Byrne wasn't sure just what came over him. He'd never been tempted to kiss any of the simpering debutantes that had thrown themselves in his path before. Then again, Miss Crewe did very little simpering... Well, apart from when cooing at that silly dog.

On first approaching her, he'd told himself he'd only moved closer to her to hear what was going on outside. But who was he trying to fool? He'd had very little interest in Miss Marbury's argument with Tony. Tony had very likely put his foot in it at some point with the poor girl, as he very often did. No, Byrne just wanted to be close to her again, in the dark, with the warm scent of roses on her skin. He didn't know when such an opportunity would come again. He didn't plan to kiss her, but he didn't try to stop himself at all when she turned.

This was a terrible idea and certainly wouldn't improve her suddenly sour opinion of him and his supposed rakish ways. A ridiculous assumption. He didn't know how she came by it. He knew other men might preen at being called such, but he certainly didn't. As he'd said, "A man with a series of... discreet friendships is not the same as a rake." And he stood by it. Then again, he'd also said, "Your virtue is perfectly safe with me if that's what you're worried about." He didn't seem to be standing by that at the moment.

It was hard not to kiss her, after several days of her dark eyes straying in his direction, her silly jokes, her babbling, her awkward silences, her blushes... She must want him, too. Perhaps not as badly as he wanted her, but there was something in the way the air seemed to almost crackle between them at times that made it feel like this kiss was always coming for them. It was only a matter of when. 

He was tired of trying to keep it at bay when giving in was so much more enjoyable. Her lips were soft, her form was warm against him. He could feel her skin, his fingers subtly caressing the space between her gloves and her sleeves. He shifted, his lips surrounding her bottom lip, at which she gave a slight gasp, stiffening slightly.

He then realized something that perhaps he should have realized before. Her arms had remained still at her sides. She was not kissing him back. She did not want this. How had he convinced himself she might?

He started to move away, apology at the ready, when he felt it — her lips under his, puckering like a schoolgirl's. He smiled against her mouth and changed the angle, fitting his lips to hers with little sipping kisses until her own lips softened from that schoolgirl pucker and molded to his hesitantly, curiously, and so innocently that it was nearly more than he or any man could bear.

Her body softened against him, too — so much that he wondered if she might drop to the floor. He certainly wouldn't let that happen, not when he now had a good excuse to press her against the door. It was quite the reversal from when he first found himself in the closet with her. Then, she'd had him against the door, her body pressing against his back. It would have been extremely sensual... if she hadn't also been holding an old, dusty rag to his mouth.

He much preferred what was against his mouth now. He wanted to delve in, hold her tighter, press his hips against hers so she knew just how much he wanted her. But she was an innocent. He didn't want to push her beyond what she could—

"For the last time, it was a compliment!"

He tore himself from her at the shout from outside. They both stared at each other, panting. He'd nearly forgot where they were and why. He'd also forgot himself completely. Yet he couldn't seem to find any remorse or regret in him. He'd fought his attraction to her long enough, and with no success. Finally giving in was like sweet relief.

Still, he was not a complete libertine. He knew there was a cost for losing his head this way. He would apologize and pay what he must.

He only hoped he'd do a better job than Tony apparently had as, at the moment, he heard a loud clatter. It sounded like all the cues had fallen to the floor. Then there were steps scurrying away that must be Miss Marbury, as the loud groan and clatter from outside the door was definitely Tony, having had his second bad encounter of the day with billiard cues. His steps also faded away.

Byrne looked to Miss Crewe. "I think we're free now."

"Oh... good." Damned if she didn't sound a little disappointed.

He found himself smiling as he pulled the lever that would release them, only letting the door open a bit before sticking his head out and looking in both directions. "All clear," he said, opening it wider and stepping out, holding it for her.

"Thank you," she said, not meeting his eyes as she passed, her spectacles quite foggy as she stopped, staring at the spilled cues all over the floor, then gesturing awkwardly. "Well, Sir Anthony has been... most clumsy." Miss Crewe bent and started picking them up.

"I can... You don't need to..."

"A maid who tends to leave a mess, has certainly not done her best," she said, with a breathy sort of laugh as she placed one on the rack.

"A maid?" he repeated, also with a laugh, gathering the rest from the floor.

She stilled as she placed another. "Just a silly rhyme my maid, Miss Finch, taught me."

"Well, I agree with that rhyme. My mother considered it a personal insult if I left my muddy boots anywhere but outside." He placed his own cues, then reached for hers. "Here, allow me."

"Oh! Thank you," she said, stuffing them in his arms and rushing past him now.

He caught her wrist in his free hand. "Wait! Miss Crewe..."

She turned back, meeting his eyes across the arm-lengths between them, her own eyes wide and confused.

"What happened just now... Or, rightly, what I did, was badly done. I am prepared to make it right."

She let out something that was either a laugh or a horrified yelp. "It's perfectly fine. But if you feel the need to apologize—"

"I feel the need to do more than apologize," Byrne said, haphazardly placing the remaining cues on the table before taking the hand still in his and drawing her closer. "Miss Crewe, if you'll allow me—"

"Apology accepted!" she burst out loudly, then laughed. "Yes, I might have preferred my first kiss to be somewhere other than a dusty closet, but it's really not —"

"So it was your first?" he asked warmly, maneuvering them so she was against the wall, leaning in slightly. "I assure you, I can improve upon it, but first things first..." He began to sink to one knee.

She gripped his upper arms. "Please don't!"

"I assure you, this is an honorable—"

"Aye, I'm certain it is. But it's not for me! So please—"

"But after that, I must, at the very least, ask you—"

"I know I said that bit about the dusty closet," Miss Crewe said in a rush over him, "but I'm not upset and in no need of—"

"—to marry me," he finished.

She squeezed her eyes shut. "Please don't!"

"Don't?" He drew back as her hands fell from his arms.  Had he been so mistaken with her?

She opened one eye, then the other. "I have no need of... of a proposal?"

He had to laugh. "You don't sound very certain."

