Love’s Medicine for the Brooding Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

London 1836

Lady Serena Vale positioned herself with care.

The morning room admitted the light generously, and she chose her chair so that the sun fell across her shoulders and caught her dark hair, softening the sharper angles of her face. Her father, Lord Stewart Vale, Baron of Trembley, had once remarked, only half in jest, that the light improved her countenance. Serena had taken note. If she must be exhibited, she would at the very least be properly lit.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Serena did not turn. Instead, she folded her hands neatly in her lap, arranged her expression into one of pleasant expectation, and forced her hazel eyes into a serene sort of blankness. It was the kind of expression that suggested docility without intelligence. A difficult balance to be sure, but one she had practiced.

“Serena,” her father said with what she was sure was forced brightness, “may I present Mr. Reginald Bastable.”

She rose smoothly as Lord Vale ushered their guest into the room. Mr. Bastable was young. He could not be more than five and twenty, she thought. He was impressively dressed, though with the faint air of a man who acquired his wealth before he acquired his ease. His coat was cut to the latest fashion, his boots polished to a mirror shine. He bowed, just a fraction too deeply.

“Lady Serena,” he said, smiling with evident satisfaction. “A pleasure. Your father has spoken very highly of you.”

Serena inclined her head. “How kind of him.”

Her father’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. Mr. Bastable settled himself on the settee opposite her before clearing his throat. “A fine morning, is it not? Though I daresay it looks like we may have rain.”

“Oh, indeed,” Serena agreed. “Positively threatening.” She forced her smile to widen.

“Yes, though, perhaps it will brighten. The sun has a way of breaking through at the last moment.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Sunshine is often concealed within clouds.”

Her father shot her a sharp look. Serena met it only briefly before turning her attention back toward their guest, her expression encouraging.

Mr. Bastable nodded, apparently reassured. “Precisely what I was thinking.”

Silence followed. Serena maintained her smile, allowing it to remain just a moment longer than was necessary, and Mr. Bastable shifted in his seat.

“I have always enjoyed the countryside,” he continued. “There is something … satisfying about it. One never quite knows what the weather will do.”

Serena’s smile did not falter, though her mind was screaming with boredom. “No,” she replied thoughtfully. “One must be prepared for every possibility.”

Lord Vale cleared his throat. “Mr. Bastable’s family owns extensive wool interests in Yorkshire,” he said, a little stiffly. As if that would pique her interest. “A very successful enterprise.”

“How admirable,” Serena said, eyes bright. “It must be most … erm … educational?”

Mr. Bastable looked pleased. “My father always believed in expansion. Opportunity, you see, is everywhere. Only if one has the good sense to seize it.”

“Everywhere,” she echoed. “How fortunate for those with such sense.”

Her father’s warning glance sharpened. Serena chose to ignore him.

Mr. Bastable leaned forward slightly. “And you, Lady Serena? Do you enjoy country pursuits?”

“Walking, perhaps. And gardening,” she replied without hesitation. “I find both very essential. After all, one must cultivate patience, flexibility, and a willingness to adapt to changing conditions.”

Mr. Bastable smiled, evidently believing himself understood. Her father shifted in his seat. To her credit, she wasn’t being entirely facetious, whether her father could see it or not. She did truly enjoy plants and being outdoors.

However, she still felt the familiar satisfaction bloom quietly beneath her ribs. She knew precisely what her father saw when he looked at her now. A charming young woman, agreeable to a fault, saying nothing that could be openly objected to, yet somehow, disastrously saying nothing at all.

She kept her smile firmly in place.

Lord Vale cleared his throat with the air of a man attempting patience beyond endurance. “Serena, perhaps you would favor Mr. Bastable with your musical talents?”

Serena inclined her head with a demure tilt. “I should be delighted, Father.”

She seated herself at the piano, the polished wood gleaming in the morning light. Her fingers hovered over the keys. She was almost apologetic to the ivory when she allowed it to fall with deliberate carelessness. The opening notes of a simple minuet rang out beautifully, if only for a single measure. Then, at moments most striking, she purposefully struck the wrong notes with exaggerated precision, smiling sweetly all the while.

