“Yes. But love isn’t a nice neat set of numbers that add up.” Rose flicked her fingers out as if getting rid of her lists. “Apart from her knees dissolving when the duke kisses her, the biggest clue is that when George was offered her freedom, she refused it. And she can’t explain why. But whoever said that love had to make sense? So what I think is—”

George narrowed her eyes. She didn’t want Rose to say another word.

“Our dear, loyal, prickly, independent, I-don’t-need-anyone—I’m-perfectly-all-right-on-my-own—”

“As long as she has dogs and horses,” Lily interjected.

“—yes, our darling I-don’t-need-anyone—I’m-perfectly-all-right-on-my-own-with-my-animals George is finally, at long last, in love.”

“I am not!” George mumbled. How could they possibly think that? She hadn’t told them anything nice about the duke, and there were actually a few nice aspects.

“All the signs are there, George, dearest,” Lily said warmly. “I’m so happy for you.”

George squirmed.

“George is in love, George is in love,” Rose crooned in a singsong voice.

“Oh, stop it.” George rose to her feet. “You’re both talking a lot of nonsense. I need to take Finn for a walk.” She put two fingers in her mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Finn bounded up and slid to a halt on the polished floor. “Come on, boy.”

A moment later she slammed the front door behind her.

She pounded along the footpath. Her head was in a whirl. Rose and Lily were wrong. She wasn’t in love with the duke. She couldn’t be.

They were certain she was in love only because they were in love with their husbands. It wasn’t the same for her. The duke was no Edward or Thomas. They were warm, kind, loving men. The duke was . . . an icicle.

Except when he kissed her.

Blast and botheration! Why couldn’t she just go back to the way it was before? Before he’d noticed her. Before she’d noticed him. Before he’d kissed her. Life had been so much simpler then, so much more enjoyable. She’d known what she wanted and exactly how to get it. Now . . .

Now she didn’t know anything. Why hadn’t she taken her freedom when the duke offered it? Rose was right. It wasn’t just because baby Bertie had made her realize she wanted a baby of her own. She pulled her hat off and rubbed her head, as if somehow she could make sense of it all.

Whoever said that love had to make sense?

It wasn’t love—was it? She knew who she loved—her dog, her horse, Martha, her family . . .

But it wasn’t the same. She wasn’t afire to kiss any of them. The duke was like a fever in her blood.