Charlotte tucked her arm through the crook of his elbow and made a quiet, crooning noise.

“As deaths go, it was a peaceful one,” he said.

A peaceful death, perhaps—but only after years of torment. Her words haunted him to this day.

I can’t. I can’t bear it.

“It must have been a terrible shock.”

His jaw tightened. “Not for everyone. My brother was too young to understand, and . . . families like ours don’t talk about such things. I’m not certain why I’m speaking of it now.”

He’d never spoken of this at all. Not to anyone.

“I know why. You meant to chasten me, and it’s worked. Here I’ve been complaining on and on about Mama, utterly heedless of your feelings. As if it’s the worst burden in the world to have a mother who cares about me. You must think me so heartless.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry.”

“You could not have known.”

“But now I do, and I’m sorry. Truly.”

And she was. He heard it in her voice. She was sorry for his loss, and sorry for her own unintended offense. Not in a way that made excuses, and not with any maudlin, melodramatic excesses, either.

He wondered if she knew how rare that was—the talent for earnest, unqualified apology. It was a diplomatic technique he’d never quite mastered himself.

She was so open about everything—and he’d known enough deception to last several lifetimes.

Add in those pink-petal lips and her sunny hair . . .

He’d never known temptation this acute.

As they sat in silence, her fingers lightly stroked his sleeve, fraying what little remained of his self-control. Each idle caress came closer to the core of him. The contact felt more and more raw.

There was nothing to distract him from the soft rise and fall of her breath. The pulse that pounded subtly against his arm. Her warmth. Her scent.

He tapped the toe of his boot on the gravel path. How long would it take the coach to return from the manor? An hour at the least, if not two.

Piers could withstand torture of several forms, but an hour of this would break him.

At any moment, he could lose himself. Right here on this bench, he would take her in his arms, draw her close. Weave his hands in that spun sunshine of her hair, tangling them in a feverish grip—the better to hold on.

Hold on tight, and not let go.

Good God. What was happening to him? He was falling apart.

Pull yourself together, man.

He cleared his throat. “We’re meant to be shopping. What shall I buy you? A bonnet or bauble of some sort?”

“Luncheon, if you would. I’m famished.”

Charlotte gladly followed him to a coaching inn, where they shared a steak-and-kidney pie. Ale for Piers, lemonade for her. For a time, they made an unspoken agreement to substitute eating for conversation.

Once the edge of hunger was dulled, Charlotte reached into her pocket and pulled out her list of suspects. After that painful conversation about his mother, he would no doubt be grateful for a change of subject. And she was more convinced than ever that despite his protestations, Piers needed love in his life.

She’d begun with five names, then whittled them down by process of elimination. Now it was only a matter of matching one of the remaining possibilities to the profile.

Present the night of the ball.

The initial C.

An ample figure.

Now she added to her list:

Dark hair.

She stared at the paper. “Oh, drat.”

“Still more than one left?”

“Worse. None of them fit. Lady Canby is thin as a rail. Cathy had no opportunity, and I’ve already ruled out Caroline Fairchild. Cross—that’s the lady’s maid—and Mrs. Charlesbridge are the only two left. Neither of them have dark hair.” She massaged the bridge of her nose. “Perhaps the perfume merchant told us wrong.”

“More likely you left someone—or several someones—off your original list.”

“Perhaps.”

Charlotte was dejected. But not defeated.

“I’ll have to think on it more. The answer will come to me.” She dug her fork into a lemon tart. “For now, why don’t you tell me about your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

“Well, I know you don’t have one here. But you must have one somewhere. Every gentleman does.”

“A bulldog, called Ellingworth. I acquired him as a pup at university. During my years abroad, he lived with my father or brother. By the time I returned from Vienna, he was positively ancient—but he knew me still. We had a good run of it, but he died last year.”

There was a guarded quality in his gaze, but something told her not to prod it.

He cleared his throat. “Your turn.”

“Me? I’ve never had a dog.”

“Tell me about your family, then.”

“There’s not much to tell. You’ve met my mother.” She jabbed at the crust of the tart. “I’ve no memory of my father at all. He died when I was little more than an infant. The estate passed to a cousin. My mother married young, and was widowed young. With three daughters to support and see settled, I suppose the worrying took its toll.”

“Why don’t your brothers-in-law intercede for you? At least offer to take her in for a while.”

“Colin and Aaron?” She shrugged. “I adore them, but they’re both new fathers living in connubial bliss. I don’t want to inflict my mother on their marriages.”

“Do they know how you’ve been treated this season?”

“You mean the ‘Desperate Debutante’ nonsense?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“And you didn’t tell them.”

“I don’t want them to feel responsible.”

“But they are responsible for you. They’re your brothers by marriage.”

“That’s not the kind of responsibility I meant.” She bit her lip, hesitating. “I don’t want them to feel responsible. For my humiliation.”

“Ah. Because their own marriages happened under unconventional circumstances.”

“Minerva is an odd duck. Bookish, awkward. She was the last woman anyone expected to elope with a charming rake. There’s always been gossip about their match. And Aaron’s the best sort of man, but he is a blacksmith. He knew it would affect my prospects when he married Diana. That’s why he asked my permission first.”