Amy traveled through the rose-paneled passageway, making her way toward her private suite. She was fagged, the merrymaking at an end. As her bones ached, she wanted nothing more than to snuggle under the coverlets and dream—dream away the night’s events.

The exchange with Edmund pressed on her thoughts. She imagined his sturdy embrace, his soulful blue eyes. She envisioned the twinkling smile that so often lurked beneath his sardonic expression. The sound of his deep voice still rumbled in her breast, the resounding timbre making her shiver.

She sighed as the warm sentiments gave way to more disturbing reflections. The memory of her callous conduct still made her flinch. She had not desired to hurt Edmund, but he’d captured her imagination in an illicit manner. Musing about him—about a life with him—was a forbidden dream.

She belonged to another man.

“Amy?”

She paused, bemused, her thoughts tumbling in discord. Retreating a few footfalls, she stepped through the study’s door frame and smiled in a weak manner.

“Yes, Father.”

“I’d like a word with you, Amy.”

Her pulse quickened as she entered the large room. With fretful strides, she approached her father, his arms folded at his backside. He stood behind the wide and ancient desk, watching her closely as she traversed the long wool runner.

George Peele, the Duke of Estabrooke, was a tall figure with a slim build. His brusque manner and rigid countenance offered the impression that the dignified gentleman was dispassionate. He was rational and prudent, a stern patriarch, yet he possessed passion. He concealed a passionate temper.

Amy remembered the night in vivid detail. She had furtively sneaked belowstairs, knowing her mysterious fiancé had been summoned to the house. Desiring to meet the fellow she was intended to marry, she had witnessed a far more alarming exchange between the duke and her fiancé:

“It’s been fifteen years, Estabrooke! Do you really expect me to honor the betrothal?”

“I expect you to honor your word. Or will you shame your family name by breaking the contract?”

“And if she had not returned? Did you think I would’ve waited for her forever?”

“You haven’t wed another in that time, so the point is moot. You will honor the vow you made at her birth!”

“I made that vow as a boy of one-and-twenty.”

“You were of legal age and your father’s successor. You are duty bound to keep your promise. Do not think I’ve forgotten your past indiscretions, Gravenhurst. I hope you’ve learned from your former mistakes, that you will do what is right.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Amy chilled. The biting “Yes, Your Grace” still haunted her thoughts. The curt words had underlined her fiancé’s true feelings toward her, his repressed contempt, yet theirs was a necessary union, for she’d been apart from society for fifteen years. A hasty marriage to a respectable gentleman was of the utmost importance; it’d safeguard her reputation, protect her family from gossip.

Amy peered at her father with solemnity.

“How did you enjoy yourself tonight, Amy?”

“I enjoyed myself very much,” she returned, maintaining a steady inflection in her voice. “It was a lovely evening, Father.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” The man’s gray eyes darkened. “I spotted you with that seaman on the dance floor.”

Amy’s heart fluttered. “Yes, he came to the ball with the Duke and Duchess of Wembury.”

She had emphasized the couple’s title, raising her voice, fashioning more pomp. If she reminded her parent that Edmund was related to such a prestigious family, he might frown at her less.

“I see.” The duke’s lips firmed. “How very bohemian of the seaman to disregard convention, to attend the ball on his brother-in-law’s coattails.”

She winced. “If it wasn’t for Mr. Hawkins, I might still be lost to you, Father.”

“Yes,” he drawled. “About that, Amy.”

The scoundrel’s kinship with the ducal couple had clearly failed to meet her father’s ostentatious standards. And as she had danced with the “bohemian,” she imagined her parent’s great displeasure, his ire at the improper spectacle.

She lowered her eyes, avoiding the stern patriarch’s cutting stare. If he was disappointed in her for waltzing with the mariner, what would he think to know she was smitten with him?

“I have a confession to make, Amy.”

“What is it, Father?” she wondered quietly.

He rounded the desk and approached her with steady steps. At length, she was compelled to meet his gaze as he settled right in front of her, his arms still secured at his backside.

“After the kidnapping, I didn’t think I would ever see you again. Your mother, of course, believed you’d return to us, but, over the years, I waned in my dedication.”

“I understand, Father.” She twisted her fingers together. “Fifteen years is a long time to wait.”

“No, Amy, you do not understand.” He looked at her with intent, his eyes hard. “Parents should never give up on their children, just as the Lord Almighty never gives up on us.” He brushed her chin with his thumb, stroking it in a maladroit fashion. “But now you’ve returned to your rightful position, and tonight we’ve celebrated your homecoming with our dearest friends.”

A celebration? The ball had rivaled a street carnival with its fanfare. The guests had represented the finest crop of social dignitaries. It’d been an exhibit. Of her. A declaration. It’d announced her refinement, her respectability. It’d quashed any doubt she was a lady. Almost. There was one last test she had to endure: marriage to the marquis. She had to prove she’d make an upright gentleman a suitable wife. Then she would be welcome as one of them.

“I am very proud of you, Amy. You’ve matured into a beautiful, charming young lady.”

Her blood pounded in her head, making her dizzy. “Thank you, Father.”

He placed his hand at his backside again. “I have every confidence in you, Amy.” He returned to the sturdy oak desk. “I trust that all my disappointments are now behind me, that we can move forward with our lives at last…the way we should have done before your kidnapping.” He looked at her pointedly. “Fate cannot be denied, my dear, only delayed.”

She curtsied, her leg muscles weak. “Good night, Father.”

“Good night, Amy.”

She quickly departed from the study, her head feeling pinched. The fatigue in her soul had been trampled by her father’s stern sermon. She needed fresh air, not sleep. She needed freedom, not the cloistered confines of her private chambers.

