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“I have been attempting to be thorough.”

“You have been making speeches. I have numbered mine.” She lifted the paper. “It is a more economical method.”

“I should hate to omit anything.”

“Then I ought to have brought more paper.”

“I have been a duke since I was nineteen. I fear brevity has never been expected of me.” He held out his hand. “May I see the list?”

She looked at his hand before laying the paper in it. Their fingers did not touch. He wished they had, then bent over the list so she would not see him look at hers.

He read it. It was written in her small square hand, five items down the page, with dates beside them in the margin, in case she had thought of revising. The first line was the one they had both agreed without discussion: for the moment, this was to be a white marriage. The letters were very even, as though she had copied them from somewhere official. At the bottom, in a different ink and plainly added later, was a single line: No one is to say it was a mistake.

“I did not write that one for you,” said Lydia, without looking round.

“I know.”

“I wrote it for me.”

He gave the list back. A wheel struck a stone and he caught the edge of the seat beside her knee. Lydia steadied herself against the door. Neither laughed, though a few minutes earlier he thought they might have. When the carriage settled, she put the list in her reticule and left her hand outside it, bare where she had loosened the glove.

At the next posting inn he brought her water. She drank half and offered the glass back before remembering to ask for another. He finished it while she watched the ostler lead out the fresh horses, and though they spoke little afterward, when he asked whether she was warm enough she answered without looking away from him.

They reached Ashcombe at nine, in the last of the light.

Lamps burned in the entrance hall, and the gravel had been raked into pale, even lines. Whitmore waited on the steps with Mrs. Bell and several of the upper servants. One of the younger maids had come to a window above them. She vanished when Tristan looked up, leaving the curtain swinging.

“Your Graces,” said Whitmore, and bowed.

Lydia paused with her hand on the carriage door. At the wedding she had smiled when the footman called her Your Grace. Here, with the house waiting for an answer, she seemed to need a moment before she could give one.

“Mr. Whitmore,” she said. “How very kind of you all to wait.”

“It is our privilege, Your Grace.” The butler’s composure scarcely altered, but Tristan knew him well enough to recognize his pleasure. “Mrs. Bell has prepared the east rooms. There is a fire.”

“Thank you.”

She stepped down and went past the waiting servants with her chin lifted. At the top of the steps Mrs. Bell curtsied, then rose to open the door for her.

“Welcome to Ashcombe, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bell. I remember you were very kind to me when I twisted my ankle.”

“It was no trouble, Your Grace.” The housekeeper’s round face glowed. “If Your Grace will permit me, I shall show you upstairs.”

The door closed behind them. Tristan stood in the hall a moment longer, in the smell of beeswax and lilies, with his hat in his hand. The house was full of the small, expectant hush of a place that had been told something wonderful and was trying not to talk. Whitmore had not moved.

“It went well, I hope, Your Grace.”

“It was a wedding, Whitmore.”

“Indeed.” A pause. “The bride looked very well.”

“She had a tiring day.” Tristan glanced toward the stairs. “There is a green botanical volume on my desk. Would you take it to her sitting room? She was using it before she left.”

“I know the one, Your Grace.”

“Put it near the window. Tell her I thought she might wish to continue the comparison she began.”