why and—”

The duchess must have seen something in Livian’s eyes, for she stopped abruptly. “There was no one else for me, except the one I’d loved forever, but you are young, Miss Lovelace.”

“As young as you were when you fell in love?” Livian asked without acrimony.

“Yes, well, I was several years younger,” the duchess allowed. “But our relationship stretched the course of our lives. He’d made his affections known to me.”

Whereas, Lachlan hadn’t done so to Livian. A fresh wave of grief washed over her.

“All that to say,” the beautiful widow hurried to explain, “you are a young woman, and when you leave, it is my prayer for you, Miss Lovelace, that you discover these days were but trapped in a whirlwind of first love and the excitement of romance.”

Livian held her tongue.

If prayers worked, then, even now, she’d be strolling the vast ducal halls with Lachlan, while the peers played their games.

Tears rose at the brim of Livian’s eyelids, and she blinked furiously.

The gloriously beautiful peeress was making it impossible to hate her.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Livian said, her voice thick with emotion.

“Oh, Miss Lovelace.” Sadness filled the other woman’s dulcet tones. “If there is anything I might do, anything, please, tell me, and it is yours .”

The duchess meant if there was anything she could do for Livian other than abandoning her eventual marriage to Lachlan.

“I want to l-leave,” Livian whispered, her voice breaking.

Before the request even left Livian’s lips, the duchess put up a protest. “Please, don’t, Miss Lovelace.”

“I must, Your Grace.” For self-preservation. Livian’s shattered heart and tattered pride couldn’t take any more of a beating.

“You must stay . There are so many good gentlemen, present. Honorable ones who would make you a decent match, and more importantly, among them, one whom you might find yourself falling in—”

“I must insist,” Livian cut in with a stern incisiveness that managed to penetrate the powerful peeress’s adamant pressuring.

“My father was a letch of the worst sort,” the duchess whispered. “You have my most solemn vow I am not one to tolerate those vile fiends. Therefore,” she dropped her voice to nearly inaudible tones, “if this is about the viscount, I’ve already sent him packing. I’ve ensured his silence in a way that he’d never dare speak about anything that happened…or…”

Livian saved the woman from having to say anything more. “Thank you, Your Grace.” In an unexpected reversal of roles, the duchess found herself struggling for words the same way Livian had throughout their entire, painful exchange. “I am grateful to you for opening your home to me and attempting to help me find a husband. I have not been as gracious to you in the ways you deserv—”

“No,” the duchess interrupted. “Please, none of that. As I said, I hold no delusions that mine and Mr. Latimer’s arrangement is any sort of love match.”

There appeared another fissure in some chunk of her heart that hadn’t completely cracked.

“Please, will you see my carriage readied, Your G-Grace?”

The duchess’ high, noble, brow furrowed. “There is absolutely nothing I can say, Miss Lovelace?”

Livian rejoined with a gentle question. “Given you shared that, at some point in time, you found yourself precisely where I am now, I’d ask…would you stay?”

At last, Livian managed to break through.

“I understand, Miss Lovelace. Before visiting you, I spoke with Lord Wakefield. He was adamant you leave my house party and insisted on accompanying you. I explained I’d speak with you and let the decision belong to you and not some well-meaning gentleman who comes in to save the proverbial day.”

Lachlan. It’d been Lachlan who’d saved her and—

Oh, God.

“Thank you, Your Grace. Please convey to Lord Wakefield, I would be grateful for that.”

The duchess hesitated. She passed her gaze over Livian and appeared to consider something else she wished to say.

Lord, help me. I will never survive this. The pain of never again seeing him threatened to swallow her whole. But the day he married the duchess, Livian would die inside and never, ever recover.

Livian managed to smile, desperate for the other woman to leave.

She sank into a deep curtsy. “I should begin packing, Your Grace.” Livian needed her gone so then, she could be free to break down and sob herself into nothingness.

Then wonder of small wonders this day, the Lord took mercy on her. For, Her Grace, nodded.

After the duchess departed, closing the door with a faint click, Livian stared at the oak panel. This one ornate and painted pink and carved of flowers, but also just a door, and in that, it brought Livian full circle on this journey. The door that’d opened at The St. George’s Inn and Lachlan sailed through, forever altering Livian’s life, now gave way to the closing of this panel.

It marked the end of what she and Lachlan shared, and the beginning of his future with another woman.

All the life, all the energy, and all the hope and happiness completely left her body. At last, Livian surrendered to the heavyweight of her sorrow.

She sank to her knees, and the dam within her broke. She wept, great big, gasping sobs that shook her body with a force that sent her sagging all the way to the floor. Drawing her knees close to her chest, she cried ugly tears that hurt her all the way through. And she welcomed that pain. Any pain was a distraction from the reality of all she had lost. No, what she’d never known with Lachlan but desperately wanted with him.

Through the noisy sounds of her misery, Livian dimly registered a faint click.

Hope, born of the deepest despair, brought her up quickly and sharply onto her knees.

“Ohh, Livvie,” Billy whispered.

The girl quickly shut the door behind her, and in an instant, Livian found herself enveloped within the younger woman’s arms. Clinging to her friend and sister, Livian wept against her chest.

Billy didn’t say anything. Unlike the duchess, who’d been all too content to fill voids of silence, Billy, from a shared background, understood sometimes words were not needed. That usually they weren’t at all.

They remained that way until somehow, with Billy conferring comfort and Livian absorbing every bit of love her sister offered, Livian’s tears finally ceased.

In continued silence, together, she and Billy hurriedly packed their belongings, until the room bore no traces that either of them, two women born outside the ton , had been there.

And then they left.