Two mornings later, Georgiana awoke in her bed at her brother's home, to the smell of flowers and the face of her daughter.

And to a deep, abiding sadness, which had come the moment Duncan West had left The Fallen Angel two evenings prior, and hadn't left.

Didn't show signs of leaving.

"Something has happened," Caroline said from the side of the bed. "And I think you ought to know about it."

A thousand things had happened. Her club had been saved. Her identity had been protected along with her secrets. A traitor had been killed, his wife saved – already on her way to Yorkshire, to make a new life for herself.

And Georgiana had learned to love, before she'd had no choice but to turn her back on it.

But she did not think Caroline meant any of those things.

Georgiana sat up in her bed, moving to make room for Caroline, who refused to climb in, which was rare. "What has happened?" She reached out to touch the pink rose haphazardly placed in her daughter's hair. "Where did that come from?"

Caroline's green eyes were wide with excitement as she touched the rosebud as well. "You've flowers. A great deal of them." She lifted Georgiana's hand. "Come. You must see."

Georgiana dressed for expedience rather than impression, pulling on her most comfortable breeches, a half corset, and a fine linen shirt before Caroline led her downstairs to the dining room, where a dozen bouquets waited for her.

Two dozen. More.

Roses and peonies and tulips and hyacinth – arrangements in a tremendous variety of sizes and shapes and colors. Her breath caught, and for a moment, she thought they might be from Duncan.

But then her gaze settled on the white roses, arranged in the shape of a horse. She raised her brow. "Did something else happen?"

Caroline smiled, looking very much like the cat that got the cream. "There is another cartoon." She lifted the paper from beside Georgiana's breakfast plate. "It's a good one, this time."

Dread coursed through Georgiana. She doubted very much any cartoon was "a good one."

She was wrong.

There, on the front page of the News of London, was a cartoon at once familiar and thoroughly unfamiliar. A woman sat high atop a horse, dressed in beautiful attire, a dress worthy of a queen, her long hair streaming out behind her. Riding a half length behind, a smiling girl, dressed in her own finery, sat on her own steed.

But where the last cartoon had featured Georgiana and Caroline suffering the disdain of family and peers, this one was different. In this picture, they were surrounded by men and women on their knees, paying fealty, as though they were queens themselves.

The caption read: "The Fine Ladies on their White Horses: Winning the Hearts of London."

Most of those presented as subjects were men, some in uniform, some in formal wear. Georgiana's attention fell to one of the men in the foreground. If she did not recognize him from his straight nose and his blond hair, she would have recognized him by the feather that protruded from his coat pocket.

The feather he'd plucked from her hair.

The feather he'd rescued after he was nearly killed at The Fallen Angel.

It was a very good cartoon.

"I think it's us," Caroline said, pride and pleasure in her young voice.

"I think you are right."

"Though I am not certain why I'm carrying a cat."

Tears threatened as Georgiana thought back on the day they'd walked in Hyde Park. The day she'd told Duncan that she wanted Caroline to have a normal life. "Because girls have cats."

Caroline blinked. "All right. Well, I also think this is why the horse with white roses arrived. Though it does seem to be a little much."

Georgiana chuckled, tears welling. "I think you might be right." She seemed unable to keep the wretched things from spilling over.

"It's a beautiful cartoon, don't you think?" Caroline looked to her. Noticed. "Mother?"

Georgiana brushed the tears from her cheeks, trying to laugh them away. "It's silly," she said, taking a deep breath. "But it's very kind of Mr. West."

Caroline's gaze narrowed thoughtfully. "You think it came from Mr. West?"

She knew it. But instead she said, "It is his newspaper." Georgiana looked down at her daughter, whose rose was toppling out of her hair. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, reminding herself that this was what she lived for. This girl. Her future. "Shall we see who sent them?"

Caroline collected all the messages that had come with the cards as Georgiana ran her fingers over the cartoon once more, tracing the edge of Duncan's shoulder, the line of his sleeve. He'd put himself into the cartoon.

Even as he gave her up, as he gave her everything she'd thought she wanted from the beginning, he honored her with his love.

Except, now, she did not want any of this.

