“Oh, yes. After years as a spinster, never expecting to love or be loved, to marry or to have a child, I had to open myself to the frightening possibility of love. And with that came the equally terrifying possibility of rejection. And of making a fool of myself, and earning my husband’s scorn—he’d made an intensely practical marriage, recall, not a love match.”

George was silent. She hadn’t really thought of it like that. It had seemed inevitable to her that Emm and Cal should be in love; but now, looking back, and in the light of Emm’s explanation, she could see that it wasn’t so simple.

And that she had more in common with Emm than she realized.

Emm leaned forward and smoothed a stray curl back from George’s face. “Men aren’t the only people who find it hard to open up to someone else.”

George grimaced. “You mean me, I suppose.”

“I mean all of us. Love takes a leap of faith. It’s an act of courage.”

Her words hung in the air. Little Bertie gave a half-hearted wail, and his mother picked him up and began to wrap him in his soft baby blanket. “You have a lot of love to give, George, dear. You give it unstintingly to those closest to you—Rose, Lily, Cal and me, your Martha, Finn, and”—she kissed the baby—“to little Bertie here. You’re a loving person, and loyal to the backbone.”

George felt her cheeks heating. She never knew how to take compliments. And talking about emotions made her uncomfortable. “What’s the ‘but’?”

“No ‘but,’ I’m just reminding you that you are a prize to be won.”

George didn’t feel like much of a prize—nobody had ever thought of her as a prize—but Emm’s words warmed her.

“And the duke has gone to a lot of trouble to win you.”

“Win me? He trapped me.”

“Perhaps, in his mind, it’s the same thing.”

George scowled. It wasn’t the same thing at all. But he’d offered to release her and for some stupid reason she didn’t fully understand yet—midsummer madness?—she’d agreed to honor the betrothal.

“And you have always had a particular soft spot for wounded creatures. Think about that when you look at your duke.”

“The duke? A wounded creature? Don’t make me laugh.”

“You’ve met his mother, haven’t you?”

George stilled.

Emm added, “We are all wounded creatures in one way or another—Cal, me, Rose, Thomas, Lily, Edward, the aunts and you—yes, you, dear George. The duke has his points of vulnerability, as we all do, and manlike, he’ll do his best to conceal them from the world—and you. So think about it.”