Chapter Twelve

Rosemary pinched her eyes shut as she exhaled through her nose. Behind her, the rain lashed at the windows in a steady roar of water as the storm continued to gain strength, but the sound of the rising tempest was nothing compared to the pounding in her head.

"So what you're saying," she murmured, slowly opening her eyes to find her cousins watching her with identical expressions of concern, "is that Sterling has been–what's the word you used?"

"Framed," said Joanna.

"Framed," she repeated. "Like a picture, but not."

"No, in this instance, it means he was set up. Someone went to great lengths to make it appear as if he'd killed his mistress when, in fact, he not only had nothing to do with her murder, she most likely isn't even dead."

"And you think…you think this person is trying to harm him specifically?"

"Yes, that is the conclusion Kincaid and I have drawn."

"But…why?" Rosemary asked in bewilderment. She knew that Sterling was far from flawless, but she'd never heard anyone speak a bad word about him. Aside from calling him a wastrel, rogue, and ne'er-do-well, that is. Even then, such insults were levied with a general sort of complimentary affection. To the best of her knowledge, prior to his mistress' bloody disappearance, he'd been an exceedingly popular figure amidst the ton . For what reason, then, would anyone try to frame him for murder? "Have they demanded money or other means of compensation?"

"Not yet, which is why we're led to believe this is a personal grudge. Especially after we began to consider what happened to his sister. There was no ransom then, either. Which is very strange, looking back at it now. Why else take a duke's sister if not for money? Unless they were after something far more nefarious. Thankfully, Kincaid foiled whatever plot they were brewing before it had the chance to come to fruition, and Hanover hired an ex-soldier's guard that has discreetly kept watch over Lady Sarah ever since."

"I never knew his sister was kidnapped by highwaymen." A frown captured Rosemary's mouth. "Sterling never said a word."

He'd never said a word about any of this. And that troubled her almost as much as knowing that someone wanted to cause him serious harm.

How could they possibly hope to have a real marriage if they didn't share the intimate details of their lives with each other? She wasn't asking for him to reveal every secret that he held. Not after being engaged for less than a day, anyway. But was it too much to ask that he bother to mention some crazed madman had arranged for his mistress to disappear and the walls of her bedroom to be slathered in pig's blood all in an attempt to have him blamed for a murder he hadn't committed?

Unless…unless he hadn't told her because he didn't want a real marriage.

In which case, she wasn't sure if she wanted their engagement to continue.

It would mean complete and utter ruin, to end it now. The social fallout would be even worse than if he'd never proposed to begin with and Navessa spread word of their indiscretion far and wide. But wasn't public humiliation better than private heartbreak?

"I need to see him," she said abruptly. "I need to see Sterling."

"Right this minute?" Joanna cast a glance out the window. "But it's pouring buckets."

"I'm sure he'll come to call on you sooner rather than later," Evie assured her. "You have a wedding to plan. Speaking of that…"

"You didn't," Joanna groaned as her sister reached behind the sofa and lifted a large leather satchel that Rosemary hadn't even seen her bring in.

"I most certainly did." Humming happily under her breath, Evie reached into the bag and began to pull out a wide assortment of fabric swatches which she laid out on the cushions in a long, neat line. "Now," she said, turning to face Rosemary. "I realize I mentioned ivory before, but what's your opinion on mauve…"

Much to Rosemary's consternation, her fiancé–how peculiar it felt, to think of Sterling that way–did not call on her the next day, or the day after that. Even when it eventually stopped raining and the dismal weather could not be used as an excuse to explain away his absence, he did not come to see her. Nor did he send a letter, or a note, or a messenger pigeon.

That didn't stop other people from coming to visit her, though.

Ladies who hadn't cared enough about her to even say hello when they passed her in the park were suddenly clamoring to have tea every afternoon. The poor butler, an elderly man by the name of Dunbridge, who hadn't done much more over the past ten years than hand Lady Ellinwood her gloves and hat whenever she went out, found himself inundated with countless calling cards and visitors and invitations.

By the fourth day, he'd taken to hiding in a broom closet whenever the doorbell chimed.

Rosemary was giving serious consideration to joining him.

She had no interest in pretending to smile for women who only wanted to be in her good graces now that she was to become a duchess. Women who had giggled at her behind their fans. Who had stood idly by while Navessa had openly berated her at Lady Garfield's birthday picnic. Who wouldn't have hesitated to slice her to the quick had Sterling not offered to marry her.

