Everton returned to his desk and spread the violets out around his papers. A waft of springtime reached his nose, and then it was gone. The darkened petals looked back at him, waiting for him to ask his questions.

What else could he have done? What was he supposed to do now? He crunched a few of them in his hand, the spring scent returning, but this time it was bitter. She wanted to return to him because it was the right thing to do?

He had wanted her to return to him no matter what. Whether it was right or wrong. Whether her parents wanted her to or not. He had wanted to be loved for himself and not because a piece of paper handed to them in a church told them it was what they were supposed to do.

Curse Rachel and her always wanting to do what was right.

A knock on the door of his study interrupted his thoughts.

Lord Bryant closed his eyes and took in a slow, steadying breath. He had been explicit in his instructions to Nelson. Lady Emily’s letter and Rachel’s violets were enough to deal with for one afternoon. No one was to disturb him.

No one.

The door swung open, and Diana Barton stood on the threshold, her chin raised and a hand on her hip, as if to challenge anyone who argued that she didn’t belong in a man’s study without an escort. He cursed under his breath. This was the second time Nelson had disobeyed him in favor of Diana. Dash it all, what was so convincing about the woman that even Nelson couldn’t say no to her? What had she come to demand now? Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t agree to anything—not today.

But besides the quarry and the pianoforte and the quiet, I think Miss Barton is in love with you. And perhaps, even, you are with her.

He held tightly to the edge of his desk. Lady Emily’s words meant nothing. They were ridiculous. Diana was his friend, his friend whose eyes and dark hair sometimes haunted his dreams—all the more reason she shouldn’t be near him without Mrs. Oliver or her brother to protect her.

“What can I help you with, Diana?” He didn’t hide the exhaustion from his voice. His trip to Alfriston had emptied him, hollowing out pieces of his soul he had thought could not be more barren.

“I didn’t come for your help.”

He scoffed. All this woman had done was ask for help, and all he had done was give in to her every single time. If she was here in his study, she needed his help with something. She was too clever for her own good, and she knew how to disguise her demands to make him believe he was getting his way . . . until one day, he might blink and find himself in the lace section of a mercer shop on her behalf, debating whether ecru and cream were the same color.