Mr. Bastable watched with polite admiration. “How … lively!” he said, unsure whether to look alarmed or enchanted.

Serena stifled a giggle as she began to sing the accompaniment, her voice thin and wavering, perfectly off-key. Mid-phrase, she paused, tilting her head as if listening to a particularly profound thought.

“Ah, I think you are quite right,” she murmured, “as you were saying, Mr. Bastable,” before she launched back into the song in an entirely different key as if she weren’t just speaking at all. Her composure immaculate.

Her father’s expression stiffened again.

When Mr. Bastable ventured into safer territory after her song was complete, discussing literature, Serena leaned forward with rapt attention.

“Oh yes, I adore that book,” she said. “Though I always think it rather like the time Juliet discovered Hamlet in the forest. Such tragedy.”

Bastable blinked. “I think perhaps, My Lady, you are confusing two separate accounts?”

“Really?” she asked, exhibiting pure innocence. “Well, surely you agree with the moral lessons of Juliet and Hamlet climbing that hill to fetch the water …” she let her voice trail away before stepping toward the newspapers laid fresh and pressed on her father’s table.

Mr. Bastable took the opportunity to move the conversation toward politics. Serena regarded him earnestly. “Oh, I find thinking about such matters gives me headaches. Best to leave politics to the parliament and those best suited.”

Finally, her father, his patience already threadbare, tried to steer the conversation toward household matters. “And marriage, of course, brings responsibility,” he intoned after Mr. Bastable mentioned Serena bringing her own servants aboard. “Serena is quite adept at managing a household. She has done wonders here since we lost her poor mother.”

Serena smiled serenely. “Certainly, but perhaps we could hire someone to count our money. You see, Mr. Bastable, numbers do so confuse me.”

Bastable stammered, and her father’s face flushed crimson. Serena met their consternation with gentle amusement, as though witnessing the most curious and entertaining scene from a comfortable distance.

She remained seated, hands folded neatly in her lap, the picture of innocent propriety, though the chaos she had sewn in a few short moments would ripple far longer than anyone suspected.

Mr. Bastable fumbled with his gloves and coat, glancing nervously toward the door.

“Oh, Mr. Bastable,” Serena said, lifting one hand in a delicate gesture, “surely you cannot leave so soon? The morning is still far too young, and I should very much like to hear more of your opinions.”

He shifted on his feet, offering a strained smile. “I fear I must take my leave, Lady Serena. Matters of … business require my attention.”

“Nonsense,” she said, lightly giving a practiced pout. “I assure you that no pressing business could be more urgent than our riveting discussion.”

He blinked uncertainly.

“Please stay a little longer. The morning light is so much more agreeable than the gloom of hurried departures.”

Mr. Bastable gave a weak laugh, unsure of how to respond to her; she was sure. He gave her a curt nod. “Unfortunately, madam, I must take my leave. But I shall perhaps return.”

Serena wanted to laugh outright. She knew he would no sooner return to Trembley house than he would to a gallows. She had thoroughly vexed him with her odd behavior as was her goal. But she simply nodded politely.

“Of course, Mr. Bastable. I do hope the weather behaves itself upon your return.” After all, she thought, what more would they have to talk about?

By the time the door closed behind him, the room felt suddenly smaller, heavy with her father’s presence. He stood rigidly, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze narrowed upon her.

“Serena,” he said, his voice firm and tinged with frustration. “I must say I am profoundly disappointed. A man comes here with every intention of courtship and you …” he paused, struggling for restraint, “you toy with him as though he were nothing more than a mere trifle. Do you understand the gravity of your actions? Mr. Bastable has been treated with mockery, and I cannot countenance such disregard for a gentleman who may prove a suitable match for you.”

“Father, you cannot truly have meant to marry me off to a man as …” she thought for a moment, “… as boring as Mr. Bastable! Why I think I did him a favor.”

