fter Lillian fled the butterfly garden, Marcus struggled to cool his passions. He had nearly lost all control with Lillian, had almost taken her on the ground like a mindless brute. Only some infinitesimal gleam of awareness, weak as a candle flame in a storm, had kept him from ravishing her. An innocent girl, the daughter of one of his guests …Good Lord, he had gone mad.

Wandering slowly through the garden, Marcus tried to analyze a situation that he would never have expected to find himself in. To think that a few months ago he had mocked Simon Hunt for his excessive passion for Annabelle Peyton. He had not understood the power of obsession, had never felt its ferocious pull until now. He could not seem to reason himself out of it. It seemed that his will had been divorced from his intellect.

Marcus could not recognize himself in his reactions to Lillian. No one had ever made him feel this aware, this alive, as if her very presence heightened all his senses. She fascinated him. She made him laugh. She aroused him unbearably. If only he could lie with her and find relief from this endless craving. And yet the rational part of his brain pointed out that his mother’s assessment of the Bowman girls was on the mark. “Perhaps we can achieve a bit of superficial polish,” the countess had said, “but my influence will certainly be no more than skin-deep. Neither of those girls is tractable enough to change in any significant way. The elder Miss Bowman, in particular. One could no more make a lady of her than one could change fool’s-gold into the real substance. She is determined not to change.”

Oddly, that was part of why Marcus was so drawn to Lillian. Her raw vitality, her uncompromising individuality, affected him like a wintry blast of air inside a stuffy house. However, it was dishonest of him, not to mention unfair, to continue his attentions to Lillian when it was obvious that nothing could come of them. No matter how difficult it was, he would have to leave her alone, as she had just asked.

The decision should have afforded him a certain measure of peace, but it didn’t.

Brooding, he left the garden and went to the manor, noting against his will that the exquisite scenery around him seemed a bit muted, grayer, as if he viewed it through a dirty window. Inside, the atmosphere of the sprawling house seemed stale and dark. He felt as if he would never take real pleasure in anything again. Damning himself for the maudlin thoughts, Marcus headed to his private study, even though he was in dire need of a change of clothes. He strode through the open doorway and saw Simon Hunt seated at the desk, poring over a sheaf of legal documents.

Looking up, Hunt smiled and began to rise from the chair.

“No,” Marcus said abruptly, with a staying motion of his hands. “I merely wanted a glance at the morning’s deliveries.”

“You look to be in foul humor,” Hunt commented, settling back. “If it’s about the foundry contracts, I’ve just written to our solicitor—”

“It’s not that.” Picking up a letter, Marcus broke the seal and glowered at it, perceiving that it was an invitation of some sort.

Hunt watched him speculatively. After a moment, he asked, “Have you reached a sticking point in your dialogue with Thomas Bowman?”

Marcus shook his head. “He seems receptive to the proposal I put forth about the enfranchisement of his company. I don’t foresee any problems in securing an agreement.”

“Then has it something to do with Miss Bowman?”

“Why do you ask?” Marcus countered warily.

Hunt responded with a sardonic look, as if the answer was too obvious to be voiced.

Slowly Marcus lowered himself to the chair on the other side of the desk. Hunt waited patiently, his undemanding silence encouraging Marcus to confide his thoughts. Although Hunt had always been a reliable sounding board on business and social matters, Marcus had never brought himself to discuss personal issues with him. Everyone else’s issues, yes. His own, no.

“It’s not logical for me to want her,” he said at last, focusing his gaze on one of the stained-glass windows nearby. “It has all the makings of a farce. One can scarcely conceive of a more ill-suited pair.”

“Ah. And as you’ve said previously, ‘Marriage is too important an issue to be decided by mercurial emotions.’”

Marcus glanced at him with a scowl. “Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike your tendency to throw my own words back in my face?”

Hunt laughed. “Why? Because you don’t want to take your own advice? I am compelled to point out, Westcliff, that had I heeded your counsel about marrying Annabelle, it would have been the greatest mistake of my life.”

“At the time she was not a sensible choice,” Marcus muttered. “It was only later that she proved herself to be worthy of you.”

“But now you will admit that I made the right decision.”

“Yes,” Marcus replied impatiently. “One fails to see, however, how that applies to my situation.”

“I was leading to the point that perhaps your instincts should play a part in the decision of whom to marry.”

Marcus was genuinely offended by the suggestion. He stared at Simon Hunt as if he had gone mad. “Good God, man, what is the purpose of the intellect if not to deliver us from the folly of acting on instinct?”

“You rely on instinct all the time,” Hunt chided.

“Not when it comes to decisions that have lifelong consequences. And in spite of my attraction to Miss Bowman, the differences between us would eventually result in misery for us both.”

“I understand the differences between you,” Hunt said quietly. As their gazes met, something in his eyes reminded Marcus that Hunt was a butcher’s son who had climbed out of the middle class and made a fortune from nothing. “Believe me, I understand the challenges that Miss Bowman would face in such a position. But what if she is willing to accept them? What if she is willing to change herself sufficiently?”

“She can’t.”

“You do her an injustice by assuming that she could not adapt. Shouldn’t she be allowed the chance to try?”

“Blast it, Hunt, I have no need of a devil’s advocate.”

“You were hoping for blind agreement?” Hunt asked mockingly. “Perhaps you should have sought someone of your own class for counsel.”

“This has nothing to do with class,” Marcus snapped, resenting the implication that his objections to Lillian stemmed from simple snobbery.

“No,” Hunt agreed calmly, standing from the desk. “It’s an empty argument. I think there is another reason you’ve decided not to pursue her. Something you won’t admit to me, or possibly even to yourself.” He went to the doorway and paused to give Marcus an astute glance. “As you contemplate the matter, however, you should be made aware that St. Vincent’s interest in her is more than a passing fancy.”

Marcus’s attention was instantly captured by the statement. “Nonsense. St. Vincent has never had an interest in a woman beyond the limits of a bedroom.”

“Be that as it may, I was recently informed by a reliable source that his father is selling off everything that isn’t entailed. Years of indiscriminate spending and foolish investments have drained the family coffers—and St. Vincent will soon be deprived of his yearly allotment. He needs money. And the Bowmans’ obvious desire for a titled son-in-law has hardly escaped him.” Hunt allowed a skillfully timed pause before adding, “Whether or not Miss Bowman is suited to be the wife of a peer, she may very well marry St. Vincent. And if so, then he’ll eventually come into his title and she will become a duchess. Fortunately for her, St. Vincent seems to have no qualms about her suitability for the position.”

Marcus stared at him with furious astonishment. “I’ll speak to Bowman,” he growled. “Once I make him aware of St. Vincent’s past, he’ll put a stop to the courtship.”

“By all means… if you think he’ll listen. My guess is that he won’t. A duke for a son-in-law, even a penniless one, is not a bad catch for a soap manufacturer from New York.”