“From time to time. It’s her way of controlling people. I didn’t begin to see through it until I was fourteen or fifteen.” He paused to negotiate a narrow passage between a wagon and a street barrow. “My father never saw through it at all. He danced to her tune all his life.” His voice was bitter. “Of course, she pulls the deathbed scene only when there’s something she really wants. The rest of the time it’s some imaginary ailment, or simply her ‘nerves.’ We are all slaves to Mama’s nerves.” It sounded like a quotation.

They reached Berkeley Square and he pulled over, on the far side of the square from Cal and Emm’s house. He snapped his fingers and his groom jumped down and ran to the horses’ heads.

He dropped the reins and turned to her. “So that’s how she got you to agree to marry me?” His voice was grim.

George nodded.

“And that’s what caused your change of heart?”

“Yes. My aunt Agatha must have been in on it as well. She took me there. She must have known. She’s known your mother for years.”

“Probably.”

There was a short silence. The breeze picked up, sending the leaves of the plane trees rustling. The sun was low in the sky and she shivered, feeling suddenly cold. Without a word, he bent and pulled a soft rug from a compartment beneath his seat and wrapped it around her. He was still deep in thought, a frown on his face, a grim, faraway look in his eyes.

“I must apologize for my mother’s deception,” he said at last in a cold, clipped voice. “And since she’s the reason you agreed to marry me, I suppose I must release you from your promise.”

George was stunned. It was the last thing she would have expected from him after all the trouble he’d gone through to ensure their betrothal. Perhaps there was a streak of honor in him after all.

She smoothed her gloves over her fingers, giving herself time to think of what to say. “You’re more like your mother than you think,” she said at last.

“What?” His brows snapped together. “I’m nothing like my mother.”

“You are, you know. She staged a dramatic scene to trick me into giving a deathbed promise and make me agree to marry you. Whereas you”—she met his gaze calmly—“you staged a seduction scene in the very place and at the very time when you were guaranteed to have dozens of witnesses—just before the supper interval at Mrs. Gastonbury’s soirée musicale.”

He whitened. His lips compressed.

“And then,” she continued, “you sent off the notice of betrothal to the newspapers in order to force my hand. There was no overeager secretary, was there?” It was a guess on her part, but he didn’t deny it.

He shook his head. “But I—”