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“No,” she repeated more emphatically. “I don’t want a husband.”

“I’m afraid your options are limited, my dear,” said Mrs. Sullivan gently. “Unless you wish to recede from society.”

For a moment, she weighed the idea. The prospect of sculpting without calls or suppers or balls interrupting her was thrilling, but giving up society would mean losing so much. Already Anne’s mother didn’t approve of her, and she wouldn’t hesitate to bar her daughter from seeing Ina. Lana, an artist’s model, and Christine, an opera singer, would be free of such pressures, but even being seen walking in the park with a ruined woman would eventually wear away at their careers. She’d have to give them up for their sakes. She’d have to give up Gavin.

Her heart ached at the very thought for, although she knew he’d want to stand by her side through whatever came, he couldn’t afford a friendship with a notorious woman. The second son of a baronet who received only a nominal allowance from his father, he’d been supporting himself on the proceeds from his first novel, but she knew those must be drying up. He needed work, and she couldn’t stand the thought that associating with her might make cautious editors think twice about him.

“There must be another way,” she said, twisting her hands.

Mrs. Sullivan shook her head. “I don’t see one.”

The unfairness of the entire situation stung. She’d not fended off three proposals in five years only to end up married to a stranger. What if he disapproved of her sculpting? What if he disapproved of her friendship with Gavin, preferring his wife to keep only female friends so there could be no whispers of impropriety? She couldn’t take those risks.

“I’ll not marry a random man,” she said.

“You should’ve accepted Mr. McDonald’s proposal,” her aunt sniffed.

“I was never going to say yes to him. He wanted me to give up art entirely,” she told Mrs. Sullivan.

“And he’s twice her age,” muttered Gavin from his corner.

“I’m familiar with the gentleman, and I can honestly say that Mr. McDonald would’ve been entirely wrong for you,” said Mrs. Sullivan with a sympathetic smile. “Miss Duncan, I need you to know that what I’m suggesting is in your best interest. You would have been too young to remember this, but I was a friend of your mother’s a long time ago.”

Ina’s heart squeezed in her chest, and her fingers wrapped around the tapes of her crinoline through the heavy fabric of her green skirts to ground her to something—anything—real. Her mother’s friend. There weren’t many women who’d admit to that any longer.

“I didn’t know,” she said, her voice thick.

“She was delightful company—the sort of lady who would’ve been more at home in Paris, where uniqueness is seen as a virtue. You remind me of her in that regard.

“I should have been a better friend to you over the years. I see that now,” said Mrs. Sullivan, “but your father and I were never easy in one another’s company.”

Ina bit her lip to keep from saying, “Not many people are.”

“I want you to know that I’d never try to force a girl to marry if she didn’t wish to, but your situation must be addressed immediately before rumors begin to spread. I can’t pretend that I ever knew your father well, but he’s never struck me as the sort of man who would invite gossip and scandal into his home.”

“No,” she said. Scandal meant interruptions. Interruptions would take him from his manuscript. Anything that did that sent him into a sulk punctuated by periods of anger.

Mrs. Sullivan nodded. “I can help you, if you’ll trust me.”

The funny thing was she did trust this tall, stately woman with stone-gray hair swept back from her forehead and topped with a single, sapphire-encrusted comb. There was something about her manner that was matter-of-fact yet maternal. Mrs. Sullivan was just the sort of person you wanted to tell all of your secrets to, knowing they’d never escape her tightly sealed lips.

“Tell me what I need to do,” said Ina.

Mrs. Sullivan’s smile sparkled. “Good. Now, Mr. Barrett, is there any chance you find yourself in need of a wife?”

Chapter Three

THE ROOM ERUPTED in a cacophony of protests and questions.

“You want me to marry Ina?” Gavin asked dumbfounded as Ina’s aunt reared back and gasped. “But surely you can’t be serious?”

But Mrs. Sullivan didn’t look at either of them. She was focused solely on Ina, who in turn stared at the matchmaker, stunned.

“You said you couldn’t marry a man who doesn’t understand how important your art is to you,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “What better man to marry, then, than your friend who already supports your work?”

Gavin. Mrs. Sullivan thought she should marry Gavin?

She couldn’t marry him. He was her friend. Her best friend. Best friends did not marry, and he certainly would never consider asking her to be his wife. Lord, she didn’t even know the kind of woman he might want to marry—or if he was even looking to end his bachelorhood. All she knew was that if he’d ever given a thought to the woman who would one day stand at the altar with him, she was certain the lady wouldn’t have been her.