Constance froze, her breath catching in her throat. She bowed her head lower, murmuring a ragged, "Apologies, miss." 

"Do it quietly, stupid cow," Josephine muttered, taking another bite of the peach. She turned her attention back to her mother. "He wept again last night, Mother." 

Lady Trent didn't look up from her needlework. "Lucas? Over what?" 

"A dead bird he found on the terrace." Josephine rolled her eyes, a gesture so utterly devoid of warmth that it made Constance's stomach turn. "He held it in his hands and gave me a ten-minute lecture on the fragility of life. It was exhausting. I had to force myself to produce a tear just to get him to stop talking." 

"You will produce as many tears as he requires, Josephine," Lady Trent said sharply. "He is a duke. He is the Duke of Aylesbury. You will weep over every dead bird in Hampshire if it gets that ring on your finger." 

"I know. I know." Josephine sighed, leaning back. "It is just his limp. The way he drags his foot when he walks. It is humiliating. And his poetry. He read me a sonnet he wrote about my hair. It didn't even rhyme properly. I wanted to scream." 

By the fire, Constance's hands were shaking so violently she had to grip the iron tongs with both hands to keep them from clattering against the grate. 

*He is soft. He is kind,* she thought, a fierce maternal rage lighting up her chest. *He thinks you are his salvation.* 

"His limp," Lady Trent said coldly, "is his greatest asset. It makes him insecure. A handsome, arrogant duke would never have looked twice at a girl with a dowry of dust and a brother facing debtors' prison. His weakness is your ladder. Climb it." 

"Thomas is an idiot for gambling away what little we had," Josephine said, her voice dropping into a sneer. "But Lucas will pay it. I've already laid the groundwork. I told him how Thomas is a victim of bad company. Lucas's heart bled all over the Persian rug. He practically offered to cover the debts yesterday." 

"Good." The sound of the needle piercing fabric was loud in the quiet room. "And what of the Dowager?" 

Constance held her breath. She carefully placed a black lump of coal onto the dying embers. 

"The Duchess?" Josephine scoffed. "Lucas is terrified of her, but he is too polite to banish her. I am not." 

"She is a shrewd woman, Josephine. Do not underestimate Constance." 

"She is an old woman clutching at relevance," Josephine countered, dropping the peach pit onto a silver tray with a clatter. "Once I am his wife, I will slowly cut the strings. I will tell Lucas she is cruel to me. I will manufacture a few slights, weep into his chest, and tell him I cannot bear to live under the same roof. He is so desperate to protect me, he will exile her himself." 

"To where?" 

"There's a crumbling dower house in Cornwall. Let her rot by the sea. The salt air will finish off her joints in a year or two." Josephine laughed. It was a high, thin, terrible sound. "Then I will have Aylesbury House in London entirely to myself. Lucas can stay in the country with his poetry and his dead birds." 

Constance stared into the fire. The flames licked up the side of the fresh coal, burning bright and violent. She did not feel the ache in her knees anymore. She did not feel the cold. She felt only a cold, absolute clarity. She finished tending the fire, stood up, and backed away. 

"Wait," Lady Trent commanded. 

Constance stopped, keeping her head bowed. 

"Take that tray away. The smell of peaches gives me a headache." 

Constance walked over to the sofa. She picked up the silver tray. As she did, Josephine shifted, brushing her silk slipper against Constance's dirt-caked boot. 

"Ugh!" Josephine recoiled as if she had been burned. "Revolting!" she hissed, pulling her skirt away. "Are you incapable of watching where you stand? Get out of my sight before I have Mrs. Higgins box your ears." 

Constance did not look up. She did not speak. She simply took the tray, bowed her head, and walked out of the room. 

Once in the hallway, she leaned against the cold stone wall, squeezing her eyes shut. Her chest heaved. The sheer, unvarnished malice of it was breathtaking. They didn't just want Lucas's money. They despised him for the very kindness that made him an easy target. They viewed his gentle nature as a defect to be exploited. 

*You will not touch him,* Constance vowed to the empty corridor. *You will not have a single penny of his fortune, and you will not break his heart. I will break yours first.* 

The following afternoon was a symphony of orchestrated panic. The Dowager Duchess's carriage was expected within the hour. Mrs. Higgins was shouting at a pitch that rattled the kitchen windows. Floors were being swept for the fourth time. Silver was polished until it gleamed like mirrors. 

Constance was given the task of cleaning the glassware, banished to the back of the pantry because Mrs. Higgins deemed her too filthy to be seen in the main halls. But Constance had other plans. 

She stripped off the stained apron, though she kept the plain dress and the cap. She washed her face and hands in a basin of freezing water. The soot was gone, revealing the sharp, aristocratic lines of her jaw and the piercing gray of her eyes. It didn't matter. In this house, wearing these clothes, she was invisible. 

She timed it perfectly. The heavy crunch of gravel signaled Lucas's return from his morning ride across the estate. A moment later, the distinct, uneven footfalls of her son echoed in the grand foyer. 

Constance stepped out of the pantry and slipped into the line of servants carrying afternoon tea toward the main drawing room. She took a silver tray bearing two crystal glasses of sherry from a terrified-looking footman, ignoring his whispered protest, and walked through the double doors. 

The room was bathed in pale afternoon light. Lucas stood by the fireplace, still in his riding coat. He looked flushed, happy, and heartbreakingly open. His dark hair was windblown, and his eyes were fixed entirely on Josephine. 

The transformation in the girl was staggering. The cold, flat-eyed woman from the day before was gone. In her place stood a creature of perfect, demure grace. Josephine wore a dress of soft, blush pink. Her hair was arranged to look effortlessly loose. She stood with her hands clasped delicately in front of her, gazing up at Lucas with an expression of such manufactured adoration that Constance nearly dropped the tray. Lady Trent sat nearby, wearing a maternal, approving smile that looked painful on her rigid face. 

"You rode to the ridge?" Josephine was saying, her voice a soft, breathless purr. "Oh, Lucas, you must be careful. The rocks there are so treacherous. If anything were to happen to you, I... I do not think I could bear it." She reached out, touching his arm with trembling fingers.