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more than forty. Stranger things had happened. Her conceiving would have been lucky; her cooperating would have been a miracle.
    A great many new temptations were open to Ingrid as a duchess. She prayed for the fortitude to resist. They took Bobo, thank goodness, after loyal Jake searched his luggage and restored the snuff boxes and pearl-handled silverware.
    Morgan returned to the country occasionally after that to see how else he could beggar the properties to settle his losses. When Emilyann complained, he threatened to throw her out completely, except they both knew he wouldn’t. He would only lose the heavy fees he extorted for “administering” her estate. So her allowance, which once looked so generous, had to go for Nanny’s pension after Morgan turned her off, for making repairs to the tenants’ cottages, and for buying wood for the fireplaces so the unused rooms of Arcott House would not succumb to dry rot from the damp ceilings.
    Emilyann barely had enough funds for new dresses, which hardly mattered, since she was in mourning and never went anywhere or saw anyone. She could have changed to gray or lavender for half-mourning, as the depressing year wore on, but her one effort at economizing by trying to sew up a new gown herself merely created more rags for rubbing down her mare—whose feed she also had to pay for out of her own funds.
    If nothing else, the long, lonely months made Em rethink her ideas about marriage. If living under her uncle’s thumb was this dreary, she’d go to London as soon as the year was up and find a sweet boy she could manage who could overlook her lost-waif appearance and dowdy clothes in favor of her dowry. She would wed him before the cat could lick its ear. She’d grow to be like Cousin Marietta, finding her dreams of romance between the covers of a book, which was a sad enough fate for a seventeen-year-old girl to contemplate. There were, of course, worse fates.
    “Marry Bobo? You must be more addlepated than he is, Uncle.” Emilyann laughed as she took a comfortable seat in her father’s study. Morgan was already at ease behind the desk—her father’s desk—and he was already half disguised, she guessed from the bottle and glasses and the half-baked idea he’d just proposed for her future. She laughed again. “I wouldn’t marry Bobo if he was the last man on earth.”
    Morgan’s eyes glittered as he poured another refill. “He is, as far as you are concerned. That way all the money gets tied up in one neat little package. Your money, the heir’s trust, the estate, all in the family, heh-heh.”
    “Yes, and all in your greedy hands, I suppose. I do congratulate you though; it’s a brilliant scheme, from your viewpoint. Unfortunately, Uncle, that horse won’t run, I’m afraid, because there is just no way in hell you can make me marry that nodcock. My year of mourning is nearly over and I have decided to go to London to find myself a husband.”
    “And how do you propose to do that?” Her uncle snickered. “ I ain’t about to provide for your come-out, and you cannot do it on your own. Besides, in case you’ve forgotten, my dearest niece, I am your trustee. You cannot marry without my permission. Oh, you could run off to Gretna with some romantic young fool just to spite me, but you better pick a well-heeled one, for you won’t see a groat of your money until you are twenty-five. No, there will be no presentation, no pretty new frocks and geegaws, no half-pay officers or second sons. Just Bobo.”
    This was no longer laughable. Emilyann could feel herself beginning to perspire in the wretched wrong-season black gown. She got up to pace around the room, trying not to notice the new stains on the fine Aubusson carpet. By all that was holy, the man was serious!
    “Come now, Uncle, Bobo could not want to marry me. He thinks I’m a bluestocking. Most likely because I know how to read. We wouldn’t possibly suit.” Now, that was one of the biggest