“I don’t know,” Thomas replied, and he realized that it was odd, but he had never asked himself the same question. “She never retaliated, if that is what you are wondering.” He saw his mother in his mind’s eye—her perpetually stricken face, the constant exhaustion behind her pale blue eyes. “She just…accepted it. Listened to his insults, said nothing in return, and walked away. No. No,” he said, remembering it correctly. “That’s not how it happened. She never walked away. She always waited for him to leave. She would never have presumed to quit a room before he did. She would never have dared.”

“What did she do?” Amelia asked softly.

“She liked the garden,” Thomas recalled. “And when it rained, she spent a great deal of time looking out the window. She didn’t really have many friends. I don’t think…”

He’d been about to say that he could not recall her ever smiling, but then a memory fluttered through his head. He’d been seven, perhaps eight. He’d gathered a small posy of flowers for her. His father was enraged; the blooms had been part of an elaborately planned garden and were not for picking. But his mother had smiled. Right there in front of his father, her face lit up and she smiled.

Strange how he had not thought about that for so many years.

“She rarely smiled,” he said softly. “Almost never.”

She’d died when he was twenty, just a week before her husband. They’d been taken by the same lung fever. It had been a terrible, violent way to go, their bodies wracked by coughs, their eyes glazed with exhaustion and pain. The doctor, never one to speak delicately, said they were drowning in their own fluids. Thomas had always thought it bitterly ironic that his parents, who spent their lives avoiding each other, had died, essentially, together.

And his father had one last thing to blame her for. His final words, in fact, were, “She did this.”

“It is why we are here now,” he said suddenly, offering Amelia a dry smile. “Together.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He shrugged, as if none of it mattered. “Your mother was supposed to marry Charles Cavendish, did you know that?”

She nodded.

“He died four months before the wedding,” he said softly and without emotion, almost as if recounting a bit of news from the newspaper. “My father always felt that your mother should have been his wife.”

Amelia started with surprise. “Your father loved my mother?”

Thomas chuckled bitterly. “My father loved no one. But your mother’s family was as old and noble as his own.”

“Older,” Amelia said with a smile, “but not as noble.”

“If my father had known he was to be duke, he would never have married my mother.” He looked at her with an unreadable expression. “He would have married yours.”