Simone paced around her studio, absently kicking scraps of fabric as she her mind went to different places. She and Mr. Skelton?

"I think the two of you would make a wonderful match, Miss Priest," she repeated Daniel's words aloud, tone mocking with a bitter taste in the end.

"Who said that?" Gale's voice asked from the doorway.

She whirled toward him. He took a bite from his apple as he leaned against the frame.

"The duke," she said, turning to sit behind her sewing machine. "He thinks Mr. Skelton and I will make a wonderful match."

"But why not you and him? Him, being the duke, of course." He walked into the room and hitched his hip on the edge of her machine table. Apple in hand, he gestured to the window. "And definitely not one of those hopefuls."

She craned her neck to look and sighed.

"They're back with more flowers," Gale said. "If you're not planning to consider them, Sisi, please give us peace and tell them no."

Simone, much to Gale's surprise, smiled. "No," she told him. "As a matter of fact, I'm going to seriously give them a chance to prove themselves."

He followed her to the door when she jumped to her feet, and then to her bedroom. "You are? Why?"

"Because I'm almost past the marrying age—"

"You're at the precipice, to be honest. Climbing your way up the top of the shelf."

She looked at him dryly. "Thank you for the reminder, my kind cousin. As I was saying, I'm almost past the marrying age. I wish to have children—build a family. Perhaps one of those gentlemen is my match. Maybe even Mr. Skelton! Mayhap I've simply been too preoccupied to recognize that it could be one of them."

"Hm," Gale muttered, looking unconvinced as he chewed and swallowed. He took another bite from his apple. "Hm. Interesting for you to say that after what the duke told you."

"Precisely," she said, forcing a smile. "After considering his words, I realized I've been deliberately ignorant of my suitors. They must have good qualities and I've simply been blind to them because..." Her words faltered as she realized what she was saying. Because I've been obsessed with letters that never came. "Because I've been setting my standards too high."

"Then," her cousin said, "we should expect you to be more active with your suitors?"

"Yes."

"Hm." Without another word, he turned around and walked away. "Funny, Sisi."

***

Lydia and Emmeline were quite eager to be her companions as she spent time with her suitors that morning, which was quite fun, to be honest. They were too eager to please her, and they were kind enough to respect each other. In fact, it seemed as though they had become friends after spending countless moments waiting for her in the past.

By afternoon, Harry and the others went for a ride with Daniel to a nearby field to meet neighboring landlords. With Roxie and Freda having a heated argument with their tutor because they refused to kill their frogs to study their organs, Simone joined Lydia and Emmeline to accompany the earl for another visit to Lord Rothsport.

The Viscount of Rothsport was a tiny man compared to their grandfather. At eighty-three, Amos Foy was sharp, brutal, and very grumpy. In fact, his only friend was the earl, and it was entirely by choice. He did not trust anyone else to be close to him because they just wanted his money (his words). "And your grandfather should do the same!" he would often tell them whenever they came to his humongous mansion the silence was deafening. His only son had left to live with another woman after his first wife died. He remarried, but it not someone from Sutherland. To be precise, she was an American. The viscount, of course, stripped his only son of his rights to the title. "Banished forever," Amos Foy had said once or twice.

His animosity toward his son, however, extended to everyone, including his grandson. But since he hated his other relatives more than his son's only legitimate child from his first marriage, Amos Foy acknowledged his grandson as his heir.

"He's coming home," he told his friend, the earl, that afternoon. "Must be coming home to murder me."

The earl merely laughed. "You don't mean that. That boy is a charmer."

Simone and Lydia both snorted and quickly covered it with a cough, simultaneously turning to Emmeline to inquire if she wanted to see the viscount's amazing gardens.

"And who is this woman again?" Amos asked, scrutinizing Emmeline with his hooded olive green eyes.

"She's Lady Emmeline, my lord," said Simone.

