A strange hysteria possessed Bliss; she fought him still, her legs thumping against the mattress, her head tossing wildly from side to side. Jamie stunned her by wrenching her close and holding her as the ragged sobs began, rising from the depths of her spirit like the wails of an injured creature.

Bliss’s hands moved up and down Jamie’s bare back, the scars lying in smooth ridges beneath her palms. Her grief was fathomless; she had been forced to share the only man she would ever love, and tomorrow she would lose him forever.

His lips were gentle against her temple. “Duchess, listen to me,” he pleaded in a broken whisper, still holding her fast. “Please, listen. I don’t know what it is that’s so terribly wrong, but I promise you this: if you’ll just give me the chance, I’ll make it right. Whatever it is, I’ll make it right.”

Bliss would have given anything short of her soul to believe Jamie, but she didn’t. She couldn’t, for he had just come to her from Peony’s bed. No matter what happened, she must not let herself forget that.

She almost told him then that she would be leaving in the morning, but in the end, she couldn’t. Jamie stretched out on the mattress, drawing her with him, holding her in an embrace that would leave her wondering, when she looked back on that night, whether he had been seeking to give comfort, or to obtain it.

Sometime before sunrise, Bliss lapsed into a fitful sleep. When she awakened, Jamie was gone.

Despondency twisted, spiky, in her throat.

There was to be no time for regrets, however, for a glance at the clock on the bedside stand sent her flying out of bed to have her bath and prepare for the momentous day that lay ahead.

By five minutes of ten, she had bathed, dressed, done up her hair, checked and rechecked the contents of her satchel, and composed a short note to Jamie. She propped that in front of the clock in the suite’s sunny parlor and, after one last look around, crept out.

Mrs. Wilmington had commandeered a carriage, and she was supervising the carrying out of her trunks and valises when Bliss reached the lobby. To her moderate annoyance, Walter Davis was there, too, reading a newspaper. The group of potted palms and ferns behind his chair made him seem to be sitting in darkest Africa.

“There you are,” Mrs. Wilmington thundered good-naturedly to her new companion. At the sight of Bliss’s solitary valise, however, she frowned. “Is that all you’re bringing?”

Bliss was nodding, about to explain that her needs were simple, when out of the corner of her eye she saw Walter approaching. Of course, if he should address her as Mrs. McKenna, he would spoil everything. Mrs. Wilmington would never be willing to engage a companion who was married.

Bliss muttered an excuse to her employer and hurried to intercept Walter, smiling warmly, if in a rather shaky fashion, as she greeted him. “Good morning, Mr. Davis. How are you today?”