"Well, that is what you are doing, I assume." She lifted her chin. "And I have no need of it. I... I am. I am very opposed to marriage, in fact, because of... of all the... reasons."

She sounded even more uncertain now. Perhaps there was room for negotiation. "And what might those reasons be?" he asked softly, leaning in.

Her eyes drifted to his lips. "They are very good reasons," she said weakly.

He braced one elbow against the wall beside her head, toying with one of the curls that had escaped her coiffure. "I'd love to hear just one." He was always very good at negotiating, at finding his opponent's very good reasons not to sell or invest or take part in a venture, meeting them with answers that made it impossible not to give in. Perhaps this was no different. She wanted him, that he was now certain of, but not enough to combat whatever doubts she had. Well, he wanted her enough to not only assuage those doubts, but erase them... as soon as she told him what they were.

"And I would love to tell you one," she said. Then she said nothing else for several seconds.

"Were you going to tell me or—"

"It's late and I am very tired," she finally said. "Perhaps I should go to... sleep."

Damn. He couldn't argue with that. It was a very good reason and it was true for more than her, after the day he'd had. He stepped away, bowing slightly. "Till tomorrow, then."

"Yes!" she agreed eagerly, then stared at him, nodding to herself, though she made no move to exit.

He found himself smiling again. "Were you going to leave?"

"Yes!" She repeated, starting away before stopping, turning and dipping an awkward curtsy. "Goodnight, Mr. Byrne."

"Goodnight, Mrs. Byrne," he said with a slight bow.

She stilled, her mouth opening and closing several times.

"Oh! I mean... Miss Crewe, of course," he said with an incline of his head.

She let out a strange squeak before rushing away.

Byrne chuckled as he watched her disappear down the front hall, not discouraged in the least. He'd never backed away from a challenge. Just because his prey had run squealing — or squeaking — away didn't mean all was lost. Tonight, he might have failed in catching his quarry, but tomorrow would be another hunt. He must plan how best to go about it. It would certainly be much more enjoyable to contemplate than his failures in Coton, his blasted brother's presence, the suspected violence between Miss Marbury and...

"Tony!" Byrne exclaimed as the man himself rushed into his path, clutching his lapels.

"Byrne! We need to have a word." Tony put an arm around his back, marching him toward the library.

Byrne might not know Miss Crewe's reasons not to accept his proposal just then. But he'd forgotten that he'd had his own reasons not to give in to his attractions to her. Those reasons being Tony. Yet, he couldn't face that guilt tonight. "You know," he tried, "it's really late and I should—"

"Have a drink with my dear friend, Tony." Here, he laughed. "I certainly hope that was what you were about to say."

"Indeed it was," Byrne sighed, letting his "dear friend" trap him in the library... and lock the doors.

**************************

Emilia had no idea what she was feeling. Upon rushing away from Mr. Byrne — after he kissed her with such tenderness, after he proposed to her, after he called her Mrs. Byrne — she was torn between screaming in outrage or screaming in mad glee. She did neither. She had hardly breath to speak with, after running up the long staircase and down the hall to her room, as if he were hot on her heels.

By the time, she opened the door, all that came out of her was a faint wheeze.

"Where have you been?" The real Miss Crewe sat up on the bed, which was covered in papers, which were covered in sketches.

Emilia couldn't answer. She'd been kissed. And soundly. And by the only man she'd ever actually wanted to kiss her. There were no words.

So Miss Prudence went on, "I had to see to her majesty's night time ablutions all by myself, you know!"

Emilia tried to wheeze out an apology, but Prudence just waved her away.

"Don't worry too much. I told Mary you were unwell. She had many complaints about my lady's-maiding, but I just told her she could do it all herself if I was so terrible, but apparently that was beneath her, so I suffered through..."

Emilia was barely listening, still thinking about that kiss, confused and conflicted. Part of her thought she should have given him two tight slaps for stealing a kiss at all. That surely might have prevented this proposal nonsense of his. Part of her wanted to revel in it, in the gentleness of his lips, in the tingles that raced all over her body, in the way it felt like nothing existed outside of where they were touching. Charity was right about kissing. It was really rather nice. Perhaps more than nice.

"... needling little commentary on everything I was doing wrong. I swear she's worse than you. You might nag a bit, but there are far fewer veiled insults and, eventually, I had to tell her that if heard one more word..."

Yet another part of her said she should be ashamed of herself. Maids gossiped about girls like her. The kind of girls that let unscrupulous gentlemen lure them into closets or alcoves or secluded corners at house parties like this. Then again, that was only when people found out. She certainly wouldn't tell a soul and she doubted Mr. Byrne would either. Surely he'd only proposed because he thought she would press the issue.

Then why did he call you Mrs. Byrne?

Maybe it truly was a mistake. Still, the smirk on his face when he corrected himself said differently. But perhaps he was just teasing. Once she was perfectly clear that she wouldn't hold him to it, he'd surely be relieved.

"...of course, then she said I had no skill with a hairbrush and hands like clubs, so I left her to brush her own blasted hair. Didn't even say a word. Just walked out."

"That's nice," Emilia said absently.

"What?" Prudence stared at her. "I'm surprised you think so. Here I am waiting for you to scold me and tell me she'll be an absolute nightmare tomorrow."

"I'm sure she will be, but I don't really care about Mary Hartley at the moment." Emilia pulled off her gloves, then gestured to the dress. "Would you help me with this?

Prudence bounded over. "How lovely! I've been telling you she's just a silly, snide little thing and does not deserve one whit of consideration," she said firmly as she began on the buttons down the back. "Tomorrow, I think you should dress and wear your hair however you like. She is not in charge of you anymore. What were you doing all this time anyhow?"

Emilia flushed guiltily, glad her back was to Prudence. Oh, nothing. Just kissing a man. Then rejecting his duty bound proposal. As one does. "I was hiding from Sir Anthony in a dusty billiard room closet, if you must know. He wanted to accompany me on a tour of the house. You can imagine why," she finished, hoping to change the subject. "His efforts at courting me, or should I say you, are growing more insistent."

