“We don’t have any aunts,” Florence said, face tight with suspicion, though her voice wavered with confusion. The resemblance was too obvious to think otherwise.

“She is our aunt, Florence. Mama’s twin.” Bronwyn let out a breath. “I’ve been visiting her in France for a spell.”

Her sister’s eyes narrowed, but before she could speak, the marchioness herself appeared at the top of the stairs. Bronwyn braced herself for the outburst of wrath, but it didn’t come. Her mother was much too poised and put together for that, at least in front of the servants. However, the look she speared Bronwyn with, once she reached the bottom of the staircase, ran her straight through like a cold shaft of iron. Disappointment and betrayal were the least of it.

“You lied to me,” the marchioness said.

“I didn’t lie. I did go to Kettering at first.” Then I went to the United States and then on to France, but that’s neither here nor there. Thankfully, the last half of that stayed in her head.

“You expect me to believe you?” Her mother’s thin nostrils flared. “It’s that boy and his wanton wife. I’ve told you I don’t want you associating with them.”

“Courtland isn’t a boy, Mama. He’s duke. And he’s our family.”

“Not my family.”

Bronwyn’s mouth went tight. “Mine, then. His blood—Papa’s blood—runs in my veins and in the veins of all three of your children. And Courtland did not make my decisions for me. I’m perfectly capable of earning your everlasting disapproval on my own.”

“You are turning out to be a blight on the family name, just as he is.”

“Then I’m in excellent company, Mama. I’d prefer be like him than someone so small-minded they refused to grow or change. I would much rather stand for something, than sit on my hindquarters for nothing at all.”

Breathing hard, she attempted to control her temper, but her mother always had a way of pushing her to extremes with the slightest look or smallest word. Bronwyn had run correspondence for Wentworth, carried coded messages, charmed gentlemen for the sake of duty, and never had she felt as skewered by her mother’s judgment as she did right then. She bristled, though her eyes stung. She would not cry.

Her aunt cleared her throat. “Come now, Evelyn, don’t you think you’re being a little harsh on the girl? Surely a little trip to Paris isn’t cause for hysterics?”

“Esther,” her mother said in a frosty voice. “You look—”

“Happy?” her sister interrupted before some other offense was uttered. “Yes, I am. Much to your alarm, I know.”

The marchioness’s lip curled. “I was going to say ‘old.’”