"You met her last time the earl visited you, my lord. Remember? The sister of the Duke of Dafield," Lydia reminded.

"Dafield?" asked Amos, frown deepening. "You're his sister? Whose daughter are you?"

"Nathan Cavendish died years ago, Amos," the earl said, nodding at the ladies to give them leave. "She's his daughter," they heard him say as they walked away.

"The eldest then."

"No, the eldest is the current duke."

"What do you mean?"

"Is this the way to the garden?" Emmeline asked, obviously trying to take their attention away from the old men's conversation. Simone shared a look with Lydia. Her cousin made a gesture to stay behind, but Simone stopped her, urging her to move on.

It was not their place to eavesdrop on gossips that involved their new friend and her brother.

"Tell me why you both had that reaction," Emmeline said while they strolled around the garden. Simone thought it lacked personality, although it was almost perfect, the flowers bright and strategically planted, the bushes trimmed with not a leaf out of place. The garden did not even look as menacing as the viscount. It was just as almost all rooms in the manor: empty and without soul.

"Because Quincy Foy is far from charming, that's why," said Lydia. "The rare times we had to spend time with him, he was just—I don't know. He does not seem human. Harry can be quite strict and cold, but only when he's doing business or if he thinks the situation begs for it. Quincy Foy, I truly and earnestly believe, was born to be worse than his grandfather."

"But your grandfather said he is a charmer."

Again, Simone and Lydia snorted, shaking their heads. "Grandpapa says that about everyone because everyone is a charming soul for that old man," said Simone. "He's an angel. Drag the devil in front of him and he'd invite him for supper. Damon said that once, and I agree."

Emmeline laughed, nodding. "The earl is indeed an angel."

"If Quincy is coming home, you will have to meet him," said Lydia. "Then you'll know what we mean."

Emmeline smiled, but it slowly died. Simone could tell she was no longer thinking about Lydia's worst enemy in Abberton. She had been fine earlier, but now she looked quite bothered. Was it because of the incomplete conversation they overheard?

***

When they returned home with their grandfather and Emmeline, with the old man bragging about winning three consecutive card games with the viscount, reminiscing the ugly look on his old friend's face, Simone locked herself in her studio and faced her drawing pad.

She wanted to create something, but nothing came to her. Giving up, she sighed and looked out the window. Apart from two stray dogs lounging under the trees, it was empty. No vendors, no gossipmongering neighbors. Lydia and Emmeline were in the garden, harvesting carrots for the cook to bake. Simone blinked and looked around the room. The walls and the wooden cabinets were washed with the mellow colors of dusk. And from the corner, the one dress she could not finish stood silent, forever waiting.

It was a simple dress, one she had redone too many times. Once, it flowed with ribbons, twice with glitters. Now, it was just back to a simple white dress—plain with signs of wear after thousands of needles and threads poked through it over the years. She should give up on it. Perhaps she had been dreaming about it too much that it would never be perfect in her eyes.

Her eyes landed on the cabinet, at the rightmost drawer. She got up and pulled it open, took out the box there, and stared. Like the wedding dress, she had decorated it too many times. Now, it was just a plain box tied with a blue ribbon. Inside it were his letters. Hundreds of them she kept and read more than she should have. She remembered the times she was feeling down and uninspired. His passionate words kept her dreams alive. His travels and the colors he described gave her inspiration to create dresses—blue ribbons for the blue and white tent he slept in, velvet for the curtains, green for the meadow he visited in Dockerly, beige for the sands in Herst.

She tried all of those on the dress. All colors that brought him such joy. Then the letters stopped. The dress stopped evolving when she lost his stories. She relied too much on them... on him.

She carried the box away to read the contents one last time.