Lord Vale took a measured step closer. “You are twenty-three, Serena, and society does not permit endless games such as those you played today with our guest. I will not have your years wasted in caprice, nor allow the reputation of this family to be jeopardized by what can only be called your insolence.”

Serena’s smile remained fixed and vacant. She inclined her head once, a picture of dutiful attention, though her eyes danced with suppressed amusement. Insolence, really, just because she wished more for her life than to be married off to some boring businessman …

A small shadow appeared at the door. James, her younger brother at only fifteen, peeked his head around the frame, eyes wide with curiosity at what their father could be on about.

“James,” she whispered, leaning forward, her smile finally softening into genuine warmth. “Come along. We have an appointment with Aunt Margaret. The market awaits.” She turned to her father. “I should not keep Aunt Margaret waiting.”

Without another word in her defense, she grabbed her brother’s hand, tugged him toward the front door, and abandoned her carefully constructed air of docility. She refused to turn back as she heard their father’s voice boom behind them.

“Ungrateful, ungovernable offspring!” he shouted, though the anger in his tone did seem to be tempered by real sorrow. Enough so that for a moment Serena’s heart lurched back toward the morning room, but not enough for her to actually turn back.

Once in the garden with James, she paused to catch her breath, tilting her head skyward as the morning sun warmed her face. “Candidate number seven,” she said lightly to James, “successfully avoided.”

James’s gaze was earnest. “And what,” he asked cautiously, much more so than his fifteen years should have allowed him, “what happens when Father stops bringing candidates to you and instead chooses the winner himself?”

Serena’s laughter faltered. For a moment, the mischief faded, replaced by a flicker of unease she had not expected to feel. She pressed her lips together, the breeze lifting a few loose strands of dark hair across her face.

“We will see,” she said softly, though even to her own ears, the words sounded like a promise and a warning all at once.

Chapter Two

Emanuel Harrington, Duke of Ravensmere, preferred his mornings orderly. He sat at the escritoire with the composed stillness expected of a man long accustomed to command. Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried himself with an unconscious authority that required no flashiness in its display. His dark hair was precisely arranged, not from vanity but rather out of controlled habit, and the severe cut of his coat emphasized a frame shaped by daily riding rather than idle leisure.

Those who knew him often remarked that his gray eyes were cool, observant, and difficult to read. They suggested his judgment, when rendered, was done so carefully and without indulgence.

Correspondence lay arranged in exact stacks before him. Estate matters first, then tenant petitions, followed by personal letters requiring response. He addressed them methodically, quill moving with measured economy, each decision he made weighed before being committed to paper and ink. Order, he learned at a young age, was not merely a preference but rather a safeguard.

Above him, a door closed softly. Then another. Footsteps crossed the upper corridor, slow and deliberate, shaped, he knew by pain.

Catherine was awake again. Her chronic headaches kept her asleep when the laudanum hit, most days, and he supposed that was a relief in its own right, but listening to her up and down tore at him. He wished only peace for his sister. How he wished the physicians could tell them the exact cause of her malady or at least how to treat it while keeping his sister awake, alert, and free of pain.

He thought briefly of the spirited young girl she was and how carefree. It wasn’t until their parents’ deaths that she withdrew and her headaches appeared. And though no doctor related the two, Emanuel knew better.

He paused, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around his quill before forcing himself to continue. There was little use in calling for the physician yet. He had already been in that morning. The laudanum had been administered exactly as prescribed, with results as familiar as they were unwelcome. Catherine’s nausea and listless haze transformed his youngest sister into something fragile and remote, a pale echo of herself.

A knock sounded on the study door, breaking him from his thoughts.

“Come in,” Emanuel said, without lifting his gaze.

Diana, his second-oldest sister, entered with a folded shawl draped over her arm. She was smaller than he was, softer in build, yet a steadiness in her expression reminded him uncomfortably of their mother. Today, that expression was drawn tight with concern.

“She is no better,” Diana said quietly. “The medication only makes her ill.”