Now that she had Joanna and Evie (both of whom had taken a short holiday to Campbell Castle in the Highlands to visit Brynne and her husband), she'd a better grasp of what real friendship was…and what it wasn't. This simpering, idolized attention wasn't real or genuine. It wasn't even very flattering, when she considered that they weren't the least bit interested in who she was but rather who she was marrying.

The invisible man, as it so happened.

At least that was what it seemed like these past few days.

When they were at Hawkridge Manor, she couldn't turn a corner without bumping into Sterling. Now that they were engaged to be married, he was nowhere to be found.

Odd, how that worked.

Finally, after an entire week had gone by, she decided that if Sterling would not come to her then she would go to him. It was the nineteenth century, after all. Why couldn't she call upon the man who had, for all intents and purposes, already jilted her before they'd had a chance to walk down the aisle? And so, after ensuring that Sir Reginald was tucked safely in the inside pocket of her pelisse and wouldn't be swept away by the sharp, cutting breeze whipping through the streets like the flat edge of a blade, that was precisely what she did.

Rather, that was what she tried to do.

After a long, chilly walk to Grosvenor Square with leaves dancing in the air, she discovered that Sterling was not in. A quick peek past the footman who had opened the door for her revealed that he most likely hadn't been in for a while, unless he favored sitting on furniture draped in broadcloth.

"I do not understand," she said. "This is the residence of the Duke of Hanover, is it not?"

"Aye, Miss," the footman replied. "But His Grace rarely comes here."

"Where does he stay, then, when he is in London?"

"I'm sorry, Miss, but His Grace doesn't like us sharing his whereabouts. If ye wanted to leave a card, I can see that he gets it."

Had Rosemary not already waited seven days, she might have been content to wait some more. But she had, and she wasn't, and her voice rose an octave as she said, "I am his fiancée and I would like, very much, to learn where I can find my husband-to-be!" She stomped her foot for emphasis, and immediately felt guilty. "I apologize. I shouldn't have yelled like that. It's just that I must speak with him. You see, he proposed rather impulsively, and we haven't seen each other since."

The footman tugged on his collar in confusion. "Then ye aren't engaged?"

"No, no, we are." She hesitated. "To the best of my knowledge. But we should talk about it, don't you think? I'm not sure how all this works, to be honest. I've never been engaged before. But it seems to me that you cannot just ask someone to marry you and then disappear. Unless that is what couples typically do. Except that's not what my cousin and her fiancé, the Earl of Hawkridge, have done. They're living together. Oh, not together together," she corrected hastily. "Completely separate bedchambers. But they're in the same house. His sister is there, too. Not right this minute. They've actually all gone off to the Highlands. I was invited, but on account of my recent engagement, my grandmother wanted me to remain in London to receive visitors. I was hoping one of those visitors was going to be the duke, but as you can see–"

"10 Cherry Lane in Mayfair," the footman cut in somewhat desperately.

Rosemary's brow creased. "Sorry? What was that?"

"10 Cherry Lane in Mayfair," he said again. "His Grace keeps a townhouse there."

"Oh." She smiled brightly. "That wasn't too difficult, was it? Thank you very much. If for some reason he comes here before I get there, can you tell him that I stopped in?"

"I will, Miss." By the way the footman had started to close the door, it was obvious he wanted her to leave. "Have a good day."

"Thank you again," she said, stepping out from under the marble portico. "You've been exceedingly helpful."

"Ye're welcome, Miss. I–" The footman stopped. Stared. "Is that a rat in yer pocket? Me brother Tim had one of those when he was a boy."

"Who, this?" She patted between Sir Reginald's ears as her pet poked his head out to see what was happening. "No, this is a red squirrel. But I have heard that rats make good companions," she said generously.

"Aye, me brother had him for almost six years before he died. In all that time, he never bit him. Not once. Our mum hated that rat. Tried to drown him in a bucket of water a few times. But he was always too fast for her."

"Sir Reginald bit the Duke of Hanover on his leg," Rosemary confided in a whisper. "It wasn't very nice, was it, Sir Reginald?"

It was impossible, of course, but she would have sworn that her pet rolled his eyes.

"So His Grace knows that ye have a squirrel ye keep in yer pocket?" the footman asked.

"Oh, yes. It was one of the first things we discussed, actually."

"And he still asked ye to marry him?"

Rosemary nodded.

"Wow." The footman gave a low whistle. "His Grace must really be in love with ye."

Her smile faltered. "10 Cherry Lane, did you say?"

