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“I came here believing we had been invited as guests. I knew our families might hope we would like one another. I did not arrive expecting a proposal before my bonnet was unpacked.”

“I did not suppose you had.”

“You seem remarkably anxious to prevent a proposal regardless.”

“My mother is persistent.”

“I noticed.”

She smoothed the worn corner of her sketchbook with her thumb, once. His mouth nearly betrayed him into a smile. She resented wanting to see the rest of it. He shifted away from the door, leaving the passage clear. “My objection is not personal.”

“I should hope not. We have scarcely spoken. I imagine we can survive two days without making our families regret bringing us together.”

“Two days?”

“Until the ball. Afterward, you may find it easier to avoid me in a crowd.”

“I have not been avoiding you.”

“You delegated me to your gardener.”

“Samuel knows considerably more about plants than I do.”

“Then I shall look forward to meeting him.”

Tristan considered the sketchbook. “Is that what you intended to do now?”

“I intended to find my mother.”

“Of course.”

She had the distinct impression that he was unused to conversations that failed to end on his decision. That steadied her. It also pleased her more than was sensible. He was difficult and abrupt and far too certain that declaring his intentions settled everyone else’s. Yet he was listening. The corridor had narrowed to the width of his attention, and she felt the intimacy of it before she could guard against it.

There was no need to prove she would make a suitable duchess. A man who did not want marriage could not give her the life she wanted, however handsome or rich or unexpectedly arresting he was in a narrow corridor. Wanting him to look at her again changed nothing.

“I want a husband who wants a wife and children,” she said.

Tristan went still. She had spoken quietly, and the words occupied more of the passage than anything she had said before.

“And?” he asked.

“And you do not.”

He held her gaze from close enough that she could see the darker green ringing his irises. In making room for him, she had left less than an arm’s length between them. Her attention dropped, unwillingly precise: the clean line of his collar, the breadth beneath his coat, one loosened strand of sandy-brown hair near his temple. She lifted her chin, which did nothing to make the inventory less intimate.

Then she stepped back. “Then we need not trouble one another further.”

“Lady Lydia.”

His lips parted, but no objection followed, and she did not rescue him from the silence. At last, he said, “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. So do I.” She turned toward her room.

“Your mother is in the other direction.”

“I shall speak to her later.”

Lydia walked back without hurrying. Her hand was steady on the latch. Only after the door closed did she feel how fast her heart was beating. She kept her fingers there, listening until his footsteps moved away. It was an unreasonable response to a man she had just decided not to marry. And yet, here she was.