Heloise reached over and took Evie’s hand. “I understand. It was the same for me and Alfred. Not at first. But within a fortnight of our arrangement, I felt differently with him.”

It hadn’t even taken Evie two days, let alone two weeks. From the moment she’d encountered him at the hedgerow, she’d felt as if she’d fallen under a spell.

Brow pleating with concern, Heloise looked at the fire. “I confess I’m disappointed he proposed an affair instead of marriage.” She snapped her gaze to Evie’s. “He doesn’t know about you, does he?”

“How could he?” Evie smoothed her hands over her lap. “He proposed an affair because I made it clear I’m not interested in marriage. He would have liked to court me, actually.”

“Oh, Evie,” Heloise whispered, her tone tinged with sadness. “He seems lovely. Why wouldn’t you want him to court you?”

A burst of fury rushed through Evie. “I am not you, and you need to stop thinking I want the same things. I do not want a husband or children or what you think of as security. I have that now—a home, employment, and standing.”

“You’d have a home and perhaps even greater standing as the wife of Lord Gregory,” Heloise said evenly.

Evie stood and paced away from the fireplace. The spike of anger had dwindled—she was often quick to emotion and nearly as quick to let it go. When she turned, she fixed a cool stare on her sister. “I forgot the most important thing I possess: independence. My life is entirely my own, and that’s precisely how I prefer it.”

Heloise exhaled and also got to her feet. “I do understand. I suppose I worry. Don’t bother telling me not to. As your older sister, that is my responsibility.”

“I wouldn’t.” Evie knew Heloise would always be concerned for her. She’d fought so hard against Evie following her into the sex trade. Her plan was to provide for them both so that Evie could find a respectable occupation and hopefully a respectable husband.

“I appreciate that you’ve always looked out for me,” Evie said quietly. “But we’re different.”

Heloise walked slowly toward her. “I know. I wish Nadine hadn’t died.”

“She was old. And sick.” Evie had cared for her, the woman who’d been the only parent to them after their mother had died, ill and heartbroken more than a decade earlier, a few years after they’d escaped from France. Nadine had been their mother’s maid. Skilled with a needle, she’d worked as a seamstress to provide for them, including paying for reading and writing lessons, continuing what their mother had started before she’d died.

“You still sound so dispassionate,” Heloise said sadly. “I know how much losing her hurt you. It hurt me too.”