"Aye, Miss. Should I call ye a carriage?"

"No, that's fine. I do not mind walking." What she did mind was Sterling having such little regard for his fiancée that he'd not shared he kept an entirely different household from his ducal manor in Grosvenor Square, leaving her no means by which to contact him except to track him down on foot.

Perhaps he had a viable excuse as to why he hadn't told her about the direction the investigation had taken or the danger he was in. Maybe he was trying to protect her. But how could he excuse away his absence these past seven days, or the fact that they were to be married and she didn't even know where he lived?

Rosemary was aware that in a vast array of subjects, she was greatly na?ve. In her solitude and her loneliness, she'd cut out a small corner in the world and she had filled it with books, and daydreams, and furry creatures to raise. In that corner, there'd been no room for courtship, or passion, or popularity. So maybe those things were unfamiliar to her, and there was nothing she could do about that. But she did know about common decency and respect. And she knew that Sterling needed to explain why he'd given her neither.

Maybe she wasn't the fiancée he'd expected to have. Certainly the entire ton was flabbergasted by their union. But she was the fiancée he'd chosen…and the fiancée he'd resolutely ignored for a week, leaving her to solider the social burden of their sudden engagement by herself.

Biting the inside of her cheek and ducking her head against the howling winds, she set off back towards Mayfair.

Sterling couldn't stop shaking.

The tremors had started in his hands. Small, involuntary vibrations that radiated all the way down from his head, through his arms, and into his fingers courtesy of the demon elf that had taken up residence in his skull and was swinging merrily away at bone and brain with an axe.

His heart alternated between utter stillness and bouts of frenzied activity where it slammed against the wall of his chest with such terrifying force he wouldn't have been surprised to look down and see it go bouncing off across the room.

When someone knocked on the door, at first he thought it was his heart. Boom. Boom. Boom. The light tapping of a fist against wood was like the blast of a cannon to his poor, tortured, elf-riddled head. Mouth already curled in a snarl, he sat up on the sofa he'd substituted for his bed–stairs were out of the question–and looked for a servant to send whoever the hell had come to pay him a visit far, far away. To another country, preferably. On a different continent.Until he remembered that he'd given the entire household staff paid leave for an as-of-yet undetermined length of time. He didn't want anyone to witness him in this condition. Not a footman, not a scullery maid, and especially not Higgins, the judgmental arse.

Once a day, Cook delivered a basket of meats, bread, and fruit which he picked over, but ultimately ate very little. His stomach wouldn't allow it. More than an apple slice or a cube of cheese and he was running to the privy to hurl his guts into the fathomless depths of a stone basin.

It wasn't very pleasant.

Actually, shy of losing Sebastian, this was the most un pleasant experience he'd ever had in his entire life. And he placed the blame squarely on the self-righteous shoulders of Kincaid and Weston.

"A detoxification," they'd called it before they jaunted off to Scotland on holiday, leaving Sterling to deal with the consequences of their barbaric ultimatum.

And it was barbaric.

Probably illegal as well.

If it wasn't, then it should have been.

He'd make it a point to bring it up at the next Parliamentary session.

"Gin or Rosemary," Weston had said in no uncertain terms. "You cannot have both. Our cousin will not be married to a wastrel drunkard."

He had tried to bargain, as desperate men do. What if he cut back? A bottle of whiskey a day. He'd take gin right out of the equation. All right, all right. Half a bottle. A nip or seven on special occasions. Drinking only after twelve o'clock. Ten on Sundays. But all his wheedling had done was prompted them to say the ten words that he'd never, ever wanted to hear.

"No alcohol of any kind, Sterling. Henceforth, you are sober."

Sober.

Him.

It was unthinkable. It was irrational. It was completely unnecessary. Yes, maybe over the past year or so he'd started to drink a little too much. But it wasn't a problem. Other men drank, didn't they? He'd never walked into an empty pub. Sometimes Weston and Kincaid had even accompanied him, the hypocritical bastards.

He would show them that he was perfectly capable of staying off the bottle for a few days, and then they'd see that their concern was utterly misplaced. If they wanted to help someone, they could take a trip to Seven Dials and pull some poor drunkard out of a ditch. He was the bloody Duke of Hanover, and if he wanted to have a damned scotch with his dinner then he'd have a damned scotch! He didn't need it. He didn't rely on it, like some sort of crutch. Which he'd prove by simply giving it up for a week. Whiskey, gin, wine, port. Everything.

