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“Lady Astley?”

“That is correct.”

She struggled to keep her expression neutral. Lady Astley was the very definition of the embittered matron—her sharp nose raised imperiously, every word dripped with social scorn. She embodied all the worst traits of high society. Proper, yes, but also endlessly censorious. Audrey could all but feel the headache settling in at the thought of endless embroidery, tepid tea, and sermons on deportment.

She swallowed hard, voice catching as she sought an alternative.

“How … long … will you be gone?”

The earl’s eyes dropped to the hearth, as if examining the patterns of coal dust on the iron grate. It took him a moment to answer, and when he did his tone was leaden.

“It could be as much as two weeks.”

Audrey nodded, though her thoughts were churning in frantic circles. There must be something she could do.

“What if I remain here? I would not want to inconvenience Lady Astley.”

The earl shook his head once, firmly.

“You must have a chaperon. Next month, your mourning period will be over, which means we can begin the hunt for an appropriate husband. Your reputation must remain pristine.”

Her heart did not just sink. It tumbled down through the carpet, into the very foundation of the townhouse, and all the way to the servants’ hall belowstairs. They had not spoken in such explicit terms before about what would come next, but there it was. Her future laid out in blunt expectation.

Finding an appropriate husband was nowhere in her plans.

She clasped her hands tightly before her skirts, fighting the urge to fidget. She did not wish to be disrespectful, but …

“Perhaps the maid assigned to me could act as a chaperon? She has accompanied me to the bookshop, and to the modiste?”

“It will not do for a prolonged period, I am afraid. Lady Astley is a peeress of quality who will ensure that there is no doubt of how you spent your days.”

Audrey wished she could stamp her foot in protest like a spoiled child. The thought of being trapped under Lady Astley’s eagle-eyed gaze made her feel faint. She would sink into a dull, stifling gloom in that household. Better to be a Bedlamite!

Her ladyship was horrid beyond words. Audrey could already imagine being forbidden even her precious books, let alone tending Flapper. The starling would not be ready to take flight in the morning. Would Lady Astley permit her to care for him at all?

The earl had been kind and generous in taking her in, but he did not understand the life she had led in Stirling as her father’s apprentice. There, she had mattered. She had helped the sick, mixed poultices by the hearth, offered comfort with practical skill.

In London, she was nobody. A polite ornament in the earl’s grand townhouse. She clenched her fingers against her skirts, reminding herself she needed to be grateful for his protection. Once she came of age, she would take control of her inheritance and choose her own future.

“I … understand.”

What else could she say? The Season was over, and nearly all high society had left Town. Lady Astley was surely the only peeress available at such short notice.

Drat! It is going to be an awful fortnight!

She could only hope Lord Stirling’s mission would be swift and successful, and the weather would stay fair to hurry his return.

Julius knew it was a terrible idea. Not one of his friends or acquaintances would support it. It was reckless. Brazen. Rash. Idiotic. Which meant Julius was, perversely, in his element.

The lamplight pooled on his writing desk, reflecting off brass fittings, casting long shadows that shifted as the wick hissed and popped in the quiet room.

Since his friends had each irrevocably tied the knot over the past two years, he had grown increasingly dissatisfied with his idle pursuits. He had no interest in joining them in matrimonial hell, but he found himself mired in a half-life. Too bored to carouse. Too bored to attend endless soirées. Determined, in the depths of his stubborn soul, not to grow up.

He had once considered visiting his mother in Paris to bury himself in the city’s temptations, drifting through salons and coffee houses with other English exiles. But the notion held little true appeal.

If Julius were honest with himself—a rare exercise—Lord Snarling was not entirely incorrect. His mother would certainly disapprove of whom he had become. He refused to admit that was part of why he had not gone. It had nothing to do with his last wretched voyage over the Channel, when he had spewed his guts into a bucket for the entire journey.

It stung to realize he was rebelling against his austere father with ever more ridiculous behavior and scandalous fashion. Yet it was the only real rebellion he had left. Julius refused to become a humorless old goat like Lord Snarling, so he fought tooth and nail against the inexorable march of respectability.