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From the moment Benj had heard of Martha’s required return to London, he had begun to plan. His mind had spun on every option, every obstacle, every minute detail that could remedy the situation. He could not force her to stay, not if the stories about her mother were true, and if he were to truly solve the dilemma, he would need more than a sleepless night to bring it about.

So she had left, and he had mourned. He had worked his land, and he had sheared his sheep. He had tended his pigs, and he had rid the rest of Pontcaster Park of its ruined interiors.

None of it seemed to matter anymore. Not for himself, not for his title, not for anything.

And that was when obstacles faded and only the answer remained.

He needed Martha Smith.

It was madness. He didn’t even know if he loved her yet, only that he was miserable without her. Was that enough? Could that be enough to put a hold on whatever plans were being made for her? If she could wait for his estate to be suitable, if she could love him at all ever, then perhaps …

It would take time, and time was something he did not have. If her mother was truly determined to have her marry the son of whomever it was in London, Martha might not have much power or say in the matter. He knew her mother controlled her, and her time in Wiltshire had been due to her stubborn refusal to marry her mother’s choices. But what if her mother removed that choice for her? He had heard of worse things happening, arrangements without consent of the parties, and the like.

He could not bear to think of Martha forced into a marriage of such a nature, something stale and distant, incapable of bringing joy or contentment. Something that would benefit others but not herself. Something that would never allow her to be herself, only the version of herself that had been created.

No, he needed Martha to have more. He needed her for himself, but even if her feelings did not match his in fervor, he would fight to allow her the comfort of any marriage of affection she chose, even if it was not with him.

Although if it was not with him, he would likely sell Pontcaster for whatever money he could get and hide away in some remote corner of Ireland.

He had to try his hand for her, at least. He’d never forgive himself if he did not.

And this was how he had managed to bring himself to London mere days after Martha had left, his estate in the care of Harris, Thorne, Mr. Jepps, and Mr. Cummings, all of whom were now dedicated to helping him prosper however he could.

Benj had been to London before, but not recently, and certainly not as a man of influence. He’d never thought of himself in such terms, but apparently, being a country earl with a finely situated estate made him so, and the cards that had piled up in his rented room from those wishing to meet him were laughable. Clearly, none of these people had heard of Pontcaster’s present state, nor of the particular state of Benj’s finances. Were he truly seeking a match to further his ends, however, he would have had plenty of options.

One could never accuse Society’s finest of being particularly intelligent, but they did have a knack for opportunity.

It had taken him a full day and a half to make connections that would enable him to get to the next Society event. Knowing no person of standing and influence in London, he had been at a bit of a disadvantage, but a few key uses of his title, and the invitation presented itself. He could not remember the name of his new connection, or the host, for that matter, but he knew the address well enough, and that was all he needed.

Now he was walking into that address, trussed up like a peacock of sorts, wearing a silvery blue frock coat embellished with an embroidered leaf motif in silver and black threads along the lapels and buttons. His weskit was cream, and faintly textured, though he had no idea how or what the texture was, and his breeches were nearly black. Stockings and buckle shoes finished him out, and he greatly disliked them both. He could dance in boots in the country, but apparently that was a problem in London.

One more reason to dislike the place.

The ballroom of his host and hostess was unlike any place he had ever seen, glistening from top to bottom, candles in every part he could see, chandeliers catching every sliver of light available and reflecting them onto the guests below.

This was the world to which his Martha had been born, and to this world she should belong. Would she ever wish to leave it for him?

Thinking of her brought his eyes back down from the surrounding finery and onto the guests around him. He had no assurance that she would be here, but if her mother was as determined as he thought she was, no event of this magnitude would go unattended.

The nature of the evening required him to mingle, to be introduced endlessly, and to make his way around the room, even dance with a young lady or two as politeness required. Doing so also gave him further opportunity to examine the room, which was rather convenient. He was one of a few men in the room who had not worn a powdered wig this evening, but as he was not the only one, he did not feel so out of place. The wigs on the ladies varied from outrageous to minimal, but it seemed that all wore some sort of faux headdress. Again, some were powdered, and some were not. It would appear the fashions in London were changing, and some were eager to change with it.

He had just finished his second dance with a very nice young lady when he spotted Martha, and all of the sound in the room suddenly seemed to focus on her.

She was more beautiful and ethereal than he had ever seen her, dressed in a white gown that was detailed only in silver and the slightest hint of pink. Her wig was unpowdered, he was pleased to see, and matched the beauty of her dark tresses almost perfectly. Pink flowers and silver gems darted in and out of it, while long tendrils curled and coiled down her neck, beautifully encasing the elegance of her neck and throat, where a diamond choker sat as though to tempt the eye to its location.

He could not have pictured anything more lovely.

What was he thinking of? He was going to tell her whatever romantic, personal notions were swirling in his head in the hopes that she would … what? Not marry whomever her mother wished? Come back to the country and watch him work on his land? Stay there for him?

She was a fine lady of high standing and fortune, and he was an empty earl. He could not consign her to live in a cottage for months or years until the estate was fit for inhabitants. They could not live together at the inn in Chippenham.

She was a goddess of this fine, elegant world. What could she possibly want with him and the nothing he had to offer?

Her incomparable eyes landed on him then, and widened in recognition, her full lips parting.

There was no retreating now, and Benj could not resist her. He strode over to her without hesitation, and bowed deeply. “Miss Smith.”

“Lord Hillier,” she breathed, her voice barely audible over the music. “How … how are you here?”