With light, swift steps, she scurried through the long passageway and, through the terrace doors, entered the blooming garden.

The fragrant blossoms, an olfactory tonic, calmed her nettled senses. She breathed in the sweet night air, gazing at the delphiniums and lilies, the hydrangeas and irises. In the bright moonlight, the pink and white carnations formed a brilliant ring around the stone patio, the cool blocks comforting under her sore, silk-slippered toes.

She sighed, looking beyond the flowers and trees toward the dark, towering structures on the horizon. She peered longingly at the full moon, so brilliant and low in the heavens. It seemed an inviting place to be, a faraway land where dreams flourished.

She chastised herself for thinking such wistful rubbish. She had reunited with her family. She had reclaimed her rightful heritage. All her dreams had come to fruition. So why was she still gazing at the moon?

“Good evening, Lady Amy.”

Amy stiffened at the rusty voice that nibbled at her backside like a hungry pest. She maintained her eyes on the celestial ball, ignoring the dark presence; however, approaching footfalls ruffled her concentration. At last she peeked at the tall, shadowy figure that had settled beside her. Fortunately she also witnessed a footman positioned in the offing, keeping an appropriate distance from the affianced couple without offering them complete privacy.

“I’m sorry I missed the celebration tonight.”

He stood with his hands at his backside, an imposing figure. He might be considered handsome, with his fine features and well-tailored garments and polite mannerisms…if it wasn’t for his icy temperament.

“I’m a cad,” he said without a flicker of genuine remorse in his voice. “I should have been in attendance during such an important occasion, but I’d estate matters that needed my attention.” He shifted his stony eyes to meet hers. “I trust you will forgive me.”

“I forgive you, my lord,” she said stiffly, mimicking his aloofness.

Samuel Hale, the Marquis of Gravenhurst, smiled at her with artificial tenderness. He was two-and-forty years of age, with sandy brown hair and gold eyes that pegged unsuspecting citizens with their coldness. She was accustomed to their often vacant expression, yet she still shuddered each time he settled them on her.

It was a heavy truth that pressed on her breastbone: he was to be her husband. It wasn’t a binding, legal union, their betrothal. She’d like nothing better than to call it off, but it was an honorable pact made between the marquis and her father. If she cried off, it’d disgrace the duke. It’d shame her, too, for she’d be branded a jilt. A single social misstep and she’d be ruined. Besides, her father was depending on her to do the right thing…

I have every confidence in you, Amy. I trust that all my disappointments are now behind me, that we can move forward with our lives at last.

The duke’s stern words still resounded in her head, quashing the hope she might disentangle herself from the disagreeable marquis.

Fate cannot be denied.

“Did you enjoy yourself this evening?” He lowered his voice and murmured, “Did you dance with all the beaus?”

The shiftiness in his manner unsettled her nerves, and little, icy bumps appeared across her tingling flesh.

“Not all the beaus, I’m afraid.”

She’d much prefer it if he refrained from looking at her at all. With such a warm hue, it was a wonder the pools of his eyes expelled such frosty, even wicked regard.

“Should I be jealous of anyone in particular, my lady?”

“I think not.” She glanced at him askance. “You need a heart to feel jealousy, my lord.”

“True,” he said darkly.

She shivered under his creeping stare, restless. He had a polished air, an unblemished reputation, yet she sensed a tenebrous quality lurking behind his sophisticated affectations.

The harmony in the garden, the milky glow from the moon no longer offered her solace, not with the moody marquis in her company.

“I remember an evening like this many years ago.” He gazed at the late-night sky. “I was young, about your age, and the world seemed so full of promise. There was a blue moon then, too. Do you know what it means, Lady Amy? A blue moon?”

She shifted. “It’s the second full moon in one month.”

“That it is,” he praised. “It’s very rare.” He took in a deep breath, as if wanting to ingest the haunting atmosphere. “It’s a false moon, you know? We are standing under a false moon, you and I.”

She girded her muscles. “How do you mean?”

“There is a full moon every twenty-nine and a half days, twelve in a year. But every so often, the half days accumulate and another full moon appears in the calendar year, the thirteenth full moon. It’s a fraud.”

Very much like their relationship, she mused. Was that the devil’s point? But she wasn’t willing to prolong their unpleasant exchange by making any more inquiries. In two weeks’ time, she would wed the morose marquis. She would have a lifetime of unpleasant exchanges then.

“I have an interest in the sky: the stars, the moon,” he murmured. “I’m fascinated by the concept that our lives are ordained, recorded in the constellations.”

“Why?”

He said thickly, “A long time ago, at a country fair, a fortuneteller prophesied an ill omen. I believed it rubbish…until misfortune followed.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s been an insidious obsession of mine ever since.”

“Searching for more misfortune?”

“Trying to prove the heavens wrong,” he returned darkly.

She shivered.

“Do you believe in astrology, Lady Amy?”

“I don’t need the stars to tell me my fate.”

“I see.” He paused, then wondered, “Do you rely on your heart? Your wits?”

“I do.”

“And what does your heart tell you about our approaching union?”

Her lips firmed. She struggled with the need to tell him what she really thought of him. In the spirit of camaraderie with her betrothed, though, she returned tautly, “That we will endeavor to please one another.”

“Hmm…would you like to know what the stars foretell?” He whispered, “You might be surprised.”

“I’m fagged, my lord,” she snapped. “I’ve had a long day.” And an even longer night, she mused sourly. “Good evening,” her words clipped as she bustled away from him.

“Lady Amy.”

She paused and hardened. “Yes, my lord?”

“Sweet dreams.”

At the insidious farewell, she bustled off the terrace.