“How on earth did that happen?” she asked the sketch. She set it down again and turned to look out the window, now empty and tranquil, with its view of the long slope that fell away below the house, filled with flowering grass and clumps of dogwood. “And how in bloody hell am I ever going to be able to look John Grey in the eye next time I see him?”

For that matter, looking her father in the eye … Okay, she could see why Da would have a problem with her mother writing to John Grey. Despite her perturbation, a shocked giggle escaped her and she clapped a hand to her mouth.

“I do like women,” he’d told her once, exasperated. “I admire and honor them, and for several of the sex I feel considerable affection—your mother among them, though I doubt the sentiment is reciprocated.” Her diaphragm gave a small, disconcerted lurch at that. “Oh, really?” she murmured, recalling his last remark on the subject: “I do not, however, seek pleasure in their beds. Do I speak plainly enough?”

“Loud and clear, your lordship,” she said aloud, torn between shock and amusement. People changed, of course—but surely not that much. She shook her head. Her breathing had slowed, but her bodice still felt too tight. She put a finger in the top of her stays to pull them out a little, and then felt the tremble in her chest.

“Oh, bloody hell …” she whispered, and grabbed the edge of the stool to keep from falling. All the blood had left her head and her vision had gone white. Her heart had stopped again. Literally. Stopped.

One … two … three … beat, goddammit, beat! In panic, she thumped the heel of her hand hard against her breastbone. And then gasped when it did start beating, with shock at the startling thud in her chest, as much as with relief. And then it was off like a hare at a greyhound race, juddering in her chest, leaving her breathless and terrified, hand pressed flat to her chest.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it …” she whispered through clenched teeth. It had stopped before, the racing … it would stop again … But it didn’t.

“Bree? Where did you—Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!”

Her mother was suddenly there, snatching the crumpled paper out of her hand, seizing her with a strong arm round her waist.

“Down,” her mother said, calm and authoritative. “Sit all the way down. Yes, that’s it—” Her skirts bloomed around her as she sank to the floor, a yellowish cloud flickering through the white haze. Hands braced flat on the floor, she resisted her mother’s pressure to lie down, shaking her head.

“No.” She didn’t seem to have any connection with her voice, but she heard it, hoarse but clear. “Be okay. It’s okay.”

“All right.” A creak of boards; her mother eased down beside her, and she heard the scrape of a wooden cup against the floorboards. Warmth … her mother’s hand wrapped round her wrist, a thumb moving in search of a pulse.