“You know how he was, one moment shouting, the next laughing. He was excited about a new painting coming up for auction soon. When he returned home from the mill the evening before the … that day, he was irritable, but about what, I could not say. He was often irritable when he returned from his places of business, never certain they were being managed as well as he would like.”

“Garfield had too many diverse investments and businesses,” Lord Darby said. “I advised him in this, but he refused my counsel.” As if such a thing were beyond his comprehension, he shook his head. “I told him if he could not trust his very competent managers to oversee his properties, then he should sell, consolidate, and manage one company himself to his own satisfaction.”

He turned to look into Agatha’s eyes. “That will be my advice to you as well, my dear, when you are up to discussing such things. I offered to help him sell the less profitable holdings, and I shall extend that same offer to you. I am yours to command.” He raised her hand to his lips, brushing her knuckles with a kiss.

Juliette stared at the painting over the mantel. Her parents were openly affectionate with each other, but such a display from the viscount to Agatha set up a discomfort … and if she were honest … a bit of envy. What would it be like to be cherished and championed by a man so much that he did not care who knew about his affection?

A fleeting image of Duke Heinrich shot through her mind, but the thought of him kissing her hand … or her lips … did nothing to move her. He was a nice man, but he sparked no romantic thoughts in her. Most couples married for expediency, necessity, or to follow their families’ wishes, not for love. Was she wrong to want to hold out for something more?

The footman entered. “Mrs. Fairchild has arrived, ma’am.”

“Mrs. Fairchild?” Agatha looked at Lord Darby, who shook his head. “Perhaps she was an acquaintance of my mother’s long ago? Please show her in.” Agatha straightened her back and composed her face into serene, if still grief-tinged, lines. Her fiancé let go her hand, though it seemed with reluctance.

A slender woman with pale-yellow hair and Wedgwood-blue eyes swept into the room. She wore black from head to toe, and she clutched a black lace handkerchief. Arrestingly beautiful, she looked ethereal and elegant, though she must be all of forty. Both Daniel and Lord Darby shot to their feet.

“Dear Miss Montgomery—may I call you Agatha? I am prostrate with grief.” She held out her hand.

Agatha clasped the woman’s fingers but dropped her hand quickly. “Mrs. Fairchild. So nice of you to call.” A puzzled crease appeared between her brows as she sized up the newcomer.