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finally dug in her heels and refused to
attend another ball where she clung to the wall in terror someone
would ask her to dance?
    There had been one spotty boy who had kept
her company more often than not. One who had not been put off by
her urgent plea that he not ask her to dance as she detested
dancing. What she detested was not knowing the steps and looking
like a six-footed lummox as she tried to follow the other dancers
in the complicated patterns.
    A tear trickled down her cheek. Whomever it
was, she was incredibly grateful that someone was sweet enough to
use her creations to woo her. Even if it proved to be no more than
the gratitude of a shopkeeper who had found their association
lucrative. It couldn't be anyone who knew her well or he would
realize how little she deserved such special treatment.
    She pulled the gloves out of the box and drew
them on. They fit as though they had been made for her. She leaned
back on her bed and put a gloved hand against her cheek. She
envisioned a new batch of valentines with the phrase For the One
Who Holds My Heart. The words would wrap in an oval around a
pair of hands.
    She sprang off the bed and headed up to her
workroom.
    * * *
    Aunt Marsh poked him with her cane. "She know
it's from you, boy?"
    "Not yet."
    "You planning on telling her soon?"
    "In a couple of weeks." Devin paced toward
the window.
    "Turned you down, eh?"
    Devin pulled back the brocade curtain and
looked outside at the dismal February afternoon. The sky was the
blanched gray of winter. Cold seeped off the panes of glass. He
didn't answer.
    "Good for her."
    "I thought you'd be on my side."
    "I'm rather fond of the chit."
    She was hardly a chit, Devin turned around to
argue, but he realized to one as stricken in years as Aunt Marsh,
they were all children. And what could he expect; women flocked
together.
    "You could use new clothes, couldn't you?" He
changed tactics. "If I have a dressmaker brought in, you could
pretend it was for you. I'd gladly have a couple of dresses made
for you."
    "What's this about?"
    "Cecelia, Miss Clemmons, she's still in her
blacks. I believe she's refusing to have new dresses because she
doesn't want to feel like she's charity. If you could
persuade—"
    "Is she charity?"
    "There wasn't anything left of her father's
estate." In fact, there had been several debts he settled. "But
it's not charity. I want her to have clothes fitting her
station."
    "What station is that?"
    Aunt Marsh seemed a little short with him. As
a poor relation dependent on the pension he had given her, he
supposed she felt an affinity for Cecelia's situation. But Cecelia
had a decent marriage proposal.
    "As my future wife."
    "And if she continues to refuse your
offer?"
    Why would any woman refuse him? He held a
peerage; he was considered handsome, charming; he didn't pick his
teeth in public. He told himself to calm down and answer the
question at hand. One sometimes had to sidestep passions. He
supposed what he would do if he didn't want to marry her. "I could
settle an adequate dowry on her."
    "But you haven't."
    "I never thought about it."
    "Didn't you have her out last season? How did
that go for a gel without prospects?"
    He'd put her through last season without any
hint that she would be provided for regardless of her father's
debts. "Not well, and this year she's refusing to take part in
anything. Although the attendance is thin still."
    Aunt Marsh shifted in her chair. Her pursed
lips spoke volumes of disapproval.
    "That's not fair. I was still sorting out her
father's affairs last season." Although it hadn't taken him long to
realize there wouldn't be anything left for Cecelia. And she had
known the lay of the land long before he had sat her down and gone
over the grim truth with her. "She doesn't seem to like the balls
or Almack's. She didn't put much effort out to interest a
suitor."
    Truth was he never thought much about what it
was like for not having any money. He'd always had more than
enough. Until