"And why shouldn't they," Prudence countered, "with you encouraging him this morning and volunteering to talk later — something you only did to spite me, I'm certain."

It's true. She had. But Prudence's ridiculous impersonation of her had riled her up considerably.

"Well, I didn't. I successfully avoided him," Emilia said, "but what if I can't do so next time? What if, that time, he actually proposes?"

Prudence sighed. "Just tell him you don't wish to marry at all and nothing can convince you otherwise."

Yes, but she'd tried that on Mr. Byrne. It didn't work as well as she'd hoped. How ridiculous that she'd gone into that dashed closet to avoid a proposal, yet one found her anyhow! Still, he would surely take it back tomorrow.

Now why did that make her feel as if she might cry?

She shook her head, shaking the thought away and getting back to the subject at hand. "Rejecting proposals for you is not my place." She shrugged off the dress and hung it neatly over the chair, then turned to Prudence. "And it shouldn't be my burden!"

Then again, hadn't she just done that with Mr. Byrne? But that was surely fine. She was quite certain Miss Prudence Crewe wouldn't see herself being wed for a tiny little kiss... especially one that actually happened to her maid. But should she tell her?

No. She'd not told Miss Crewe a thing about her interactions with Mr. Byrne. And why should she? They had no significance at all. He was just a gentleman who tended to tease and flirt, like any of them... except he wasn't, at least not with the other girls here.

"Very well, then" Prudence shrugged as she helped with the petticoats and stays. "I give you permission to do it on my behalf."

"I've already been stuck in a dank, dusty closet for far longer than anyone should be on your behalf."

Prudence tilted her head. "Good God, what did Sir Anthony do? Wait out there?"

"No. He left immediately, but then Mr. B—" Emilia stopped herself, as she was absolutely not going to tell Prudence nor anyone that Mr. Byrne came in. "Then Mr. Browning came in — to the room, n-not the closet — along with Mary and Miss Marbury and... Well..." She quickly explained about Mary and Cecilia and their contentious billiards game, but Prudence was still looking at her askance.

"Mary came up more than half an hour ago. What took you so long?"

"Well... I..." I was kissing a man. Really, he kissed me first. But I certainly participated. "After that I was hiding from Sir Anthony again as he stayed to have an argument with—" She stopped herself again. "—with one of the staff about something." She should surely not be gossiping about Miss Marbury's fight with Sir Anthony.

Prudence was intrigued, anyhow. "Really? Which one?"

Lord! Now she was starting gossip about the servants instead. "I-I don't know. I've not seen them all as much as you have. And I could barely hear in there," she lied. "Anyhow, the whole matter seemed to be resolved and I'm sure it was nothing of great concern."

Of course, the matter wasn't resolved and she was quite curious what the matter was. She'd been listening quite raptly until Sir Anthony and Miss Marbury decided to lower their voices, drat it all, also until that kiss... Needless to say, she couldn't tell who was outside the door if her life depended upon it... until that was interrupted by Sir Anthony yelling, "For the last time, it was a compliment!" before getting himself either pushed, punched or slapped. She was so curious as to which and as to why.

It seemed Prudence was curious, too. "Was it man or woman, girl or boy?" Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Sir Anthony has some nerve, berating his staff when they all work so hard to—"

"No, no," Emilia said quickly. "This was a staff person complaining to him about... something or other. I'd wager it was about poor Mopsy. I told you I couldn't hear it all."

"Well, as long as he's not abusing them," Prudence huffed. "He has no right to. He's a very lazy master, from all I see. I never hear of him. From all I see, the staff seems to defer to Mr. Byrne, which is... odd."

Emilia had little desire to talk of Mr. Byrne if it could be avoided. He already occupied her thoughts more than she wished. She turned to the bed instead, gesturing to all the sketches strewn about. "What is all this?"

"I told you I'd been sketching the servants."

"Aye, but I thought it was a few portraits, not all this!" The sketches were well-done and detailed — the cook bending over a pot, twisting her lips in disappointment, Evie and Kitty mopping the kitchen and laughing about something, that supercilious Mr. Fletcher starching cravats... and much more. Every little bit detailed, from the way fingers held a spoon, an iron, a mop... But Prudence's works were always thus. It was rather a shame that, no matter how talented a girl might be, it mattered little on The Marriage Mart as compared to her skills in dancing and comportment.

Prudence drew up behind her. "I wish I could paint them now. Sadly, Mama ruined that by depriving me of my paints. But I'm thinking that I can paint them when I get home. A series on servant life."

Emilia scoffed. "Who would want that on their wall?"

"The right kind of people," Prudence said, staring at one of a little girl with Mopsy, playing tug-of-war with a cloth doll.

Emilia was still curious. "So you are painting a series. But where will it go? Where do all your paintings go? I know they aren't all up in the garret or they would be piling up to the roof. And I've only seen a few at the Duchess' house in Leeds or in London."

Prudence stilled in the middle of gathering her sketches. "Aunt Muriel is kind enough to buy some works she likes, but there are more that... that I paint over."

"Still, I rarely see any of your new works."

"She lets me store them sometimes, too." Prudence lifted her chin. "She supports my growth as an artist... perhaps mostly because it vexes Mama."

Now that had a ring of truth to it.

Emilia turned away from the bed and began the business of laying out her clothes for tomorrow... with a few exceptions. "Where are all the stockings?" There was only one pair in the drawer.

Prudence turned to her, her eyes wide. "They aren't there? Oh... my!"

"Come to think of it, I haven't seen anything I've worn," Emilia groaned. "Please tell me you haven't been letting them pile up downstairs? I'll get a reputation as a layabout as well as a radical by the time you're done here."

"I assure you, they aren't piling up... downstairs," she finished on a mumble.

"Then where are they piling up?" Emilia asked, cringing slightly.

"Can you promise you won't be angry?"

"If you think I'll be angry, I probably will be, so I can't promise you that."

Prudence sighed and slumped over to the window, then opened the top of the cushioned seat with a defeated gesture towards it.

Emilia prayed it was just stockings and shifts as she approached hesitantly, but no. She was not that lucky.

