“It doesn’t really matter what kind of marriage I’ll have, does it?” Her lower lip trembled. Not now. The last few days she’d found herself almost constantly on the verge of tears.

“Of course it matters.” Tony was obviously affronted. “We want you to be happy, Georgie,” Oscar said. “You seemed happy with Pye before.” George bit her lip. She would not cry. “But he wasn’t happy with me.” Oscar exchanged a look with Tony. Tony drew his heavy eyebrows together. “If Pye needs to be persuaded to marry you—”

“No!” George drew a shuddering breath. “No. Can’t you understand that if he’s forced to marry me, it would be far worse than marriage to Cecil? Or no marriage at all?”

“Don’t see why.” Oscar scowled. “He might balk at first, but I think he’d soon come around once married.” “Would you?” George stared at Oscar. He looked taken aback. She switched her gaze to Tony. “Either of you? If you were forced to marry by the brothers of your bride, would you soon forgive and forget?” “Well, maybe—” Oscar began. Tony spoke over him. “No.” She raised her eyebrows. “Look—” Oscar started.

The door opened and Cecil Barclay stuck his head around it. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Come back later, shall I?”

“No!” George lowered her voice. “Come in, Cecil, do. We were just talking about you.”

“Oh?” He looked warily at Tony and Oscar, but he closed the door behind him and advanced into the room. He shook out a sleeve, spraying drops of water. “Ghastly weather out. Can’t remember when it’s rained so much.”

“Did you read my letter?” George asked.

Oscar muttered something and flopped into an armchair. Tony propped his chin in a hand, long bony fingers covering his mouth.

“Quite.” Cecil glanced at Tony. “It seems an interesting proposition. I take it you have discussed this idea with your brothers and it meets with their approval?”

George swallowed down a wave of nausea. “Oh, yes.”

Oscar muttered, more loudly this time.

Tony arched a hairy eyebrow.

“But does it meet with your approval, Cecil?” George forced herself to ask.

Cecil started. He’d been looking rather worriedly at Oscar, slumped in the armchair. “Yes. Yes, actually it does. Solves a rather tricky problem, in fact. Due to a childhood illness, I doubt I’m able to, uh, father a . . . a . . .” Cecil petered out, staring a bit fixedly at her tummy.

George pressed a hand to her belly, wishing desperately that it would calm down.

“Quite. Quite. Quite.” Cecil had regained his power of speech. He brought out a handkerchief and blotted his upper lip. “There is only one hitch, as it were.”

“Oh?” Tony dropped his hand.