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It would be an inestimable relief to share those secrets with someone, but that was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Emrys had come close to guessing at least one of his secrets by the looks he kept throwing at him. How Jerome had kept his countenance when Rob announced the match between Ava and the Marquess of Haldane, he didn’t know, but he must have succeeded, because nobody said anything.

It was a piece of devastating news that just confirmed what he had already decided over Christmas: that he needed a nice, safe marriage of convenience. The beautiful Isabella Mortimer, Countess of Esberry, was the perfect candidate for the role, if he could only bring himself to the sticking point. He hadn’t meant to blurt out his intentions in that direction, but the news about Ava and Haldane was the final impetus he needed to take action. And telling his friends of his intention made it that much harder for him to back away from it.

He stopped at the end of the street and discovered he had reached Hyde Park Corner. Definitely the wrong direction.

A nice metaphor for his life, really, he reflected, turning right to skirt the park. At this rate, by the time I get home, I might have sobered up.

Would he be sober enough to call upon the countess tomorrow? Or had he got himself so successfully soused he’d have to put it off one more day? He sighed, weaving on the pavement in an attempt to avoid a pile of dog detritus and almost stepping in it anyway. Another metaphor. The thought provoked a drunken chuckle.

The chuckle evaporated in a flood of melancholy, and he plunged on. Even if he did put it off, it wouldn’t alter the fact that he needed to marry. While he wasn’t in his dotage, he owed it to his lineage to beget an heir. He had ignored his duty long enough. If not the countess, then someone else.

The image of Ava Layne swam in his inner vision, golden, glorious, vivacious, joyful, adorable, Ava, and his heart clenched with an ache of longing he didn’t usually allow himself to feel. That’s the problem with alcohol. It lets the feelings in.

He took a breath to ease the ache and swallowed, his throat tight. He shoved the longing down.

But it could never be Ava for him. Not when she had a chance of happiness with Haldane.

“No.” He spoke aloud to emphasize the point and shook his head. “Not Ava. Anyone but Ava.” That kiss had been such a mistake.

He came to another stop at the Grosvenor Gate entrance to the park. The park was in darkness beyond, and the lodge was also just a black square shape. The trees of the avenue rustled in a breeze that had picked up and brought with it the scent of flowers and cut grass, to overlay the ever-present coal-smoke laden air of London’s streets, even here in the clean part of the city. Something about the trees beckoned to him, and on impulse he climbed the gate and dropped over the other side with the ease of an athlete, drunk though he was.

He ventured up to the nearest tree, a large oak, like its sisters, marching in a straight line of two and two on either side of the wide, grassed avenue. Even the trees are in pairs . . . He hugged the great trunk, leaning his cheek against the rough bark, and smelled the resin. He laughed, retaining just enough self-awareness to picture how ridiculous he must look.

Overcome suddenly with weariness, he settled under the tree’s canopy, his back against the trunk and went to sleep.

*

The Marques of R. was found asleep under a tree in Hyde Park by a groundsman at six am on Wednesday morning. The groundsman was mystified how he got there as the gates were all locked overnight, and the gentleman was clearly the worse for wear. It is whispered that the marquess is on the verge of offering for the Countess of E. Has he just ruined his chances with the lady, or will the gentleman’s other attributes outweigh a lapse of this kind? The Chronicle waits with bated breath to see the sequel to this unfortunate incident. We are reminded of certain indiscretions of his youth. The man is, after all, a lady-killer . . .

Ava dropped her toast with a cold wash of horror as her eyes read this tidbit from the gossip columns of The Chronicle, which confirmed what she had been fearing since last year. Her stomach swooped as she reread the fatal words. It is whispered that the marquess is on the verge of offering for the Countess of E.

The Countess of E. Esberry. Ava conjured the willowy form of the tall, dark-haired beauty with a violent stab of jealousy that made her feel sick.

She could present no stronger contrast with Ava, who was short, blonde, generously curved, and vivacious, rather than serenely elegant. It would seem that the countess did indeed embody the type of woman he admired. They certainly made a striking couple, both dark and beautiful. Her eyes stung as a wave of unaccustomed inadequacy swamped her. Ava was wont to think of herself as attractive, not simply because of her blonde prettiness, but because of her joyful, warm personality. But if Jerome is truly attracted to an entirely different style of woman—what hope do I have?

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Did that kiss at Lady Bellingham’s ball really mean nothing? Gentlemen kiss easily, you ninny! It might have turned your world upside down but it wouldn’t have even caused a ripple in his. I have been living in a dream, refusing to face the truth, always believing that with time he would see me differently. And now it is too late! I have run out of time to convince him that I am the right woman.