And she needed to protect her heart, or what pieces of it remained. For one passionate night and perfect morning, she’d made the mistake of surrendering it to Spencer, and he’d stomped it to bits. If he cared anything for her, how could he cut her off from her own brother? She couldn’t begin to understand it, and Spencer showed no willingness to explain.

So silence it was.

Claudia remained aloof, as ever. Her presence at meals was unpredictable, as was her mood at any given moment. She rebuffed every one of Amelia’s attempts at friendship, and eventually Amelia ceased making them. The girl would doubtless come around in time, but in the interim, a duchess had more pressing matters demanding her attention. Such as writing invitations to her guests, and sending servants ahead to Briarbank with supply ledgers and lists of cleaning tasks and heaps of crisp linens.

She was so busy, the appointed date for their departure arrived before she expected it. Rather than take the longer route through London, Spencer had decided they would travel directly west, to Oxford and then Gloucester. But the roads were smaller and poorer, which made for slow and nauseating travel. Both Amelia and Claudia spent their time jouncing about the coach and trading the basin between them.

As they crossed into Oxfordshire on the third morning, Amelia perked up. She’d written to her second cousin, now styled Lady Grantham, and arranged for the party to break their journey at Grantham Lodge. Amelia had never been particularly close to Venetia, nor even particularly fond of her. But she did keep a lovely home in Town and had a rapacious taste for the society of nobility, so Amelia had hopes for warm hospitality.

The sun was still high in the sky when Grantham Lodge came into view. It was a friendly looking manor house, quite modern in its architecture. The shallow reflecting pool before the house provided a mirror image of the white façade and its many glazed windows. A swan or two paddled idly about. Sir Russell must be doing rather well for himself, Amelia mused. But then, the Granthams had always been an ambitious couple.

The carriages rolled to a halt in the drive. When she and Claudia alighted, Sir Russell and Lady Grantham were waiting to greet them. Venetia wore apricot silk and that same strange, thin smile Amelia remembered. Her cousin had elaborate theories about too-wide smiles causing premature wrinkles. Amelia thought she would rather look wrinkled and happy than smooth-skinned and camphorized.

“Amelia, dear child. It’s been far too long.”

It had barely been two months by Amelia’s counting, but she embraced her cousin and accepted a kiss on the cheek.

“Oh!” the lady gasped and gave a little laugh. “But I must call you Your Grace now, mustn’t I?”

“Of course not,” Amelia assured her. “We are family.” Internally, though, she couldn’t help but wonder if Lady Grantham’s slip were truly an accident. Was she destined never to be recognized as a duchess? Always taken for some impoverished relation or lady’s maid?

She introduced Claudia, whose ill pallor provided a convenient excuse for her usual withdrawn demeanor. Soon Spencer joined the group, having dismounted and passed his reins to a waiting groom.

“Your Grace,” Lady Grantham said, dropping a graceful curtsy. “We are honored to welcome you to Grantham Lodge.”

No one ever mistook Spencer for anything less than a duke. Well, and why would they? He looked magnificent, as always. Tall, handsome, noble, perfect, and only improved by a day spent in the sun. He acquitted himself as well as could be expected in the introductions, which was to say he nodded curtly and refrained from making any outright rude remarks.

“Do come inside.” Sir Russell’s waistcoat could barely contain his excitement as he made a beneficent sweep of his arm.

Venetia cozied up to Amelia, taking her arm as they followed the men toward the door. “It’s so good to see you, my dear. When we heard of your marriage, we were so disappointed to have missed the chance to celebrate. And I knew you must have been disappointed as well, long as you’ve waited. But now you are here, and everyone is so excited to welcome you both.”

“Everyone?” Amelia asked, as they breached the entrance hall.

Lady Grantham made an expansive gesture by way of a reply, and Amelia looked around her to see …

Everyone.

Or at least, the better part of the population of Oxfordshire.

Applause broke out amongst the assembled guests, mingled with cheers. Good heavens, there were dozens of them. A few Amelia recognized as relations or old acquaintances, but the majority she assumed to be the neighborhood gentry, all drawn by the promise of a newlywed duke and duchess.

She caught Claudia’s eye. The girl swallowed hard, looking positively ill.

Spencer blinked disdainfully at the crowd, which was typical Spencer behavior.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Venetia whispered, gripping her arm. “I know you were cheated out of an engagement ball or a proper wedding breakfast, but never despair. Lady Grantham is here to put matters to rights. We’ve a whole evening planned. Dinner, music, dancing.”

“How … how very kind of you,” Amelia said, allowing her cousin to draw her to the center of the room, but at the same time trying to keep Claudia close. The girl needed protection from this horde.

“Come now, you must meet everyone,” Venetia said. “It will take the footmen some time to bring in your trunks, at any rate.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Amelia saw Sir Russell give Spencer a hearty slap on the back, propelling him forward into the crowd. The introductions began. And went on. And went on. Amelia pasted a polite smile on her face and warmly greeted each old and new acquaintance. She kept a watchful eye on Spencer, who clearly did not appreciate Sir Russell’s bold familiarity. Amelia couldn’t make out their words in the din of conversation, but by appearances, Spencer was about as happy to greet the assembled guests as he would be to devour their hats and bonnets, plumes and all. Amelia sighed. She knew this sort of gathering didn’t appeal to him, but couldn’t he at least make the pretense of etiquette?

