She recalled the pretty—and revealing—nightdresses and bed-jackets Aunt Dottie had purchased from Miss Chance. George’s face warmed just thinking about it. Obviously they still . . .

All the time George had lived in this house she’d never had any idea that there was any more to Aunt Dottie and Logan’s friendship than, well, friendship. Of the mistress and servant kind. Though, come to think of it, Logan had made a point of calling Aunt Dottie “my mistress” and sometimes “my dear mistress.” With an odd little smile.

She found herself grinning. The sneaky old thing.

She was certain Rose and Lily had no idea—if they’d known, they would surely have said something. Aunt Dottie had made no secret of the fact that she’d known Logan since she was fifteen. It was clear she was fond of him. And he was clearly devoted to her and took excellent care of her.

But the idea that there was anything more to it had never occurred to George. Or, apparently, to anyone else. All these years . . .

Who was it who said that Aunt Dottie could never keep a secret?

She turned and found Betty watching from the doorway. “Innit sweet?” Betty whispered. “Such a fond old couple they are. I hope I end up like that one day.”

The thought had never occurred to George. What would it be like to be loved like that? Together for fifty years or more, and still to be a loving couple. She swallowed. She was marrying the duke. She was never likely to find out.

She tiptoed from the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

*   *   *

Aunt Dottie slept away the afternoon and only appeared later in the evening, wanting soup for Logan who she reported as feeling not only better but hungry. After feeding him the soup she joined George for a quick supper.

“How is he, Aunt Dottie?”

Aunt Dottie beamed. “He’s asleep now, but he was grumbling about needing proper food, not soup—isn’t that wonderful?—so manlike, and it shows how much better he’s feeling—but he drank the whole bowl right down—and it stayed down. Cook’s chicken soup is as good as any doctor’s potion.”

They both went up to bed early, Aunt Dottie because she needed to keep checking on Logan, and George because she was tired and because there was nothing else to do. She’d read all the books in Aunt Dottie’s small library last year, and had no patience with playing patience. She didn’t embroider or knit or tat, and there was no dog to walk or play with.

She hoped they were remembering to feed Finn, and then decided that, given his thespian talents, he was probably more in danger of being overfed.

*   *   *