"The pleasure is mine," Mary lied, making her eyes as limpid as nature would allow. "I have always been eager to see Sibley Court."

That struck home, at least. She could see guilt flicker across his face as the barb struck — or perhaps it was nothing more than the uneven flick of the candle flame, playing tricks with her eyes.

Well, he ought to feel guilty. He had been the one who had promised to bring her home to Sibley Court as its mistress. Over dozens of dances he had spun endless stories of the wonders of the family home: the ghost who stalked the battlements, the trees he had climbed, the scent of the ancient herb garden after a spring rain.

"Miss Alsworthy…" Mindless of the company around them, Lord Pinchingdale looked earnestly down at her, groping for words. "Mary…"

They had stood that way so often in the past, his dark head bent to hers, a private haven in the midst of a crowded room. Mary lowered her eyes against a sudden pang. Not of the heart, of course. A heart had no business engaging in practical transactions. Half the time, she reminded herself, she hadn't listened to a word he had said, mentally cataloguing the dances she had already promised and devising new ways to play off her admirers one against the other.

Call it memory, then, or nostalgia. He might have been dull, but he had still been hers. She had gotten into the habit of him.

"Mary…" His voice scraped along the back of his throat, as though he spoke only with difficulty. "I'm sorry."

Sorry, sorry, sorry. She was sick of sorry. Letty had been sorry, too. They were sorry, but she was alone. So much for sorry.

"Don't be. It all turned out for the best." If her smile was a little sour around the edges, Geoffrey didn't appear to notice. "Practically enough to make one believe in Fate." Or just very meddling relations.

"Not many would be so generous."