I pause to speak to Withers, taking off my hat and handing it, with a nod, to my lady’s maid, Violet.

“I shall sit with Mama in the morning room. Would you direct people to us there?”

“Yes, Lady Lilith.”

“But have them shown to the dining room first. Everyone will be drained from standing in the sun for so long.” I turn to speak to Freddie, but he has already divested himself of hat and cane, snatched up a glass of wine and is striding through the door to the study.

The morning room is blissfully shady, the sun having long gone off its tall windows. I encourage Mama to sit beside the fragrant bouquet of flowers which fills the hearth. I remain standing, the better to greet our guests. For over an hour the great and the good, mostly members of the aristocracy, some British, some having traveled from abroad, express their sympathy at the passing of the duke, and we graciously accept their condolences. My feet are soon aching and the pain in my brow has sharpened so that it is hard not to frown. It occurs to me that my mother and I are expected not only to hide our grief, to remain dignified and composed, whatever we are feeling, but we are also required to assist people we hardly know who stumble over their platitudes and condolences. It is incumbent on us, the hostesses and chief mourners, to put others at their ease, never mind our own inner turmoil. What use are offers of sympathy when they demand such effort of will and stoicism in return? This entire event, the food, the flowers, the manner in which one must conduct oneself, is for the benefit of people other than the family of the deceased. Who was it, I wonder, who decided that heartbroken relatives should host a party at the very moment all they wished for was to be left alone to grieve?

“Lilith.” A low voice shakes me from my thoughts. “Lilith, I am so very sorry.”

I turn to find Viscount Louis Harcourt striding into the room, his habitual confident step that of a man who knows his position in the world and is proud of it. He extends a hand, snatching up my own gloved one, kissing it briefly and holding it to him. “How very pale you look,” he tells me, “and how very beautiful.”

“Louis.” I summon a small smile for him. After all, whatever the occasion, should not a girl be gladdened by the sight of her fiancé?