What she saw was the stuff of her nightmares. Dresses, shifts, stockings, petticoats, stays, all tangled up with each other! The muddy hem of that awful brown dress touching the bodice of the pristine dress she'd worn this morning! A pair of soiled stockings strangling the lovely gold dress she'd been so thrilled to wear.

"Wh-why would you... Why would anyone..."

"I didn't know what else to do." Prudence threw up her hands. "You're quite right. If they piled up downstairs it would be suspicious, so I kept telling them I do it at night. And I didn't think I was supposed to put them back in the closet dirty."

"But not all of them were dirty. I clean spots on the dresses and refresh them, then put them back. They don't need a full wash every time if they aren't—"

"But how was I to know that? You've yet to teach me the mysteries of laundering and I thought I could just stuff it in here until—"

"And stuff it, you did! This will all be much more difficult now that they've been wrinkled and creased and stained!"

"I've been begging you to show me all your lady's maid secrets so I have something to do downstairs. But you keep avoiding it and don't think I don't know why. You think I'll muck it up," Prudence crossed her arms, then finished sheepishly with, "which I obviously did anyway."

Emilia sighed and stared into the window seat of her nightmares again. "You're right. It's my fault. I kept putting it off. I've obviously been too distracted with..." Now what could she say besides Mr. Byrne? "...with Mopsy and now look what's happened." She squeezed her eyes shut. "This is horrific."

"Dreadful," Prudence agreed.

"It's a right mess," a new voice said

They both turned, startled to find Evie standing a little behind them, holding Mopsy on a short leash as he tried to jump at Emilia. "Mopsy!" Emilia said quickly, kneeling to let him kiss her. "You know, I was just talking about Mopsy and... and how distracted I've been about him."

"Aye," Prudence said, "just look at what she's done. She's been tossin' all her nice things in a window seat, all tangled up."

"Oh! Well, I'm sorry to say it, Miss Crewe." Evie sighed. "But that's no way to treat your lovely dresses."

"Yes. Silly me." Emilia turned to Prudence, saying through her teeth, "Don't fret. We can just go to the village and buy more." She turned to Evie. "That's what I do instead of taking care of my clothing."

"Oh, you certainly shall not." Prudence turned to Evie as well. "You see, I might be Miss Crewe's maid, but I act a lot more like her mistress... or should I say, her mother! Lady Crewe and I have been plotting together for years to break Miss Prudence's spirit and turn her into yet another dutiful, quiet, insipid—"

Emilia stood, huffing, "Don't be so hard on yourself. You only want what's best for me, as does Lady Cr... Mama," she corrected quickly. "I'm an awful trial for the both of you, the way I never care to look my best, the way I mess about and ruin my dresses without a thought to who must wash and mend them and now I've made a hopeless mess that—"

"It's not hopeless." Evie was kneeling down to inspect the tangle. "Aye, it'll be more work, but I can help if—"

"No," both Emilia and Prudence said at once.

"You have more than enough to do," Prudence said.

"Yes, we shouldn't like to trouble you," Emilia said over her. "In fact, I shall help Miss Finch myself since this is all my fault for tossing things in willy-nilly without a thought."

"Nay, it's my fault for not telling you how it should be done." Prudence nodded. "But I shall accept your assistance nonetheless."

"Are you sure I can't help?" Evie pulled up the buttery yellow dress with the gold embroidery. "I'd like to see how you get this stain out."

"So would I," Emilia mumbled. "I'm certain Miss Finch can tell you all about it. It's enough that you are kind enough to bring Mopsy to me. Just let me get my purse and—"

"Oh, no." Evie waved her off. "Payin' me can wait. Not like any of us are going anywhere." She laughed and knelt down to give Mopsy a good scratch. "I can't believe I was ever afraid of this silly little fellow. But truly, it's nothin' for me to help a bit." She turned to Prudence. "I'm so eager to see you at work, Miss Finch. You've taught me so much about my letters, but I've yet to see you in all your—"

"Aye, but shouldn't you be gettin' your rest. Evie?" Prudence said, leading the girl to the door. "You're up the earliest of us, after all."

"I suppose." Evie yawned a bit, then turned back to Emilia, curtsying. "Goodnight, Miss Crewe. And... er... I'd watch out, if I were you."

Emilia froze as she stood. Did Evie hear more than she'd let on? "What for?"

"Dog's got your slippers. He's been just relentless about shoes today!"

"Oh, good Lord!" Emilia turned to find Mopsy hopping up on the bed with one of her discarded slippers. "You naughty boy!" She grabbed for him as the other girls left the room, giggling a little.

Mopsy seemed to think that was all in fun, hunkering down on his front legs while his hind legs stayed high, his fluffy tail waving madly as he jumped from the bed, darting past her.

Emilia pressed her lips together to avoid the smile that would only encourage him. "No! This is not funny!"

Mopsy seemed to disagree, now bounding from one end of the room to the other, then jumping up and down from the bed, all in mere seconds.

She finally sighed and looked helplessly about the room as he rushed from end to end still, thinking that, at the very least, he could not chew it to bits while still running with it. "You will be punished," she warned weakly. She doubted she'd have the heart to do so much as withhold a treat. Still, just saying it helped her keep a stern expression as she fruitlessly chased him. Finally, she picked up the other shoe from the floor, brandishing it even though she had no intention of throwing it.

Yet Mopsy stilled when he caught sight of her, his eyes warily meeting hers as he dipped his head, shaking a little as he took several steps forward and dropped the shoe. The fear in his eyes broke her heart.

"No! Oh, no, Darling!" She quickly dropped the shoe and knelt before him, hating the way he cringed at first, though he soon relaxed as she rubbed his chin and neck. "Did someone hurt you before?" He obviously didn't answer, but he did turn his head to lick her arm — a tiny, apologetic little kiss. She cradled his face. "I would never strike you. I'm so sorry I even threatened it. I'll never do that again. I swear." Mopsy had apparently already forgiven her, squirming until he was on his back, presenting his belly for scratches. "You little dove!"