Caroline returned with the messages, and they began to sift through the cards, each sender more eligible than the last. War heroes. Aristocrats. Gentlemen.

Not one of them a newspaperman.

She grew more and more frantic as she got closer to the end of the pile, hoping that one of the bouquets was from him. Hoping that he had not forsaken her. Knowing that he had.

Do not tell me you love me. I am not sure I could bear it when you leave.

She should have told him. From the beginning. From the first moment that she loved him. She should have told him the truth. That she loved him. That if she could choose her life, her future, her world... it would be with him in it.

There was a knock at the door to the room, and her brother's butler entered. "My lady?" The words came with slight censure as they always did. Her brother's starchy butler did not care for her choice of trousers over skirts when she was at home. But truthfully, no one ever came to see her.

She turned toward the man, hope flaring. Perhaps there was another message from him? "Yes?"

"You have a visitor."

He had come.

She was up and out of the room, desperate for him, sailing into the foyer to meet the man who stood there, hat in hand, waiting. She stopped.

It was not Duncan.

Viscount Langley turned to face her, surprise in his eyes.

"Oh," she said.

"Indeed," he said, all affability.

The butler cleared his throat. "Traditionally, one waits for the guest to be seen to a receiving room."

She looked to the servant. "I shall receive the viscount here."

The butler was disgruntled, but left silently. She returned her attention to Langley. "My lord," she said, dropping a little curtsy.

He watched, fascinated. "You know," he said, "I've never seen a woman curtsy in trousers. It looks somewhat ridiculous."

She ran her palms over her thighs, and offered him a little smile. "They are more comfortable. I was not expecting..."

"If I may suggest." He raised the newspaper in his hand. "You should expect. You are the talk of the ton. I imagine I am the first of many callers."

She met his eyes. "I am not certain I wish to be anything to the ton."

"You are too late. We have, of course, claimed you for our own after two weeks of utter adoration in our news."

She paused. Then, "Huzzah? I suppose?"

"Huzzah indeed." He laughed. "We have never stood on ceremony."

She shook her head. "No, my lord."

He smiled. Leaned in. "Then, as that is true and you are wearing breeches, I think we can dispense with the formalities."

She smiled. "I would like that."

"I came to ask you to marry me."

Her face fell. She didn't mean it to, but she couldn't help herself. It was, of course, what she had wanted from the beginning. He'd been carefully selected for his perfect balance of need and propriety.

But she suddenly wanted much, much more than those things in a marriage. She wanted partnership and trust and commitment. And love.

And desire.

She wanted Duncan.

"I see that you are not elated," the viscount said.

"It's not that," she said, tears welling again before she could stop them.

She dashed them away. What in hell had happened to her in the last forty-eight hours?

He smiled. "Ah, well, I was told that some women cry at their proposals. But usually that is out of happiness, isn't it? As I am neither a woman nor an expert in marriage proposals..." He trailed off.

She laughed at that, brushing away her tears. "I assure you, my lord, I am not an expert in marriage proposals, either. Which is why we are in this mess to begin with, remember."

They stood in silence for a long moment before he spread his arms to indicate the marble floor. "Shall I get down on one knee, then?"

She shook her head. "Oh, I wish you wouldn't." She paused. "I am sorry. I am making a hash out of this."

"You know, I don't think you are," he said, softly, coming toward her. "I think you simply don't care for mine to be the marriage proposal you receive today."

"That's not true," she lied, imagining him another taller, blonder, more perfect man.

"I think it is. In fact, I think you wish I were another man. Entirely different. Untitled. Brilliant." Her gaze snapped to his. How did he know? He rocked back on his heels. "What I cannot understand is why you would settle for me when you could have him."

She knew what to say to that. She was making a hash out of it. Indeed. "Marrying you would not be 'settling,' my lord."

He smiled. "Of course it would be. I am not Duncan West."

Lying or feigning ignorance would not do. Not for this man who deserved her respect. "How did you know?"

"We are members of the same club. He came to me. Told me to marry you." She looked away, but could not have stopped listening if she tried. "Lauded me with your qualities. Promised me I would be supremely lucky to have you. And I was convinced. After all, we both know that our marriage would be for convenience. Better marriages have been forged on less." She returned her attention to him. "And then the strangest thing happened."

