Anne rolled her eyes. “Oh, Harcourt! Harcourt, Harcourt. That I would marry such a man as that.”

Thomasina drew back in shock at her sister’s dismissive tone. “What—what do you mean? A man such as that? What is wrong with the earl?”

She could certainly think of nothing. Her sister was apparently another story, for she immediately launched into a tirade. “He never smiles, Thomasina. Never! And laugh at my quips or jokes? No! He only stares at me like I’ve carried something unpleasant into the parlor.”

Thomasina opened her mouth to interrupt, but Anne seemed to be on a roll now and barreled on. “His finances must be in a terrible state, even worse than rumors have named, for he is always hunched over some ledger, utterly distracted. He likes the country over London, so that means I shall be forced to stay here on this dreadful estate with him and his mother, who always seems so nervous and never meets my eyes. Like she has something to hide. Probably that her son has dead wives stacked up in some locked room somewhere and I shall be next.”

At that Thomasina could not remain silent, and as powerful defensiveness rose up in her, she shook her head. “Anne, that is ridiculous, you’ve been reading too many French fairytales. Harcourt is a good and decent man, and to accuse him, even in jest, of something so terrible is not right.”

Anne tilted her head slightly and speared Thomasina with a speculative look. Thomasina shifted beneath it, for Anne often saw her too clearly about mundane things. She certainly didn’t wish to be seen when it came to the very complicated feelings she had for Harcourt.

She turned away as Anne huffed out a breath. “You are right, of course. Harcourt is nothing but decent.”

At the emphasis, Thomasina faced her again with a huff of breath. “You say that as if it were a curse.”

“It’s just so boring!” Anne flopped back on the settee and dropped her forearm over her eyes. “My life will be endlessly, ceaselessly, lovelessly boring, and I shall wither up and die from it.”

Thomasina’s lips parted and she sat down on the edge of a nearby chair to stare at her pouting sister. “You really think your marriage would be loveless?” she asked. “You don’t think you could come to love Harcourt if you tried?”

Anne peeked over her arm at her. “And you say I read too many fairytales! What one have you spun for yourself about my future life with this man? That I will find deep and abiding love for him hidden somewhere in the larder?”

“You could—”

“No, my dear,” Anne interrupted. “That will not happen. And I am not the problem. I have love and passion to share in abundance. The problem is him. He is…he’s incapable of love, I think. He’s made himself so cold to the world, so dedicated to propriety and naught else, that he could not allow himself to melt even a fraction for any woman. And that is what terrifies me.”