She scratched him as he wished for some time. But that didn't stop him from slipping away and going for the shoe again, probably sensing she was a soft touch.

"Dash it! We shall have to find some way to tell you that shoes are not toys. Perhaps we need more... Oh!" She then remembered what she'd put in the pocket of her dress back in the closet. "Very well, then," she said, in a voice that she hoped conveyed that she could not care less what he had in his mouth, as she headed for the chair. "You can play with that and I will play with this." She pulled the rubber ball from her pocket and tossed it against the wall, catching it before turning back to Mopsy.

He looked suspicious, but very intrigued.

She threw it again, though she neglected to catch it this time, letting it bounce several times before falling still on the carpet. "Yes, there it is. I suppose one of us will get it." She lunged for it half-heartedly, but he was obviously quicker, dropping the shoe and snatching up the ball and trotting to her, lifting his little head as if daring her to take it from him.

She laughed and knelt to hold him while she wrested the ball from his mouth, giving it a careful toss along the floor. "We shall have lots of fun with this tomorrow... if only the rain would let up," she said as he ran after it, then trotted back, still making her wrest it from his jaws, the stubborn boy. She succeeded in winning it, then threw it again.

"Why can't all things be as simple as this?" Emilia sighed as she played with him, thinking of the tangle she was now in, one to rival the mess in the window-seat. She had to play the part of Miss Prudence Crewe, while also being her own lady's maid, as Prudence had no skill in that direction. But that was also her own fault as she didn't want to teach her as she didn't trust her not to muck it up. Prudence was quite right about that.

But Prudence was quite wrong in putting the burden of refusing her suitors on Emilia. Prudence might be quite comfortable rejecting proposals, but Emilia certainly wasn't. Not ones from nice men like Sir Anthony or Mr. B— No, she couldn't say Mr. Byrne was nice. He was almost always polite and held himself with a certain decorum, but there was also something about him that was too cool and calculating to be called nice. As if he was a man unused to being denied. She knew he'd worked his way to his current position of wealth and status. He likely thought he could get anything he wanted just by sheer perseverance.

How he might laugh when he realized who she was and that he didn't want her at all. And perhaps she would, too, in the end. When this party ended, his kiss would be a faint memory. His proposal would be no more than a funny story about that time she switched places with Miss Crewe. Once Prudence unmasked herself, Emilia could very likely slink back to the servants' quarters as if none of this had happened.

Whatever tales made their way back to Yorkshire or London, Emilia would likely be "that maid." Nameless. Just a willing stooge. Prudence was likely to be the one gossiped about. Yet Prudence didn't seem worried about her reputation. Maybe it would all be tossed aside as a lark, like she'd said. Or maybe Prudence didn't care how people saw it. Perhaps she thought being cast off from polite society might help her retire to her cottage that much sooner, should such a thing actually be possible.

Prudence, along with Charity, had twice invited Emilia to be a part of this idyllic life, lounging in a cottage by the sea. But, despite her claims that she'd like to be a lady of leisure, she couldn't see it for herself. She could never live without striving for more, for better. And what was better? Being housekeeper at Crewe House.

Yet if she accepted the position, the position Mrs. Douglass said was meant for her, that would be hers within a year, what was there to strive for? It would be the highest she could possibly climb. What then? Would that be enough, knowing that each day would be the same as every other? Prudence didn't seem to think she would enjoy it, but... Well, what was enjoyment? And why did she even care?

She'd never worried about it before. Did every aspect of one's life have to be enjoyable? She might have been dressing up and playacting that she was Prudence Crewe, but that didn't mean she had dreams the way that Prudence did. Once this party was over, she wouldn't get caught up in any more Crewe sister nonsense. She could be content running Crewe House. In fact, she would  be.

************************

Byrne was unable to get his thoughts in order. He'd had three whiskeys by now, one past his personal limit, but he was starting to think he might need another just to discern what Tony was saying. Within this one little hour — or was it three? — he'd said so much that Byrne hardly knew what required an answer and what did not.

"What would you do?" Tony was moaning now. "Am I supposed t' put up with this? I ask you!"

Byrne could barely remember what this was now.

When Tony had first dragged him into the library, he'd said, "We need to have a word." And his voice was so furious, so unlike Tony's usual tone, that Byrne had let him. Had Tony been near at the end? Had he heard Byrne proposing to Miss Crewe? Would he want to fight for her?

Byrne had immediately strode to the sideboard and tossed back one whiskey just at the thought before pouring himself another to sip... or gulp if the need presented itself.

Tony was not the sort of man one fought. He was the sort of man one laughed with, one commiserated with, one celebrated with, but never the man one fought with. He wouldn't, he decided. He'd let Tony get in a punch. Byrne had been flirting with Miss Crewe without saying a word to Tony, after all. He deserved one wallop, at least.

But he'd not give her up, not now that he'd stopped denying she was the one he wanted, not to anyone. And that included Tony. Added to that, she'd been hiding in a closet specifically to avoid Tony — and Miss Hartley, he was certain — but mostly Tony. She would never accept him anyhow.

But she didn't accept you, either, did she?

That was of no matter. She'd kissed him back and seemed rather keen to do it again and that was, at least, a place begin negotiations on his end. Tony's proposal, on the other hand, was dead in the water.

Byrne gulped down the remainder of his liquid courage before turning to his friend, ready to stake his claim, whatever may come of it. But then Tony spoke...

"They're all insane, aren't they?" He strode to a side table and picked up a raw steak, slapping it on his blackened eye before sinking into a chair. "That's how they make us insane, these women. We're just all dancing to their ungodly tune, not knowing that it's all nonsense. What's that Shakespeare quote?" He snapped his fingers several times. "Something about tales told by idiots, signifying nothing, all sound and fury." Tony sat up, growling now. "That's them! All sound and fury and no sense at all!"

"I don't think the Bard was talking about women in that speech." Byrne would know. His mother forced him to read every single play. Even the boring ones with no murder. "More about the futility of—"

"Well, then he should have been. They don't listen. You try to explain, but they are just determined to stay all offended... Oh, never mind! You wouldn't understand. Bet they're never offended at you."