So he'd watched, arms folded, while Weston and Kincaid carried every bottle, glass, and decanter out of the house. Then he had settled in for a quiet evening in his study going over dusty ledgers like a proper, responsible landowner.

By sunrise, he was drenched in sweat and was incapable of standing upright. His first indication that maybe the earl and the private detective were right, as much as he was loath to admit it. Maybe he did have a problem. A problem that was much larger and much more insidious than he'd let himself believe.

What was one bottle, until it turned into two?

What was one drink, until it turned into ten?

Somehow, someway, he'd lost control. Over his impulsions. Over his cravings. Over himself.

Gin or Rosemary.

On the third night of his sobriety, delirious with fever and hearing the voices of people who were no longer living, he reached for the silver flask he kept hidden underneath his desk. He unscrewed the top. He lifted it to his dry, cracked lips. He smelled the gin; wood and winter. He opened his mouth…and released a guttural bellow of rage and self-disgust as he threw the flask across his study where it smashed through the glass front of a curio cabinet.

Gin or Rosemary.

He rose on the fifth day feeling slightly better, although too weak to do much more than lay curled in a ball on the floor. It was the coolest part of the house, and with his face pressed flush against a wide pine board he let himself dream of blue-gray eyes and a wallflower's sweet, shy smile.

Gin or Rosemary.

When the sun rose on the last day of his first hellish week without alcohol, he'd made it all the way onto the sofa. A small triumph marred by the arrival of an unwanted guest. Struggling to rise, he reached for the water he'd taken to keeping within arm's distance at all times and guzzled straight from the pitcher. A few drops dribbled down his chin which he carelessly wiped away with the back of his hand. Still the knocking persisted, and with a grimace and a growl, he staggered to the front door and wrenched it open.

Gin or Rosemary.

"Rosemary," he breathed, and suddenly the choice wasn't a choice at all, but a forgone conclusion. And every second of hellish, indescribable agony was worth this one single moment of clarity. Because he'd never seen her when he was sober.

Less drunk was still drunk, like wearing spectacles in a light drizzle. But now the clouds had parted and his lenses were crystal clear, allowing him to see Rosemary as he never had before.

He saw her face, the roundness of her cheeks and the adorable tilt at the end of her nose and the freckle underneath her ear. He saw her hair, wisps of it blown free from her chignon to dance and curl around her jaw in ribbons of rich mahogany and tawny brown. He saw her eyes, the same soft morning fog framed with thick black lashes that he'd focused on in his dreams. And he didn't know it then. Wouldn't know it, for quite some time. But that was when he fell.

In the foyer of his Mayfair townhouse, on legs barely strong enough to hold him, in front of a woman with a squirrel peeking out of her pocket, the Duke of Hanover fell in love.

Completely.

Utterly.

Irrevocably.

"Sterling!" Those fog blue eyes went wide with alarm as Rosemary stepped past him into the foyer and spun around. "You look…"

"I know, I know," he sighed, raking a hand through his knotted hair. He was sparingly dressed in a linen shirt, halfway unbuttoned, and a pair of wrinkled blue trousers sans bracers. He'd not shaved since the morning of the Marigold Ball, and while he'd not confirmed anything with absolute certainty, he strongly suspected that the vague odor hanging in the air was emanating from him. "Please try to keep your hands off of me."

"…horrible."

"I may need a bath and a change of clothes," he allowed.

"I mean, truly horrible. Like death."

"All right," he frowned. "I've gotten the idea."

"You've appeared unkempt before. Bloating in your chin and whatnot–"

"Bloating in my chin?"

"–but this is different. You need a doctor. Or maybe a priest."

He snorted at that. "What the devil do I need a priest for?"

"To perform the exorcism," she said solemnly. If not for the betraying twitch of her lips, he might have thought she was being serious. Then she removed her hat and gloves, placing them on top of a wooden armoire, and her expression sobered. "What's going on? I've not heard from you in a week. I thought…"

"You thought?" he prompted, his own countenance guarded. He couldn't–wouldn't–blame her for thinking the worst of him. That he'd been out gambling, or carousing in one of the dens of pleasures that littered Fleet Ditch, or drinking himself into a stupor at the Gray Pony. Reasonable conclusions to draw, given his history.

"I thought you might have changed your mind. About me. About–about us," she whispered, and the tremble in her voice stripped him raw.

"No. By God, no." Sterling didn't care that he stank. In two strides, he was across the foyer and had her in his arms. Arms that continued to shake even as he wrapped them around her slender frame and drew her firmly against his chest, laying her head over his thundering heart. "I've…I've been ill."

