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“That is what you said.” Nelly struck a diplomatic note.

“True,” said Lucy. “In a moment of despair. I can see how Muriel might have believed it. But Kit, how could you believe it? Have you ever met me?”

It was a fair point.

“You weren’t turning back, then.” He scratched his nose.

“Obviously.” Lucy scoffed.

He folded his arms, looking from her to Nelly to Gwen. “We could have had this conversation in St. Ives.”

He could have continued cycling. Accompanied Muriel. Seemed like less of a weakling for failing to complete the run. He tried to frown, but the corners of his mouth kept turning up.

Anyone who thought him weak could stuff it. He’d see Muriel in St. Ives, when he introduced her to his three best mates.

Happiness bobbed like a buoy inside him.

“We’ll have other conversations in St. Ives,” Lucy declared. “We need to rewrite our manifesto. And you haven’t heard our idea.”

“First, I want to hear about Muriel.” Nelly leaned forward.

Gwen waved an arm. “Where did everybody go?”

The formerly bustling coffee room was notably emptier.

Nelly furrowed her brow.

Kit blinked.

“Bugger!” Lucy jumped up. “The train!”

30

They made it to the platform seconds before the train to Truro steamed into motion. Even the first-class carriage was full, and they found seats together only by the grace of two jovial young men eager to retire to the smoking lounge for the sake of the ladies.

“You should have taken your private railcar.” Kit arched a teasing brow at Lucy as he settled across from her.

“Anthony wanted me to take it.” She set her bag on her lap, a better-quality bag than the battered one she’d lugged about as an art student, but still, a workbag. “Too much fuss.”

“He gave this venture his husbandly approval?” Kit felt the jab of Nelly’s elbow. Sometimes his teasing went too far. He’d wounded Lucy in the past, implying that her marriage to the Duke of Weston was a form of subordination.

Chastened, he cleared his throat. “How is Weston? And how are the girls?”

“Wonderful.” Lucy opened her bag and pulled out her sketchbook. “I can show you.”

“Dear God, no! Desist!” Kit covered his eyes with his hands. “I’ve seen enough depictions of Weston’s bits to last a lifetime.”

“I haven’t,” murmured Nelly. “He’s quite a specimen.”

Kit lowered his hands and saw that Lucy was scowling at them both. The first painting she’d ever exhibited was a nude of Weston, as scandalous as it was successful. He’d played muse to her ever since. In Kit’s opinion, teasing about Weston’s willingness to drop his trousers was permissible until the end of time. The duke’s devotion to Lucy’s art—his devotion to her, full stop—was his finest characteristic.

Nelly might disagree.

The sketches Lucy showed him were of her daughters, twins, just beginning to toddle when he’d seen them last.

“They’re with Anthony at Stratton Grange.” She named his—their—country seat, smiling a little wistfully at her drawings. “I’ll join them next week.”

Kit gave the sketches their due, nodding as he returned the sketchbook. “Beautiful.”