Sir Alfred had supported her decision at the time. “I confess, I am not ready to part with you yet, my dear,” he said.

Though Lottie had been surprised to hear her venerable uncle admit to such a feeling, she did not question it. The next few years passed in a similar fashion, with Lottie attending fewer and fewer entertainments each season in favor of other, more stimulating pursuits. She visited a number of salons all over the city and became involved in the movement to secure women the vote. At home Uncle Alfred helped her practice her ciphering skills, and she even assisted him in publishing a collection of Edward Gresham’s poems.

But just as Lottie had come to accept—nay, enjoy—her burgeoning spinsterhood, Uncle Alfred became fixated on her marrying. And marrying well. He barred her from participating in anything that contributed to her growing reputation as a woman scandalously interested in intellectual pursuits, leaving her with nothing to do aside from mind-numbing society activities. Lottie did not care for balls or tea dances or interminably long musical evenings. She did not want to be another object d’art on the arm of a man who could be interchanged with any other, as long as he had the right pedigree. But her pleas had fallen on increasingly indifferent ears, until the night last spring when she publicly rejected Ceril Belvedere.

Then she had all of Uncle Alfred’s attention. Much more than she had ever wanted.

“Was it a man?”

Alec’s jarring question drew her from her thoughts. “What?”

His jaw was set and his brow furrowed, but his eyes flashed with an edge of something dark. Something dangerous. “I saw your trinkets. The flower and the note.” He wrinkled his nose as if the word itself had spoiled. “Mrs. Wetherby believed you had run off with someone.”

Lottie’s pulse raced. It had been rather distressing how easy it was to create the illusion of her own ruin. Strange to think that something that was given such power could be destroyed by nothing more than a scrap of paper and some dried flower petals. This had only further convinced her that she was making the right decision.

But if Alec discovered it was all a sham, Uncle Alfred would know as well, and she would have no leverage. “You—you do not approve of such missives?”

The darkness grew. “I think it should take far more than that to win your heart.”

The organ in question wrenched painfully in her chest. Did she dare take him into her confidence? This man who had once known everything about her? The confession trembled at the edge of her lips.

“But then you wouldn’t be the first young lady to fall victim to a few sweet words,” Alec said dismissively as he turned away. “And Florence is filled with conniving men who live to prey on English tourists. Especially women.”

The bitterness underlying his words was surprising. Even greater was how much they hurt. She had meant to create that exact illusion, and yet a part of her hoped Alec would see through it.