Lady Grantham took her arm again to steer her toward another group of waiting ladies. Craning her neck to keep watching Spencer, Amelia looked on as a tall, elderly man smiled and nodded through Sir Russell’s fulsome introduction, then made a sweeping, elegant bow as was once the style at Court. While the man was still doubled over his extended calf, Spencer turned on his heel and quit the room.

Oh, now Amelia was incensed. Had he truly just cut that elderly gentleman, mid-bow? Without very good reason, such a move was the height of rudeness. And here they were guests in her cousins’ home … His complete disregard for her relations was insupportable.

A murmur of dismay made a small ripple through the assembled guests, only increasing Amelia’s mortification.

“Lady Grantham,” she said, “will you please forgive me? I’ve realized there’s an important parcel amongst my things that requires very special attention. I meant to mention it to the footman, but it slipped my mind. I’ll just go out and see to it, and then I’ll return in a moment.” Before the lady could object, Amelia pulled away. “Won’t you introduce Claudia to your daughter Beatrice? She’s fifteen and eager for new friends.”

Leaving Claudia in the hands of her cousin, Amelia hurried out the door the way Spencer had left. Not seeing him immediately, she turned left and followed the drive that led toward the coach house and stables. No doubt he’d spurned human company to look after the horses again.

She hadn’t gone but twenty paces before a harsh, choked cough drew her eye to a side garden. Surprised, Amelia walked toward the sound, passing through a shaded arbor.

What she found astonished her.

“Spencer, is that you?”

Oh, Christ. He knew he should have gone farther from the house.

He tugged fiercely at his cravat, pulling the cloth loose from his neck. He cleared his throat. “It’s nothing. Just needed some air,” he said, striving for a calm, collected tone. “Bloody hot in there.”

“Really? I didn’t think it warm at all.” Her voice was crisp. “If there was anything intolerable in the room, it was your attitude.”

He dropped his head in his hands and exhaled slowly, trying to subdue the pounding in his chest. “You didn’t tell me they would be having a goddamn party, Amelia.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t you?” He hated the accusation in his voice.

“No. I didn’t.” She crossed her arms. “But what if they are? I know it’s not precisely the cream of London society in there, but they are earnest, well-intentioned people. What have they done, to earn your disdain?”

“Nothing. Nothing.”

She didn’t understand. And even if he wished to explain it to her, he was in no condition to do so. His head was spinning. He didn’t even think he could stand. So many people, such a small space … and he hadn’t been prepared. When he attended balls in Town, he spent hours preparing himself beforehand—physically, mentally. And he brought brandy. God, what he wouldn’t give for a brandy right now.

“Just go on,” he said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

A bit of solitude was all he needed to get put to rights. Although a minute of it might not be quite enough. Hours worked better.

She dropped onto the bench next to him. “You’re truly ill, aren’t you?”

“No,” he said, far too quickly to sound credible.

Damn, damn, damn.

“You’re trembling. And so pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“Spencer …”

The quality of her voice had changed, from scolding to concerned. He would far rather have the scolding. He quite liked the Amelia who scolded him. He’d missed her, in the past few weeks.

“You look as you did that night,” she said, “on the Bunscombes’ terrace. What is it? What’s wrong?”

Bloody wonderful. Why did he have to marry a clever, inquisitive woman? He had two choices now. Let her drag it out of him slowly, or just have out with it on his own terms.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, burying his face in his hands. “It’s just … something that happens sometimes, when there are too many people about. I don’t like crowds.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t like crowds.”

“I can’t abide them, actually. Never have been able to. They make me ill. Physically ill.” There, he’d said it. He’d never said that aloud to anyone in his life. He wasn’t even sure he’d fully admitted it to himself. Oddly, a sense of relief accompanied the admission. His thumping pulse began to slow, and he lifted his head. He’d never been able to comprehend his reaction in these situations. He was a strong, competent, intelligent person in every other respect, and his whole life, this one weakness had maddened him. Perhaps Amelia could help him understand it.

“If I’m prepared in advance,” he said, “I’m fine for a time. A half hour or so, at most. If I stay any longer, or I’m taken by surprise … something happens to me. I don’t know how to describe it. I get warm. My head spins; my heart pounds. The air is suddenly too thick to breathe. It’s as if my whole body insists that I must leave, immediately.”

“So you do.”

“Yes.”

“Even if you have to sweep an impertinent spinster off her feet and take her with you.”

Smiling a little, he arched a brow at her. “You asked for that.” Clearing his throat, he went on, “So long as I’m prepared, I can attend these things. I just make sure to leave before the scene goes bad.”

“Yes,” she said. “I think you told me that. The key is all in knowing when to walk away. So this is why you only stayed for one set of dances? That whole ‘Duke of Midnight’ routine …”