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“It’s ambiguous.” Alan raised a brow. “Viewers will interpret the painting differently.”

She drew a breath. “I should have realized . . . something else.”

She could spend the rest of the afternoon reviewing touches, glances, a thousand little signs that comfort was but a small portion of what Aunt Sylvia and Miss Lolly gave each other.

“Which is?” Alan reached for her hand.

She hesitated. Her aunts kept their relationship secret. It wasn’t for her to tell.

“Maybe I always did want to live a love story.” Her smile felt watery.

“Ah.” He played with her fingers, grinning. “What would you say, then, to a marmoset, a dozen cats, and a husband?”

She made a sound between a giggle and a gasp. “A dozen cats?”

He slid off the love seat, onto his knees.

“A dozen between this house and our farmstead, not in each. I have my limits.” He laced their fingers together. His eyes shone. “You’ll bake the bride cake, of course.”

Her pulse was galloping. “You still want to marry me?”

“I do.” He frowned with laughing eyes. “Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. No I dos. Not until you say yes.” He paused. “Do you? Don’t answer. That was too abrupt. I’m going to start again, more ceremonially.” He cleared his throat, and she could tell he was trying not to smile. “Nina Finch—”

The door flung open.

It was the Duke of Umfreville.

Chapter Thirty

“Where is my son?”

The duke strode into the room, hat under his arm.

“I’d assume in his bedchamber, as per usual.” Alan rose slowly to his feet. “But for your very unexpected presence.”

“He’s not in his bedchamber.” The duke didn’t seem to notice that Alan had been on his knees, didn’t seem to notice Nina at all. He paced a circle, peering behind furniture.

“He’s not hiding in a vase in my drawing room either.” Alan reached for his cane. Nina stood, moving close beside him in case he needed to steady himself.

The duke cast his hat onto a chair. He reached the windows and began to shake the curtains with the industry of one of his tormented housemaids.

“Nor is he in the curtains.” Alan touched Nina’s arm, then walked toward the duke. “Before you pull up the rug, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“You tell me.” The duke pivoted, his expression rancorous.

“What does Miss Milford have to say?” Alan’s expression was unreadable. “She never leaves his side.”

“I dismissed her. Yesterday. I think you knew. You were skulking around Park Lane. You called twice.” The duke poked his finger into Alan’s chest. “You orchestrated this, didn’t you? You’ve been plotting something.”

“I have been plotting something, yes.” Alan laughed a laugh with too many edges. “Not a kidnapping. And not anymore.”

“How do you explain the fact that my son is missing?” The duke all but yelled it.

“He seized an opportunity to run off.”

“He wouldn’t dare disobey me.”

“No, in your household, the consequences of disobedience are most unpleasant.” Alan’s smile was breathtakingly sardonic. “But then, unpleasantness is the status quo. Which might dilute the deterrent effect.”