Emanuel set his parchment aside and rose. Even in motion, his control was evident, not a single wasted gesture or movement. No outward sign of strain. “Dr. Michaels assures me the medicine will ease her pain in time.”

“It eases nothing,” Diana replied with firmness. “It steals her hours and leaves her worse than before.”

He crossed to the window, clasping his hands behind his back as he surveyed the grounds below. From a distance, he knew, he appeared entirely composed, the responsible duke, vigilant and unshaken. Few would guess how carefully that composure was maintained.

“Physicians know their business,” he said.

“So, they insist,” Diana answered. Then, after a pause calculated to test him, “But the ladies at Mrs. Pembroke’s tea yesterday were speaking of something quite different.”

Emanuel turned, one brow lifting in restrained inquiry. “Different?”

“Yes, they spoke of remedies of the herbal variety,” she said. “They said a woman in Covent Garden prepares them. Tinctures, drafts, things that succeed where sometimes physicians do not.”

His expression cooled. “Covent Garden?” The word alone suggested disorder and disruption. Covent Garden was barely a neighborhood. “Diana, I will not have Catherine subjected to quackery and fashionable nonsense.”

“I thought you might say that,” his sister replied evenly. “But I have already obtained the address and direction.”

His eyes sharpened.

“And before you object any further, you should know that Mrs. Willis, the footman’s mother, was treated by this same herbalist. She could scarcely stand before, and now she walks to the market each week, unaided.”

Emanuel regarded his sister steadily. His gaze, so often mistaken for severity, was in truth attentive and assessing. He had learned, often to his own surprise, that Diana was astute and rarely careless. Romantic, perhaps, but not foolish.

Silence settled between them, broken only by the faint sound of movement from above: Catherine shifting restlessly in her bed.

He returned his attention to the window, the ordered lawns below offering him no solutions. He prided himself on reason, restraint, and refusing desperation even when it beckoned most insistently. And yet …

“Covent Garden, you say?”

“Yes.” Diana’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile.

He exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders, but only by a fraction. “Very well,” he said at last. “I will consider it.” He would not hold onto the same foolish hope as his sister, but he would surely expose any scam or foolery if it helped Diana to realize the physicians knew what was best for Catherine and not some fly-by-night opportunist.

It was not full consent; however, it was not a dismissal either, but for the first time, his correspondence lay not completed. He would not go to Covent Garden immediately; he went upstairs first.

Catherine lay propped against pillows, her complexion waxen. Her dark lashes were stark against her skin, which was much too pale for a girl of nineteen. Her eyes flickered open as he entered, unfocused and dull, but she managed a faint smile, one that Emanuel knew cost her more effort than it should have. His heart broke for her.

“Emanuel,” she murmured.

He sat beside her, taking her hand carefully into his own. It felt cool, small, and slack in his grasp. “How is your head?”

She attempted a shrug but failed. “Heavy,” she said after a moment. “It is as if I’ve not slept in ages, though I’ve scarcely done anything else.”

He noticed the laudanum bottle where it stood on the bedside table, its contents diminished. He looked at it, then away.

“You must rest,” he said, though the words rang hollow.

Catherine’s eyes fluttered. “Diana said there might be another remedy?”

He stiffened. “Diana’s inclined to hope.”

“I’m inclined to continue breathing,” Catherine replied faintly. “If there is any hope at all of relief, I am happy to try it.”

Her grip tightened around his fingers. Emanuel rose quietly as she closed her eyes, arranging the coverlet around her before leaving the room with measured steps that did nothing to ease the weight pressing against his chest.

By the time he had returned downstairs to his study, his decision was already made.

Covent Garden, he told himself, was rife with men and women who trafficked in desperation, offering miracles where none existed. Social climbers. If such a person were there, operating under the pretense of healing, giving those like his sweet, vulnerable sister hope, it would be his duty to expose them, shut them down. He would do anything to protect those he cared for from false hope dressed up as kindness and relief.