As good a way to put it as any, he supposed.

"You really do look ill." As she lifted her head, something flickered in her gaze.

"What?" he asked, abruptly self-conscious of his disheveled appearance. Dear God. When was the last time he'd bathed? Or put on a new shirt, for that matter. "What is it?"

"You also look…I'm not sure how to put this…" Her small hand splayed tentatively across his sternum, and he sucked in a breath at the heat radiating from her smooth, silky palm. If that hand slid a tad lower… "Awake. You look awake."

"I've stopped drinking." He winced as soon as the words were past his mouth. He did not mean for it to be an announcement. Being sober was hardly grounds to send out the town criers. But Rosemary didn't scoff or belittle what was–for him–a monumental achievement literally borne of sweat and more than a few tears.

No, not his Rosemary. His Rosemary hadn't a derisive, mocking bone in her body. Yet another reason why he didn't deserve her. But damned if he wasn't going to try his best to earn her. To be a husband she could be proud of. Or at the very least, a husband that didn't fill her with shame.

"That must have been very difficult," she said quietly. A line embedded itself between her winged brows. "I should have liked to support you."

He shook his head at that. "Best you didn't. In case you couldn't tell by the state of me, it wasn't exactly pretty."

"A relationship between two people isn't always meant to be pretty." Her index finger glided along the stitched seam of his shirt until it encountered a glob of what he dearly hoped, for her sake, was food. Unperturbed, she scratched at the stain with her nail. "If you want the good, then it stands to reason you should also be there for the bad. It's like an apple."

"An apple," he repeated, not following.

"If an apple is bruised while growing on the tree and you cut the bruised piece out, soon the entire apple will rot. But if you tend to it where it is, and give it extra care and attention without trying to remove it, then eventually the bruised part shall callus over and the apple will be stronger for it."

"An arborist and an animal communicator," he said, amused–and secretly charmed–by her allegory. Lifting a loose curl, he brushed it behind her ear, thumb lingering along the rounded edge of the delicate shell before he allowed his arm to fall. "What topic aren't you well versed in, Romaine?"

"I've had time to read a great many books," she said, peering shyly at him from beneath her lashes. "And anyone can communicate with animals if they just put in a little bit of effort."

Sterling's rueful gaze fell to the squirrel-sized lump in the pocket of her spring green pelisse. "I'm happy to leave all the talking to you."

Rosemary's skirts swished delightfully as she walked further into the foyer, affording him a teasing glimpse at her trim ankles enclosed in silk stockings. She stopped at the bottom of the grand staircase centered in the middle of the room and cast him an inquisitive glance over her shoulder. "Why do you live in Mayfair when you have a larger residence in Grosvenor Square? I went there first, and a footman directed me here."

"It's quieter here," he answered automatically. "No one bothers me, which makes it preferable to the ducal manor." It wasn't a lie, but neither was it the full truth. A truth he'd never shared with anyone, not even Sarah. But then, Rosemary wasn't just anyone, was she? She was the only one to notice that he was missing this past week. The only one that cared enough to come looking for him. The only one that he wanted to trust with his innermost secrets. "Hanover House in London and Hanover Park in Sussex have never felt like mine. They're meant to belong to the Duke of Hanover."

Her head canted in bemusement. "But…but you are the Duke of Hanover."

"My brother was the duke," he corrected. There was a single seat in the foyer; a simple wooden bench with decorative spindles and a flat velvet cushion. He sat down heavily and sloughed his hands over his face as all the guilt he'd carried over the years caused his shoulders to slump. Without any whiskey or gin to lighten the burden, the weight was nearly unbearable. "I was never meant to be anything more than the spare. I didn't want to be anything more. Sebastian was always the more responsible heir. The serious heir. The heir that everyone turned to when they had a question or a problem that needed solving. He was perfect for the role. It's literally what he was born to be. But then…"

"But then?" Rosemary gently coaxed when Sterling fell silent.

"Then Sebastian died and I inherited a title I never wanted. A title that was never supposed to be mine. Now whenever I walk into Hanover House, all I hear are ghosts. They're so loud," he whispered as he stared bleakly at the floor and clenched his fists in his hair. "They're so bloody loud."

He closed his eyes and didn't see Rosemary when she crossed the foyer and sat beside him, but he felt when her thigh pushed lightly against his. Felt her hand come to rest in the middle of his spine. Felt the soft, soothing circles her palm made as she began to rub his back.