"What was that?" she said, hanging on his words, wanting desperately to hear them.

"I saw how much you loved him."

Warning flared. "I don't know what you mean."

He smiled. "Do not worry. We all have secrets. And considering who you are when you are not here wearing trousers, you know mine well."

There was a time when she would have used them. When she would have threatened him and manipulated him until she got what she wanted. But Chase was no longer so ruthless. Indeed, now, Georgiana simply ached for him when he added, "And I know the particular sadness of knowing, in your heart, that you will never have what you most desperately want."

The tears came again.

"What do you want, my lady?" he asked.

"It is not important," she replied, the words barely a whisper.

"That is the bit I do not understand," he said. "Why do you deny yourself happiness?"

"It is not explicit," she said, trying to explain. "I do not deny myself. I simply do what must be done to ensure that my daughter is never denied it. To give her the opportunity to have whatever she wants."

Understanding dawned on Langley's perfect face, but before he could reply, someone else did. "Then why not ask me what it is I want?"

Georgiana spun around to face Caroline, standing in the doorway to the dining room, all seriousness. "Go on," her daughter said, "ask me."

She began, "Caroline..."

The girl stepped out of the room, toward her. "My whole life, you have made decisions for me."

"Your whole life," Georgiana pointed out, "totals nine years."

Caroline's brow knit. "Nine years and one-quarter," she corrected before going on. "You sent me to live in Yorkshire, brought me to live here, in London. You have hired the best governesses, saddled me with chaperones." She paused. "You've bought me fine clothes and even finer books. But you have never once asked me what I would like."

Georgiana nodded, remembering her own youth, always coddled, given everything she could ever want, but never a choice. And so, when she'd finally had a choice, she'd leapt into it without thinking. "What would you like?"

"Well," the girl said, coming closer. "As I would like to marry for love when I am old enough for it, I should like you to do the same." She turned to Langley. "No offense, my lord, I am certain that you are quite nice."

He inclined his head with a smile. "None taken."

Caroline returned her attention to Georgiana. "My whole life, you have shown me that we cannot let Society dictate our lives. That we cannot allow others to set us on our path. You chose a different path for us. You brought us here, despite knowing that it would be a challenge. That they would laugh at us. That they would reject us."

She shook her head. "What am I to think if you marry someone whom you do not love? For a title and propriety that I may not want? I am surrounded by women who have carved their own path, and you think it is a good idea to put me on this one?"

Georgiana spoke then. "I think this is the easy path, love. I want it to be easy for you."

Caroline rolled her eyes. "Forgive me, Mother, but doesn't that sound terribly boring?"

Langley laughed at that, apologizing when they looked to him. "I am sorry," he said, "but she is right. It does sound terribly boring."

God knew it did.

And yet, "But if you fall in love – if you want an aristocrat – you will want the respectability that comes with a title."

"And if I fall in love with an aristocrat, will he not give me the title I require?" It was an excellent point, made in perfect simplicity by a nine-year-old girl.

Georgiana met her daughter's serious green gaze. "Where did you come from?"

Caroline smiled. "From you." She lifted the stack of cards that had come with the morning's flowers. "Do you want to marry any of these men?"

Georgiana shook her head. "I do not."

Caroline nodded in Langley's direction. "Do you want to marry him? Apologies, my lord."

He waved the words away. "I am quite enjoying myself." He turned to Georgiana. "Do you wish to marry me?"

Georgiana laughed. "I do not. I am sorry, my lord."

He shrugged. "I do not take it personally. I do not entirely wish to marry you, either."

"Mother," Caroline asked quietly. "Is there someone you do wish to marry?"

There was, of course. There was a man in a house halfway across London, whom she wished quite desperately to marry. Whom she loved beyond measure.

She thought of the cartoon, of Duncan down on his knees, her feather in his pocket. Her breath caught in her throat. "Yes," she admitted, softly. "I would very much like to marry someone else."

"And will he make you happy?"

Georgiana nodded. "I believe he will. Quite desperately."

Caroline smiled. "Don't you think you should set an example for your daughter, then? And take your happiness?"

