“I’m going to marry him,” Henrietta announced.

Laura’s gaze jolted back to her friend’s face. “What?”

“I know he wants to marry me.”

“Has he asked you?”

“Not yet, but he’s implied his intentions in dozens of ways. I expect that soon he’ll broach the subject properly. And when he does, I mean to accept him.”

The bottom seemed to fall out of Laura’s stomach. “But Hen…you don’t know him. It’s been less than two weeks—”

“Papa was of the same view. Until I pointed out to him that two weeks of daily meetings—of seeing the object of one’s affection every day for hours on end—is the equivalent of months of courtship. Why, during a London season a lady meets a gentleman once in a ballroom, and then again for ices at Gunter’s, or a visit to the botanical gardens. An outing or two later, the fellow’s proposing. And no one objects to that, do they?”

The cry of the seabirds and the shouts and laughter of the children on the beach softened to a hum in the background. Laura’s head was spinning. She stared at Henrietta, her mind latching onto a single sentence. “Is he the object of your affection?”

“I believe so. And I’m the object of his affection—of that I’m certain.” Henrietta smiled. “Do you know, Laura…he almost kissed me last week. He stopped at the final moment, his lips over mine. He’s a decent sort of gentleman, for all he pretends to be a worldly sophisticate. But I have a mind to tempt him.” Dimples popped in her cheeks. “If he doesn’t kiss me by Sunday, it will not be my fault.”

Laura opened her mouth to say something. An objection. A warning. She didn’t know what. But Henrietta forestalled her.

“Yes, I know, he may well be a fortune hunter,” she said, “but what gentleman of my acquaintance isn’t? They all want Edgington Park, and they all covet my inheritance. It’s to be expected when one is situated as I am.” She linked her arm through Laura’s. “A man who cared nothing for what I can bring to a match would be a simpleton. And I’ve no intention of marrying a simpleton, no matter how noble he might be. Indeed, such a worthy suitor would likely bore me out of my wits.”

Laura allowed Henrietta to steer her down the sand. The sparkle of wonder she’d felt on arriving at the seaside faded to a dull shine.

Alex Archer didn’t belong to her. He never had.

“I should like to be a friend to you,” he’d said.

Not her sweetheart. Not her husband. And certainly not her love. Just her friend. And very soon, the husband of Henrietta Talbot.

Laura’s heart twisted. For a moment, she didn’t know how she could bear it.