There was. He was arrogant and cold and high-handed, George thought. Though his kisses . . . She forced her thoughts back to the moment.

“No decent lady would want . . . to marry him then. And I have so little time left . . . to see him wed and settled.”

George bit her tongue. Did this lady not understand? If the duke were cross-eyed and hunchbacked, was subject to fits and drooled he would still have women lining up to marry him just because he was rich and a duke. But it wasn’t the kind of thing one could say to a dying mother.

Liquid, red-rimmed eyes fixed pleadingly on her.

George felt trapped, stifled, a bird mesmerized by a snake.

“But here you are . . . so slender and pretty and . . . charming, the very image of the girl I would have . . . picked out for my dear son. I nearly died, giving birth to him . . . did you know? I was never the same . . . afterward, but then . . . what does health matter? We mothers live only for . . . our children.” She gestured and the attendant came forward with a glass of some dark liquid. The duchess sipped, coughed, then sipped again.

When she had recovered, she beckoned George closer and took her hand in a surprisingly fierce grasp. “So tell me, dearest girl . . . you will make me happy, won’t you? You’ll marry my son . . . and become my daughter?”

George swallowed. She wanted to fling open the curtains, let in some light and fresh air—even London air—but she was trapped, held fast by a bony grip and a pair of tragic eyes.

The duchess continued in a faint, plaintive voice. “It was always . . . my dearest wish . . . to dance at his wedding, and although that pleasure . . . has been cruelly wrested from me, you will . . . give me your promise, won’t you?” She gazed beseechingly at George. “Promise me you’ll . . . marry my boy. And let me go . . . in peace. Please?”

She gazed at George through those huge, haunted eyes and waited.

George bit her lip. She’d never had a mother; Mama had died when George was a baby. But she could imagine a mother’s love for her child. Emm hadn’t even given birth yet, but George knew she already loved her baby.

This poor lady only had one son. How dreadful to be dying in such a worried state of mind.

George thought about all her reasons for not wanting to marry the duke. He was autocratic, haughty, cynical and aloof—though not when he was kissing her.

She thought about the way he’d invaded her dreams, and how she really did want to know what it felt like to lie with a man.

Would it be so bad?

Aunt Agatha said he didn’t want the usual kind of wife, that as long as she bore him children, he would let her live an independent life in the country, as she’d always planned.