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beat faster. As if feeling his gaze, a small smile curved her soft lips, but she kept her eyes on the path before them.
    “Daisy takes any chance she can to needle me.”
    “That is the way of siblings, I fear,” he said.
    “When my mother died a few years ago,” she said, “the role of mothering went to me. Daisy had a hard time adjusting.”
    “I’m sorry for your loss.”
    She inclined her head. “It is hard. My father isn’t the most attentive parent. But life goes on.”
    “I lost my mother five years ago. Influenza. I suspect it is not the same, as she treated me more as a…” He trailed off, his insides twisting.
    “As?” Poppy prompted.
    “As her pet, truth be told.” He grimaced. What man wanted to admit being treated as a precious thing by his mother? “She doted on me, but whenever I opened my mouth to express an opinion, she closed her ears. The idea of me was far preferable to her than the actual man.”
    He’d never told a soul about his mother, but it hadn’t occurred to him to keep it from Poppy. He knew her on some fundamental level that put him at ease and yet filled him with a gripping sense of anticipation.
    They were silent for a few steps, and then she did something that had him nearly faltering. She laid her hand upon his arm. The gesture was what any young lady might do when being escorted, but he felt it as though she’d stroked her fingers along the whole of him. Pleasure rippled through him like a shockwave.
    Aside from the brusque care of his nanny and occasional pats on the back from his brother, he’d never been touched. Not deliberately, not from someone seeking any meaningful connection. His mother might have bussed his cheek now and then, but she’d never laid a finger on him. As for his father? The very idea of a tender touch from him was laughable. Oddly, he hadn’t realized this lack of touch until he’d received Poppy’s. Now he wanted to purr, demand she touch his chest, anywhere and everywhere.
    Poppy appeared oblivious to his struggle. “From the moment I was born, my mother had expectations of who I should be and how I should act.”
    Winston cleared his throat and focused on their conversation. “Did you object to those expectations?”
    Her thin shoulders lifted. “How should I know? I’ve only now begun to live my own life. Nor were they necessarily bad expectations. They were simply…” She shrugged again. “Hers.”
    He needed to tell her everything.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
    Winston took a breath and pressed his arm closer to his side, trapping her hand there. Not very gentlemanly, but he didn’t release her. “The other night, when we met, I did not give you my full name. I don’t know why…” Hereyes were on him now, boring into him in that direct way of hers, and he forged on. “That isn’t correct. I do know.”
Damn
. “My father is the Duke of Marchland.”
    She walked on for a beat before speaking. “As in Marchland, cousin to the queen and one of the oldest titles in England?”
    “Yes.” His collar felt too tight. “I am his second son. Winston Hamon Belenus Lane, to be exact.”
    The hand at his arm gripped harder for one moment before slipping away. He felt the loss acutely.
    “Mmm.” She kept walking, not altering her pace, but not looking at him either. She glanced at the distant waters of the Serpentine where small canoes were out in droves as people took in the pleasant spring weather. Light danced off the water, and she squinted. “My father was born in the East End. Bethnal Green, to be exact.” He winced at the way she mimicked his speech and the meaning behind it. “My mother was the seventh daughter of the Earl of Lister. But he disowned her when she chose to marry my father.”
    “Did she regret the decision?” A sinking feeling labored his steps.
    “Yes.” Again her eyes scanned the park, looking everywhere but at him. “Eventually, she realized that their worlds were too far apart.”
    “Perhaps it was not