That his investigation may prove him wrong and incidentally help his sister was beside the point.

He ordered his most unremarkable, unmarked carriage to be prepared at once.

***

The journey to Covent Garden began respectably enough. The streets were wide and orderly, though less polished than those closer to the West End. As they progressed, the houses grew newer and closer together, their facades and occupants equally more various in design. As they entered the newer, more fashionable Bloomsbury neighborhood, Emanuel stopped the carriage several streets short of the address Diana had given him, advising his driver to wait. He would walk the rest of the way into Covent Garden.

On foot, he felt the shift in neighborhoods more keenly. The air carried unfamiliar scents, coal smoke, damp stone, and something sharp, almost medicinal. Shopfronts crowded one another, some seemingly respectable, he thought, others decidedly not.

He passed apothecaries, lodging houses with drawn curtains, and narrow alleys that seemed to swallow the light of day whole.

This, he thought, was precisely the sort of place where a charlatan would thrive.

The air was thick with competing odors, spices, damp wool, rotting vegetables, and unwashed bodies. There was the unmistakable tang of live animals crammed into wooden cages, and vendors shouted over one another, hawking everything from dried roots and powders to cheap trinkets and squawking chickens for Sunday suppers.

The chaos of it all set Emanuel’s teeth on edge. He strode through it with purposeful steps, his tailored but deliberately understated coat marking him as out of place. He felt the glances of those around him immediately, some curious and some predatory. Instinctively, his hand brushed his pocket, just to confirm he was still in possession of his watch.

Pickpockets were everywhere, children darting to and fro, a little too close, and men lingering with feigned indifference. Emanuel did his best to keep his expression composed as his senses were all on high alert.

He stopped at a stall that, at least at the moment, gave an air of attempting respectability. It was an apothecary with a narrow storefront and jars arranged with some semblance of order. The man behind the counter eyed him skeptically.

“I am seeking a remedy for severe headaches,” Emanuel said. “Something effective.”

The man snorted. “Aren’t we all?”

“I’m not interested in old wives’ tales or superstition,” Emanuel replied coolly. “Only those tinctures that have proven results.”

That earned him an outright laugh from the old man. He jerked his chin toward a narrow alley between two leaning buildings. “If it’s results ye want, ye’d best try there,” he said. “Indian widow’s supplier. Provides herbs and the like to all the fancy ladies’ maids that come through. There are whispers here an’ about that she’s a miracle worker.”

Emanuel’s mouth tightened. “You surely jest, sir.”

The apothecary shrugged. “Believe what ye’d like.”

Emanuel turned away without another word. The alley was narrower than he had expected, damp and poorly lit, the stones slick beneath his boots. He advanced with caution, cataloging every infraction, improper commerce, unsanitary condition, and unlicensed trade. This entire quarter, he thought, could benefit from a firm hand and thorough inspection.

He had barely reached the middle of the alley when something, or rather someone, came hurtling around a hidden corner at full speed.

The impact was solid and sudden. Emanuel staggered back half a step as a smaller figure rebounded off his chest with a sharp exclamation.

A young woman, cloaked plainly and concealed beneath a heavily veiled bonnet, nearly lost her footing. A parcel slipped from her grasp, landing at his feet with a soft thud. The air immediately filled with the thick, unmistakable scent of exotic herbs.

“Honestly,” she said sharply, “must you stand directly in my way?”

Emanuel stared at her, momentarily speechless, not the least because the accusation was delivered as though the whole ordeal had been his fault.

“I beg your pardon,” he replied. “You ran into me.”

She huffed, clearly unimpressed. “That is a matter of perspective.”

Her voice caught his attention then. She was cultured, refined, unmistakably upper-class, and entirely out of place in this alley. As she bent to retrieve her parcel, her hood slipped just enough to reveal a glimpse of her face. He froze.

Her features were striking. She was very different from the bland ornamental women society tended to favor. Her features held a sharp intelligence as she looked up to meet his gaze head-on with hazel eyes, flecked with shards of gold. Her eyes were clear, assessing, and wholly unrepentant. She seemed to take his full measure in an instant.