Byrne stared at him warily, not certain what to do with an angry Tony. It was an entirely new phenomenon. So he busied himself pouring another whiskey — to sip this time. He wasn't sure if Tony was angry with him, or just angry on the whole. But Byrne was fairly certain he was not talking about Miss Crewe now. It was obviously about that mess with Miss Marbury outside the closet, something he'd nearly forgotten after all that happened with Miss Crewe. But since Tony didn't know he knew, he'd have to get it out of him. "Perhaps if you tell me what happened to make you so... peevish?" Byrne finished, turning back to him.

"I'm not peevish. Not in the least. And I don't want to talk about her. She is the worst of all of them! Thanks for that," he said, taking Byrne's whiskey.

"You already have a drink."

Tony quickly drank it down, then turned to the other one, saying, "Thanks again," before draining it as well.

"How many have you—"

"Not enough! Never been punched by a girl. Had no idea she was such a bloodthirsty little... No, I won't say it. I won't stoop to her level."

Byrne sighed before taking the chair across from Tony's. So it was a punch. He'd not thought Miss Marbury had it in her. He'd have to share that with Miss Crewe tomorrow, since she'd been so curious. Another reason to bend her ear, then perhaps bend her over his arm and give her the sort of kiss that might have them engaged by supper.

"We're getting somewhere now," Byrne said, smiling as he contemplated the idea before schooling his expression into one more sympathetic. "So you were punched... by a girl."

"Here, now! She's stronger than she looks!"

"I was only repeating what you just—"

"And what was I supposed to do? It's not as if I could restrain her. She'd probably have screamed bloody murder and brought the whole house down! Hates the sight of me so much, I'd imagine she'd loathe me touching her even more. Not that I even want to... That's not even... Oh, never mind!" Tony frowned heavily as he sank into his chair again, slapping the meat over his eye. "And did she have to punch me in the same eye?" he moaned. "It hurt enough already after the blasted billiard cue!"

"That must be hard to bear," Byrne said, getting impatient now. "But I can't help unless you tell me who she is."

"No, you can't help. No one can."

God, he wished Tony would just say it all, considering Byrne already knew most of it. "Did you perhaps do or say something?" he tried. "Something to make this she of yours so upset that—"

"Me?" Tony sat up, slapping his steak on the table. "I did nothing wrong! In fact, I was trying to make things right, but nooooo! Miss Marbles-in-her-head wouldn't even listen. And considering she was staying in my house and I was gracious enough that she could bring her little friend as well, you'd think she'd do me the courtesy of—"

"So it's Miss Marbury," Byrne interjected, relieved to get that much out of him.

"Of course it's Miss Marbury," Tony drawled, now looking at Byrne like he was a simpleton. "Have you even been listening?"

"Not close enough, I suppose. My apologies," he said, not even attempting to tell Tony he hadn't actually said so when it would just muddy things further. Still, this was a good development. If Tony was focused on Miss Marbury, he'd be less likely to set his sights on Miss Crewe. Byrne settled in his chair across from Tony. "Why don't you tell me everything?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Tony said, tossing his head back as if in agony.

"Really? Because it seems a little bit like you do," Byrne prodded.

"Let's just say that she's not only impolite, she's unforgiving... and violent!" Tony sat forward, pointing at his eye. "You see what she did to me? God! I'd rather she was ignoring me again. In fact, I don't care what she does. Long as she stops punching me," he grumbled.

Byrne resisted rolling his eyes. Tony had been belly-aching about Miss Marbury since before she arrived so he quite obviously cared what she did. "You still haven't told me why she punched you."

"For nothing! Haven't I said that enough? This is far too annoying a conversation to have sober."

"But you're not—"

"Well, you are and it's very cruel of you. You know how I hate to drink alone." Tony stood and strode to the sideboard again. "I was simply trying to explain to Miss Mad-bury that what she saw as an insult was, in actuality, a compliment," he spat, luckily after he'd handed Byrne his glass. "But she refused to accept it because of... of all her nonsense. That's what I been trying to say!"

"Nonsense. Yes. That explains everything." Byrne tossed back his whiskey, having decided he wouldn't be getting anything more than nonsense out of Tony tonight, so he may as well join in the madness.

"I should have her booted from the premises... only Aunt Dotty would never allow it."

"You wouldn't do it even if she would," he snorted. Tony wouldn't boot his worst enemy, Byrne was sure of it, which brought them back to the last question Tony had asked.

"What would you do? Am I supposed t' put up with this? I ask you!"

Byrne still had no ready answer, as that third whiskey was already making things murky. "Er... no?" he tried.

"Too right! And see... this... this is why I need a no-nonsense sort of girl like..."

Byrne closed his eyes now. Say Miss Poole. She's very low on the nonsense. Yes, Tony had already dismissed her as having no interest in him or, indeed, this entire party before, but perhaps they spoke after supper and had suddenly found common ground for this supposedly reasonable offer he was...

"...like Miss Crewe," Tony finished. "Bet she'd never hit a person for no good reason."

Byrne drew in a deep breath, trying to think of how to play this now. Should he just tell him? Even forgetting his own designs on Miss Crewe, perhaps Tony should know that she had no intention of accepting him. Then again, would Tony even believe that after Byrne informed him that he himself had set his sights on her? Either revelation would make Tony feel worse. Perhaps he'd hate him for it and the idea of that made him feel sort of choked. Not that he'd cry. He hadn't shed a tear since he'd left Ireland. But it was saddening.

Tony might not be the most well-connected gentleman, but he was the only one who deigned to spend any time with Byrne outside of one of his supposedly famous parties. And though he might not call what they had a close friendship, since he highly doubted Tony would be bothering with him if he weren't sponsoring this bizarre wife-hunting ritual the English called a house party, he would say the man had been loyal and trusting enough that he didn't deserve for Byrne to swoop in and sabotage his prospects just because he'd kissed the girl and couldn't get her lips, the feel of her breath, and the sound of her sighs out of his mind. He didn't want to do it to him.