"From what I know, your brother was killed in a duel with Lord Aston," she said quietly. "Why do you blame yourself?"

"Because it was my fault." His teeth clenched and unclenched. "Because if not for me, he never would have taken up that duel. I goaded him into it. I all but put the damned pistol in his hand. Lord Aston pulled the trigger that discharged the bullet that entered his body, but I was the one who sent him there to die. Me. Nobody else."

He waited for Rosemary to dispute his claim. Waited for her to tell him that it wasn't his fault. That he couldn't have foreseen what his brother would do. That Sebastian's actions were his own.

It was what Sarah had said, and Kincaid, and Weston.

Over and over again, until he'd grown weary of all the hollow excuses made on his behalf. Because even though somewhere in his head he knew that they were partially right, that he couldn't have known Sebastian would take his drunken gibe seriously, in his heart he did not want to be absolved of his guilt.

The guilt was his punishment to carry with him. A daily reminder of what Sebastian had lost and he had gained. It didn't matter that if he had the chance, he would trade his title for his brother without a second's hesitation. The only thing that mattered was that Sebastian was dead, and he was alive, and maybe he hadn't pulled the trigger…but he hadn't gotten there in time to stop Lord Aston from doing it, had he?

Bloody hell, but he wanted a whiskey.

Just a sip to take the edge off.

Why the fuck had he stopped drinking again?

"Maybe you are to blame," Rosemary said matter-of-factly.

Sterling's muscles coiled and stiffened beneath her circling hand. Of all the things he'd imagined she would say, of all the platitudes he thought she would give him, that sure as hell wasn't on the list. "Excuse me?"

"Maybe you are to blame," she repeated. "Maybe if you hadn't said whatever it was that made your brother want to engage in a duel, he wouldn't have done it and you wouldn't be the Duke of Hanover."

Sterling twisted on the bench to stare at his fiancée in disbelief. "Are you trying to make me feel better? Because I have to say, you're doing a piss poor job of it."

Her hand stilled. "Is that what you want? To feel better? Is that why you've been lost in the bottom of a bottle ever since I met you? Do you even remember the first time we met?"

"Course I do," he scoffed. "It was at Hawkridge Manor. During the house party. You were…I was…we were…"

"I was searching for food, as I often am." The corners of her lips lifted in a self-deprecating smile. "I entered the parlor and there you were, stretched out on the sofa. You frightened me half to death, and then you asked for coffee. When I brought it over, you mistook me for Lady Emma Crowley."

"But you look nothing like her," he said, mystified. "She's blonde."

Rosemary nodded. "Precisely."

And that, he supposed, was the point she was trying to make. That his brother's death had driven him to all of his bad habits. That if not for that single tragedy, he'd be a gentleman of fine upstanding moral character. Little did she know he'd been holding a bottle long before he held his brother in his arms as he gasped his final breath.

"I drank before Sebastian died," he said dismissively. "That hasn't changed. You want to see the decency in me, to convince yourself that it's there. Somewhere. Hiding deep inside. But I've always been a ne'er-do-well and a rogue and a scoundrel. That's who I am," he bit out. " That's who I am meant to be. Not a duke."

"We are who we make ourselves to be. A title is what you were given when your brother died, but it doesn't define you. Only your words and your actions can do that. And maybe you are a scoundrel and a rogue and a ne'er-do-well." Removing her hand from his back, she cupped the side of his jaw and brought their faces so close together that he could see the nearly invisible flecks of violet amidst the swirls of blue and gray in her irises. "But you're also a man who loved his brother deeply. You're a man loyal to his friends and family. And you're a man who asked a wallflower to marry you so that her reputation wouldn't be ruined."

He drew a ragged breath. "Rosemary…"

"Maybe you really are to blame for Sebastian's death," she continued. "Or perhaps he would have died the next day walking in front of a carriage. Or the next year in a wave of scarlet fever. We do not know. We cannot know. Because when and how those that we love die is not for us to decide. If it were, I'd have my parents with me and Joanna and Evie would have theirs."

How much he wanted to believe her. To release himself from this guilt. To accept that maybe he had said something to Sebastian he shouldn't have, but all that happened after was beyond his control. To acknowledge that he had been a good brother. Not perfect. Not anywhere close. But good, and steadfast, and true. To admit that he had punished himself enough. That there was nothing else to gain–and oh so much to lose–by continuing this self-inflected retribution.

"Then what do we decide?" he asked.

"How we live," Rosemary answered simply. "We decide how we live."