Then she pulled the hood back into place as she straightened and moved past him with brisk purpose. At the alley’s end stood a younger gentleman and an older woman, both watching her with evident familiarity. The young woman reached them quickly, but before she joined them, she turned. Just once.

Her gaze swept over Emanuel again, quick and deliberate, as though committing his face to memory. Whether he had been marked as a threat or merely a curiosity, he could not tell.

Then she was gone.

Emanuel remained where he stood, the damp stones beneath his boots and the echo of her audacity ringing in his ears. The sharp, foreign scent of the herbs in her parcel lingered in his nose, as unsettling as the encounter itself.

A well-born lady, conducting her own secret business in London’s underbelly. It was strange and absurd.

And yet, her eyes remained burned into his thoughts as he made his way back through the squalid streets, his original purpose already complicated by something far more disquieting than charlatans and quack science.

Chapter Three

Serena did not slow her pace until they reached the front door of her Aunt Margaret Windham’s Bloomsbury townhouse, and the door was firmly closed behind them.

Then and only then did she allow herself a triumphant laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained as she shrugged off her cloak. “I told you,” she said, turning to James, “the woman at the stall would not part with the ashwagandha until I threatened to tell her customers she’d mistaken common chicory for valerian root.”

James grinned. “You were very convincing.”

“I am always convincing,” she replied lightly. “But still, I would prefer to deal only with Kamala. A shame she was not available today.”

Aunt Margaret regarded them both over the rim of her spectacles, though the corner of her mouth twitched slightly. “Convincing or not, you will ruin my nerves if you insist on racing through Covent Garden like rugrat pickpockets. One day, Serena, you will look behind and realize you have left propriety three streets back.”

“Propriety does not cure what ails the fine ladies of London, Aunt,” Serena replied, smiling as she hurried toward the stillroom. “Come, this is the best shipment we’ve had in weeks.”

The stillroom provided by her aunt and uncle was warm and fragrant, lined with shelves upon shelves of labeled jars and neatly stacked bundles of dried plants. Light filtered in through the tall windows, catching the copper metal on the scales and the glass of the stoppered bottles. Serena laid her parcels upon the central table with a sense of ceremony, carefully unwrapping the cloths one by one.

“Fresh ashwagandha root,” she announced, lifting the pale, knotted lengths of root with reverence. “Still firm, not yet over-dried.” She reached for the next bundle. “Brahmi leaves, properly cured this time, not scorched like before. And …” her breath caught in excitement as she revealed the contents of the final packet. “Saffron.”

James leaned closer, eyes widening. She loved that her younger brother not only expressed interest in herbs but also seemed genuinely intrigued, just like her.

“That seems like a lot,” he said.

“Kamala was generous,” Serena said, pride warming her voice. “She knows what it will mean for the new blend.”

A stirring in the corner caught Serena’s eye as her Uncle Theodore shifted in his old, worn leather chair, waking from a nap. She looked her uncle up and down; today, at least, it appeared as though his eyes were clear and his hands steady. He gestured for her to bring the herbs closer, his old surgeon’s curiosity sharpening his expression.

“Let me see what you have there, girl,” he said as she obliged.

He examined each specimen with meticulous care, rubbing the leaves between his fingers, inhaling their scent, and nodding his approval. Serena watched him eagerly, her earlier exhilaration deepening into satisfaction, that was until his brow furrowed.

“These,” he said, lifting several roots. “They are bruised.”

Serena frowned, leaning forward and hoping to see what her uncle saw. “They were sound when I purchased them.”

“And the Brahmi,” he continued, selecting a small handful of leaves, “crushed. Not badly, but enough to notice.” His gaze shifted to the saffron, and her heart lurched as he pointed to a gap in the cloth packet. “And this has torn.”

“That’s odd,” she said carefully.

Uncle Theodore set the damaged herbs aside. “How did this happen?”

