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your advantages.”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œI know that in a year or two, when your father sees there is a real need, he will be able to understand that he must arrange the finances to ensure good dowries for both Glorietta and Maude.”
    And when he doesn’t? What then?
    But she knew what then, because it would be the same as when Lewis lost more thousands and when Father’s investments required just a little more capital.
    â€œBut that will come in its own good time,” Lady Reginald was saying. “Until then . . .”
    â€œWe must make do,” murmured Madelene.
    It was another mistake. Her words had hit entirely too hard, and Mama’s oh-so-brave smile drooped. “I’m sure I don’t mean to go on. If you are so tired you cannot be polite, perhaps it would be better if you went to your room to rest. We can resume this conversation when you are feeling better able to be civil.”
    Dismissed like an unruly child, Madelene rose and curtsied. She walked out of the room and past Glorietta, who giggled to see that her prediction had been entirely fulfilled.
    *   *   *
    It had taken every bit of Madelene’s tact to get Lady Reginald to agree to let her bring her own bedroom furnishings when they came to town for the season. Of course, it also took convincing Mr. Thorpe, the chairman of her trustees, to advance several hundred pounds extra toward the cost of Glorietta’s and Maude’s, and Lady Reginald’s, new wardrobes.
    The furnishings were an older style, too heavy and too dark for current fashion, but Madelene loved the polished wood and the carvings of flowers and birds on her bed’s head and footboard. She looked forward to the moment every night when she could draw the blue velvet curtains and lie in her private darkness and dream.
    This time, though, when she hurried into her room, it was to find a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine sitting on the bench at the end of her bed.
    â€œWhat on earth . . . ?” Madelene murmured.
    â€œIt came in the afternoon post, Miss Valmeyer.” It was Rose in the corridor behind her. “Phillip got it up here without anybody seeing.” The servants were of course fully aware of how matters stood between Madelene and her father’s family. More than one of them expressed their sympathy in small ways, like this.
    â€œI . . . Thank Phillip for me.” Madelene’s mouth had gone dry. She touched the package and felt the sharp corner and the complex series of bumps that could well be a carved picture frame.
    But it couldn’t possibly be. Could it?
    â€œHere’s the note that came with it.” Rose pulled the sealed square of paper out of her apron pocket. “Would you like me to open your present, Miss Valmeyer?”
    â€œNo, thank you. Just, please close the door behind you.”
    The maid did, and Madelene turned the key in the lock before she hurried to her dressing table for a pair of scissors.
    It can’t be.
She cut the string on the package and pushed the paper open.
    It was.
    It was
The Prelude
, with its beautiful colors and its rendering of a private moment Madelene never would have believed anyone, let alone such a man as Lord Benedict, could understand.
    She opened the note without looking at her own hands. It was as if she believed that looking away from the painting would cause it to vanish. When she could finally stand to tear her eyes away, she read:
    You are not alone. The door is open.
    B.
    Madelene ran her fingers across the words. She lifted the paper to her and breathed deeply, imagining she could smell the scent of him again, the sharp, clean, masculine fragrance. Oh, she was making a fool of herself.
    She couldn’t keep it, of course. She was an unmarried girl, and, marquis’s son or not, Benedict Pelham was an unmarried man. Worse, he was an artist, which raised