“And it helps you sleep?”

“No, singing has never helped me sleep. Not really. But sometimes it exhausts me enough that I collapse for a while, so I still do it. Honestly, the only thing that has helped me, on occasion, is my family—Patience curling up with me in bed and Nicholas finally speaking to me after years of silence. My family has healed me in ways I didn’t think possible.”

Everton gritted his teeth. “I don’t have a family.”

“And that, my dear boy, is why I suggested marriage. It’s one of the few ways to create one. But if you aren’t ready for happiness, you aren’t ready. I, for one, can understand that. No one can force you to open your eyes and see that your future can still be bright.”

His future was not bright, and no amount of opening his eyes would fix that. Nor did he think a wife would help his situation. A wife had been the beginning of all his problems. “Marriage is one of the ways to create a family, you say.” One he wasn’t interested in. “Perhaps you could enlighten me on some of the others.”

The duchess laid a hand on his arm “You are always welcome to join ours. Come anytime.”

“Harrington would love that.”

“Oh, blast Nicholas. He loves to have his perfectly tidy world disturbed. It is what he wants. Or at least, that is what I tell myself every day.”

Everton’s heart slowed. Something about the duchess’s use of slang, or perhaps her twisted sense of what her uptight son enjoyed, had settled him, at least slightly. The butler arrived, handing him his coat and hat. He took them and gave the duchess a deep bow of respect. He walked to his carriage, mulling over the two options the duchess had given him. Join their family or find a woman stronger and more mature than Rachel had been and create a family with her.

His one year of marriage, during much of which he didn’t even live with his wife, had been the worst year of his life. And it culminated in the most horrific way possible.

He trod up the steps of his carriage. Hopefully Harrington would get used to having him around.

Chapter 15

Diana had gone a week without her gold pin. Mrs. Oliver scratched away at some document she was working on, the sound of her pen grating through the silent room. Diana kept her head over her own document. Looking out the window had been forbidden since Wednesday.

The scratching stopped. “Perhaps today—”

Diana stood, the chair scraping the floor loudly enough to stop Mrs. Oliver from finishing her sentence. Lord Bryant might come, but if the past few days were any indication, he wouldn’t, and she didn’t want to field any more questions about it from Mrs. Oliver. She was the one who had locked them in the back room together, then forced him to come to tea at Charlotte’s home. Diana had thought perhaps they had shared something in the nursery that night, a part of themselves not hidden by pride and false exuberance. Lord Bryant must not have entertained those same thoughts.