Must be his deepening state of drunkenness, making him all soft. He'd only had this much to drink once before, on his first journey across England. He'd ended up nearly getting robbed of a fortune in pounds sterling and, though he'd got the best of the men who'd set upon him, he'd been laid up for days and vowed to never over-imbibe again. Yet here he was. And Byrne couldn't even blame Tony as he'd knocked back the first two pretty swiftly all on his own, damn his own eyes.

So he really shouldn't be reaching for the fourth glass that Tony was holding out now. "How'd you get that?" He blinked at Tony's now-empty chair.

"From a bottle. Where else?" Tony drawled. "Go on! Not like there's any use in me robbing you. You know where to find me."

"How did you know I was robbed?"

"You just told me," Tony said, tossing himself into his chair sideways.

"I thought I just thunk that," Byrne said, barely recognizing his voice. It felt like it was coming from another room. "You'd never rob me if you could, would you?"

Tony snorted. "Maybe I would, if I were a better sneak. I don't have it in me. Can't even bluff at cards."

No. Byrne had witnessed that firsthand. If anyone were a sneak, it was Byrne. He knew far too much about Tony, mostly due to his tendency to share every thought in his head, yet Byrne kept his own close. Tony knew nearly nothing about his life before London beyond that it involved a sheep farm, and he was also in the dark about Byrne's now undeniable infatuation for Miss Crewe. He could tell him, at least about that. But looking at the man now, with his head lolling over the arm of a chair, a blasted steak slapped over his black eye, there was no way to play this that wouldn't be the equivalent of kicking a man already quite far down.

But would it really? Tony might barely feel the kick. Yes, Tony had decided upon Miss Crewe, but he'd never spoke of strong attraction or even particular fondness. Any other woman might do just as well for him. Why did Tony have to lay claim, from the bloody start, to the one woman Byrne had ever wanted for himself? "Why her, damn it?"

"Why do you keep asking me that?" Tony countered, lifting his head.

Blast it! He'd not meant to say that aloud. "Because it... it still makes no sense to me," Byrne said, forcing a laugh. "Miss Crewe is not the only possible option. Why her, when there are larger dowries, higher profiles, better lineages, prettier faces and figures?" Of course, Byrne could ask himself the same question. The answer was rather stupidly simple — because she was the one he wanted. Was it the same for Tony?

Tony sat up and waved him off. "I'm quite indifferent as to all that. Obviously, I need a sizable dowry to get this place up to snuff, but I've no need of more than solvency. Some rich heiress would never do for me. Too much money and there's this expectation of a man to be some sort of pillar of the community and I would much rather be merry than burdened with excess respectability. You see, all I require is this estate survives and generates just enough to keep me and it going before passing it on in reasonable working condition. Enough is as good as a feast, as they say."

"Who's they?" Byrne shook his head.

"I don't know. A lot of people. It's a proverb."

"Not one I agree with."

"Of course you don't." Tony chuckled. "You industry types don't understand the word 'enough,' do you?"

How had this turned around on him? "What is wrong with that?"

"Nothing, truly. It just reminds me of that poor sod who got stuck pushing that boulder up a hill. What's his name?" Tony snapped his fingers several times.

"Sisyphus," Byrne supplied, sort of congratulating himself for remembering, and pronouncing it.

Tony snorted. "Funny little name, that. Anyhow, he didn't know when enough was enough and I doubt you do, either."

"I do. I... I'll know it when I have it."

"You already have more money than you can spend in three lifetimes. Why not just be content? It's easy. I do it all the time."

"You'd be content in a hovel," Byrne muttered.

"Likely so. But you'd not be content in a bloody castle. All that work, never stopping to enjoy anything."

"That's not true. Just yesterday, I... took a jaunt to Coton."

"Yes, on business, and you looked like the very devil when you came back, then practically spat fire at our very nice new guest."

Byrne did not want to talk about their new guest. "It was raining and I was... wet. Anyone would be miserable."

"Yes, as I said you would be, which is why you should have stayed in. But did you listen? Noooo," Tony drawled.

"God, you're worse than a fishwife. And we've gone completely off the subject now."

Tony tilted his head. "I quite forget what the subject was."

"Miss Crewe," Byrne reminded him. "Why her?"

"I feel like I've made that clear by now," Tony sighed.

"Because she has just enough of a dowry? That's no reason. You could find another with the same number of pounds hanging over her head."

"But she has something they do not. Her wants align with mine. She and I have the potential for something special, something rarely seen, if ever, at least among our set."

"And what's that?" Byrne had to ask.

"An honest marriage," Tony said firmly. "Just an equitable agreement between two people who suit each other's needs." He leaned forward. "I need a dowry to repair and maintain this estate, and a companion for Aunt Dotty, of course." He sighed. "Poor old dear, all laid up with that cold. It's my fault. I asked her to be my hostess and she's likely run herself ragged. But that will be nothing to what would happen if I don't marry soon."

"How so?" Byrne asked.

"She's been talking of moving in with one of my cousins in Ipswitch, who's been most enthusiastic in her invitations."

"Then why not—"

"Because she has ten children. Aunt Dotty will be driven to an early grave and she deserves more than that. She deserves a peaceful, happy retirement."

"And what about what Miss Crewe deserves?" Byrne countered. "How do you know she'd like such a life. She doesn't seem the... retiring sort."

"I'm certain she'd retire from the marriage mart quite gladly. Miss Prudence Crewe needs a husband who offers her—"

"The least possible amount of husband," Byrne finished for him, remembering Tony's ridiculous words only days ago, which now seemed like weeks ago. It was before the ladies arrived, before Miss Crewe upended herself over a trunk, and completely upended his plans for this party while she was at it.

"Just so," Tony said, nodding. "I will not tell her what to do or where to go or how to behave and vice versa. We shall have no expectations of each other." He sat back. "My father and mother hated each other, but they stayed trapped and miserable. They trapped me there, too, volleying back and forth between them and their enemy camps on opposite ends of this tomb of a house. And they'd been, according to all, very in love at the start. But it all meant nothing in the end," he finished on a sneer.