Serena exhaled sharply; only one moment in the day could have resulted in such damage to her parcels. “I was nearly flattened in an alley,” she said.

“Flattened?” Aunt Margaret’s brow lifted.

“Indeed,” Serena confirmed, “by a gentleman who seemed to think the street ought to part for him out of respect.”

Aunt Margaret nodded, urging her to go on.

“He walked straight into me,” Serena continued, irritation returning in full force now that she had an audience. “Stood there like a monument to disapproval, while apparently, I nearly lost half our stock. He looked as though the very air offended him. Stared at the ground as if it might contaminate his boots.”

James laughed. “A gentleman lost among the squawking chickens and powdered cumin?”

“Exactly,” she said. “I cannot imagine why members of the ton insist upon venturing into such places if they cannot bear the sight of common trade or people. Markets are not drawing rooms. If one wishes to reap the benefits, one must endure the reality.”

She began repacking the herbs with brisk but careful efficiency, though her movements slowed despite herself. Because irritation was not the whole truth.

There had been something different about the gentleman in the alley. He had not recoiled, nor stepped aside in embarrassment. Instead, he had stood his ground, broad-shouldered and unyielding, as though the discomfort of their collision was nothing more than a mere inconvenience. And when he looked at her as her hood slid …

Those gray eyes had held hers for a fraction too long. Not leering, nor startled, but rather assessing. As if he were trying to understand her rather than dismiss her outright.

She pushed the thought away and reached for the scales.

James watched her, his eyes narrowed. “You do realize,” he said carefully, “that you are also a member of the ton.”

She snorted. “A technicality.”

“It is becoming less technical by the day,” he pressed. “You were careless today, Serena. If that gentleman recognized you, if anyone did, it could have exposed everything.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “He was too busy looking appalled to notice anything recognizable about me.”

“That doesn’t mean he won’t think about it later,” James said. “And I will not chaperone you there again. Father would have my head on a platter if he knew where we’ve been.”

Serena could not help it. She burst into laughter. Her sweet brother was so earnest.

“Oh, James,” she said fondly. “Don’t tell me you’re frightened of Papa?”

“I am practical,” he replied, jutting out his chin in defiance.

She leaned in conspiratorially. “Which is precisely what Papa said just before he became tedious.”

James groaned, and Aunt Margaret sighed, though there was amusement in her eyes.

Uncle Theodore cleared his throat.

The sound was mild, but it cut through Serena’s amusement more effectively than any raised voice. She turned toward him, her smile faltering just slightly.

“You laugh,” he said gently, “but your father’s authority is not a jest. Until you are married, the law places you entirely under his power. However vexing his views may be, they are binding.”

Serena lifted her chin. “I am aware of the law, Uncle.”

“Are you?” he asked quietly. “Or do you simply hope it will overlook you?”

The words struck closer to home than she liked. Her irritation ebbed, replaced by something sharper, something that felt to her like an uncomfortable acknowledgment. She busied herself rearranging the parcels, though the task required no attention.

Aunt Margaret, sensing her shift in mood, intervened smoothly. “Speaking of obligations,” she said, “will you attend the Repington ball on Thursday?”

Serena brightened at once, thankful for her aunt and the subtle change of topic. “Of course,” she replied. “How could I deprive London of the opportunity to be scandalized?”

Margaret smiled. “The season does hold its uses.”

“None that interests me,” Serena replied. “I have no desire to be paraded about like a prized mare.” She straightened, energy returning to her limbs. “I have far larger ambitions. By this time next year, my business …”

She spun lightly on the balls of her feet, skirts flaring in a small, triumphant flourish. “… will make the entire season irrelevant.”

She stopped mid-twirl.

Aunt Margaret and Uncle Theodore were exchanging a look, one Serena had only seen rarely between them. It was not disapproval or amusement, but rather it was worry.

The moment stretched, the scent of herbs heavy in the air, the promise of her future suddenly shadowed by realities she preferred not to examine too closely.

Slowly, Serena allowed her skirts to fall still.