Georgiana thought that was a very good idea.

It seemed that nine-year-olds knew quite a bit, after all.

He had swum an ocean in this pool since he'd left her.

Every time he had thought to go to her, to snatch her from her bed and carry her off into the night, to keep her locked up until she realized that her plan was idiocy, to make love to her until she realized that he was the man she should marry and hang propriety and scandal and the damn aristocracy, he went for a swim.

But where there had been deep solace and tremendous pleasure in this place before he had met Georgiana, now there was none. Now, every inch of this pool reminded him of her, standing tall and proud and beautiful in this room. As walked through the room, he saw her standing by the fire; as he touched the edges of the pool to mark his laps, he saw her legs, dangling in the water; as he wrapped himself in a towel and made for his bedchamber, he felt her pretty, soft skin, warm and willing; as he looked up at the sky through the hundreds of panes of glass, he saw her smile.

And everywhere, he felt the loss of her.

He touched the edge of the pool, turned. Swam another length.

For two days, he'd been swimming, hoping to exhaust himself, to put her out of his mind, stopping only to eat and sleep, and barely that, because when he closed his eyes, he saw her. Only her.

Ever her.

Christ.

He had stopped himself from going to her a dozen times, not knowing what he would say. He'd crafted his little speech a hundred times, designed with pretty words to convince her that she was wrong. That he was the right choice, and hang the rest of the world.

And he had regretted his decision a thousand times to stop her from telling her she loved him. He should have let her say the words.

He might have found peace in them.

Might have.

But it was more likely he would have played them over and over until he hated them.

So perhaps it was best.

He cut through the water, his shoulders aching from the movement. Eyes closed, he reached for the wall at the end of his lap, grabbing it from memory as he let himself glide to the end of the swim. It was enough for now, he hoped, throwing his head back, letting water stream down his face and hair one last time before he exited the pool.

He opened his eyes, his gaze landing on a pair of brown boots a foot away. He looked up, his heart knocking in his chest.

Georgiana.

She stared down at him, all seriousness. "May I tell you now?"

"How did you get here?"

"Langley drove me," she said before repeating, "May I tell you now?"

"Tell me what?"

She sank to her knees, then to her hands, bringing herself closer to him. "May I tell you that I love you?"

He reached for her, cupping the back of her neck and pulling her close. "You may not," he said, his heart threatening to beat from his chest. "Not unless you mean to say it every day. Forever."

She smiled. "That will depend upon you."

He looked into her eyes, trying to read her meaning. Trying not to hope that she said what he thought she was saying. "Georgiana..." he whispered, loving the way her name curved over his lips and tongue.

"I cannot say it every day if we are apart, you see." Her voice cracked, and he was desperate to hold her. "So if you'll have me —"

"No."

He hoisted himself out of the pool, effectively cutting off her words. She gasped as water sluiced off him, and flooded the tile work at the edge of the pool, dampening her trousers and no doubt ruining her boots.

He was on his knees next to her, turning her to face him. "You are stealing my part." He took her hands in his. "Tell me again."

She met his gaze, and he lost his breath at the truth in her beautiful amber eyes. "I love you."

"Untitled scoundrel that I am?"

"Rake. Rogue. Whatever you like."

"I like you."

She smiled. "I hope that's not all."

"You know it isn't," he whispered, pulling her close. "You know I love you. The first moment I laid eyes on you, you stood in the darkness and defended yourself and those you love, and I have adored you since then. I have wanted to be counted among their ranks."

Her hands were on his cheeks, cupping her face. "I love you."

"Say it again," he said, kissing her deep – long and slow until they were both gasping for breath.

"I can't say it if you are kissing me," she protested.

"Then save it," he said, his lips once again on hers. "Tell me when I am through." He kissed her again and again, the caresses deep and drugging, and every time he lifted his lips from hers, she whispered, "I love you."

Over and over, the words echoed around him, warming him, until he finally, finally pulled away and said, "It's always been you." He put his forehead to hers. "Marry me. Choose me."

"I will," she promised. "I do."

"When?"

"Now. Tomorrow. Next week. Forever."

He stood then, lifting her high in his arms. "Forever," he said. "I choose forever."

And forever it was.