Once again, Byrne hadn't seen this side of Tony. In fact, he'd never seen him be anything but merry and devil-may-care. It was almost disturbing... Yet he couldn't find it in him to disagree. His mother had professed, in letter after letter, her love for his father, and what had it got her but years of fruitless hope before she spent her remaining years mourning the death of a man who wasn't even dead, lionizing him as a selfless hero when he was really just a worthless, selfish worm. "All lies," he found himself muttering.

"Precisely," Tony said hotly. "Looks faded, money dwindled, resentment festered and rotted into outright disdain. I hear some boys cry when leaving for school. I whistled all the way there. And then, on visits home, I escaped to Aunt Dotty every time I could because at least she had a happy home. She was one of the lucky ones, I suppose. But do you know how rare that is? How many happy, loving marriages have you seen?"

Byrne suddenly realized he had seen none himself. His grandfather had died long before his birth and he'd never witnessed him with his grandmother. Most of the marriages in the village seemed full of more resentment than love. And coming into English society, it was even worse. He'd seen little but coldness. Even the small string of widows he'd had his discreet arrangements with had no fond stories of their late husbands.

"Is this how you intend to propose to Miss Crewe?" Byrne forced a laugh, but he was panicking a bit on the inside. God, what if it worked?

Tony laughed as well. "I suppose I shan't start it off with the tale of my parents and their sweet, sweet union. Not very tempting, that."

But might it be, for her? She'd said, "I am very opposed to marriage, in fact, because of... of all the... reasons." She might not given him any of her supposed reasons against marriage after he proposed, but she had said something earlier, in the closet...

"It's a... a prison for women... Once married, women surrender their money and... and their property to men. They are treated like a... a limb of their husband, without will of their own."

And now Tony was offering her a marriage where she might live as she wished, damn him!

Tony sat forward, staring into his empty glass. "Happily for me, Miss Crewe is not some romantic little chit in her first season. She's gone through more than five seasons now, rejecting every man who looks her way and yet somehow she is still there every season. Why do you think that is?"

Byrne couldn't say. She was past the age of majority. Then again, that meant very little for a woman, while a young man might go off and do as he wishes. "Perhaps her family is pressing her into it," he said, remembering those funny things about her — her callouses, her offhand comments about duties and work. Yes, she had a sizable dowry, but that would be provided by her aunt. It didn't mean her family wasn't struggling.

"Well, whatever the reason, I think she wants out of it," Tony went on, "and I am offering her just that. Better she end up with me before one of those beasts with the betting books or lowlife fortune hunters entraps her the moment she lets down her guard."

"Unlike you?" Byrne prodded, trying to soften it with a laugh. Tony wouldn't do. She'd need to marry well, which meant she'd need to marry money. "Hasn't she already rejected every fortune hunter in London?

"True enough, but I'm an honest fortune hunter. And I will give her an honest offer. No false promises later broken, no passion that turns to bitterness and acrimony." Tony yawned. "What an awful note to go to bed on, but I suppose I must. Unless Aunt Dotty's good health suddenly returns, I shall have to think up some ridiculous parlor game or other."

"No passion at all?" Byrne rather hated the idea if it for her. She needed more than money. She needed someone who truly wanted her. Nay, she deserved it.

"Hmm? Oh, that." Tony stood and shrugged. "Passion dies. We'd have something better — respect." Tony chuckled. "Obviously, she is much more worthy of respect than I am, but I shan't hold it against her."

At least Tony was wise enough to know that. God, maybe he was right about everything. Maybe Miss Crewe didn't want passion. Maybe she wanted this equitable arrangement of Tony's. "What if she refuses?" he asked, hoping Tony couldn't hear the hope in his voice.

"Then I shall rally and find another worthy prospect, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, eh? Up you get!" Tony hauled him from his chair, at which Byrne listed into him. "You don't handle your liquor well at all. No wonder I barely need to refresh your drinks," Tony grunted. "Remind me not to do so again, you heavy bastard!"

"You're not supposed to know that," Byrne muttered, his head lolling forward.

"Know what? I know nothing. Trust me. Come now, stand straight." Tony tried to set him to rights, but it didn't seem to be working. "Blast! I might need help getting you up the stairs."

"No, don't get Fletcher. He'll be all disapproving," Byrne moaned. "I'll just sleep here." Byrne aimed for the chair, but he nearly hit the floor.

Tony caught him. "Very well, I won't fetch Fletcher, but you can't sleep in a chair. You'll wake up in misery... Well, you'll be doing that anyway, but that will make it worse."

"Fine. I'll just—"

"Not on the floor either," Tony choked out as he stopped Byrne from falling again, gripping him under the arms and steering him toward one of the sofas in the center of the room. "There. Now you can let gravity take its course."

Byrne did just that, letting the sofa rise up to meet him. "Don't go robbing me now."

Tony stopped in the middle of removing his dinner jacket. "I'm just trying to make you comfortable."

"I'm joking," Byrne slurred. "I know you wouldn't. You're a better friend than I am."

"Well, I shall remind you that you said that the next time you're annoyed with me," Tony grunted as he pulled off his boots.

"For seriously... I mean that part." What with the way he'd been plotting to steal Miss Crewe out from under him. But he wouldn't, not really. Not yet. "I won't do it till you try first," Byrne yawned, closing his eyes as something soft settled over him. He'd let Tony propose and, if she accepted it, then he'd have to accept it. "I swear on Mamaí."

"I don't know what any of that means," Tony said with a chuckle. 

He reached out and gripped Tony's arm. "But after that, I won't hold back."

"Also confusing. Perhaps you can explain it in the morning... if you don't have your head in a chamber pot."

Byrne found himself drifting into darkness with that lovely image in mind.

TBC

Thanks for sticking with me for the long wait and for this long chapter, too. I figured I'd better make up for the delay by giving you all a nice, lengthy read. :)

More to come... and in less than a month this time. :)