She huffed an exasperated breath. “To what end?” She was resolved to be as blunt as he was mysterious. “I can’t marry you.”

St. Clare went still. His eyes searched hers.

“And yes,” she said quickly, to stave off embarrassment, “I know you haven’t proposed, or even mentioned marriage, but the natural goal of any courtship is—”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t, not even if I wanted to. Don’t you understand? You’re too late.” She stood from her seat, her heart twisting on an unimaginable spasm of anguish. “Whoever you are, you’re a year and a half too late.”

Chapter Eleven

St. Clare caught Maggie gently by the wrist and drew her back down to his side. She came reluctantly, resuming her seat on the bench, closer to him now than she’d been before.

“Talk to me,” he said. “I want to understand.”

She couldn’t look at him. She wouldn’t. The reality of her situation was too fraught with emotion. It was bad enough that she must contemplate marrying Fred, but to lose Nicholas forever? He’d only just come back into her life. How could she let him go? The unfairness of it was enough to drive anyone to tears. And she didn’t wish to cry.

“What else is there to say?” she asked. “I’d have thought it was abundantly plain.”

His fingers slid from her wrist to engulf her bare hand. His own hand was bare as well. He’d left his hat, cane, and gloves inside with the butler. There was nothing untoward about it. The two of them were in a private garden, not a public promenade. But it didn’t feel entirely proper. Quite the opposite. His skin pressed so intimately to hers. It felt dangerous. Illicit. Sensual beyond permission.

He didn’t have the soft hands of a pampered aristocrat. His hands were large and strong, his long fingers almost elegant, with callusing from where he held his reins and whip. The hands of a sportsman. A Corinthian.

They were Nicholas’s hands, she was sure of it.

“Does this have anything to do with Mr. Burton-Smythe?” he asked in a quiet voice. “You said he was something like your guardian.”

She returned the warm clasp of St. Clare’s fingers. She couldn’t help herself. “He has control of all of my money and property.”

“Until when?”

At last she turned to meet his eyes. Her heart clenched. “I must marry before six months have passed. If I don’t, everything will go to Fred absolutely.”

St. Clare straightened. “Well, then. There’s no difficulty—”

“You don’t understand. It must be with his permission. A groom of his choosing.”

“In other words—”

“In other words, Fred himself. He won’t approve of any other.”

A muscle ticked in St. Clare’s jaw. “And if you don’t marry him? If you wed someone without his approval?”