***

During supper, Daniel noticed Simone looked distracted. She was engaged, but her laughter—which was often loud like everyone around the table—sounded forced. When supper was done, he joined the ladies and the earl in the drawing room while Harry and Damon went out to the stables to check on the horses. Price and Gale were somewhere in the courtyard with Roxie and Freda to free the frogs they rescued from their tutor. While Lydia told everyone about the contents of Charity's recent letter, Daniel caught Simone looking at him. She did not even look away because she did not notice. It was as if she was just staring blankly at him. But when she finally did, she blinked away as if she was ignorant about being caught. When their eyes met again, the smile she sent him seemed distracted. It lacked the usual Simone flair.

What could be bothering her?

He may never get the answer because she was the first to stand and leave the room, giving her grandfather a kiss goodnight, and him a slight curtsy.

"I heard from Gale that she's thinking of giving her suitors a chance," said the earl, his eyes on Daniel, who was still staring at the door she closed behind. "Anyone who wants her should make their best move," the earl added, turning away just as Daniel veered his gaze to him. Looking at Lydia and Emmeline, the old man grunted. "You children should be married by now."

Lydia dramatically sighed. "Please, grandpapa, no more season in Coulway for me. I'd rather find my match here in Abberton."

The earl snorted. "Do you know how I met your grandmother? It was during a scandalous season in Coulway!"

As the earl began his tale, one he obviously told too many times in the past based on Lydia's expression, the door opened again and a female servant walked in.

"Your Grace," she said, giving everyone a slight nod of apology, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but Lord Harry and Master Damon are waiting for you on the deck."

He frowned, having no recollection of such meeting, but he stood nonetheless and excused himself from the room.

And just as he predicted, the deck was not empty. And just as he gathered from the smile of the servant earlier, Simone was sitting there, a plain box sitting beside her.

She turned at the sound of his footsteps against the roof. And then she sighed. "Who sent you here now?" she asked. "Let me guess. Juliet? I met her on my way here."

He stepped onto the deck and stood beside her, looking around. "I heard you're giving your suitors a chance," he said, looking ahead at the dark silhouette of the woods, quite aware of her looking up at him.

"It's about time," she said with a sigh. "They've been quite persistent. I should be fair and try to give them a chance."

"What about Mr. Skelton?" he asked, intending to sound teasing but ended with a bitter tone.

"He has not yet made his desire to suit known—if he truly does," she said. "But Brett, Russel, Edwin had. For more than a year now, I believe." He looked down at her and she smiled, her face bright but mellow in the moonlight. "Surely, I could not wait for someone who may not want me."

His jaw tightened and his gaze landed on the box. "What is that?"

She shrugged. "Oh, just things," she said, looking away and leaning back with her arms as support. "I'm saying goodbye to them."

He frowned. "Why?'

"I don't want to get stuck," she vaguely murmured as she absently gazed at the woods. "I've been stuck for some time. More than necessary." Then she chuckled, her shoulders shaking. And when she looked up at him. "I want to not be stuck again."

"Where are you going?" he asked when she stood.

She picked up the box and smiled at him. "I'm done saying my goodbyes. Good night, Your Grace."

He just nodded and watched her walk away with her box. Whatever they held, it seemed important. It had been important. Alone now, he looked around the peaceful night scene.

"Your Grace," Leroy's voice said behind him and he closed his eyes. "Was Miss Sisi here?"

"No, Leroy, she was not," he lied without facing the servant.

"Oh, then good night, Your Grace."

His lips pursed. It was insane how the entire household was so into this matchmaking wager.

He sat on the deck, thinking about many things. Staying there for a while, he stared blankly at the trees, as if they could tell him a secret, answer his questions. But they were mostly about her, why she was acting differently, or what she was thinking. He wanted to know, but he knew he could not. Why bother?

Just another month, he thought. He stood, and that's when he saw a figure walking across the grounds below toward the woods. A figure of a woman carrying a box.

***

She had said goodbye to many things in the past. It should not be hard to do it again, Simone thought as she made her way to the cabin, her steps light, avoiding the traps with expertise.

The cabin was quiet when she arrived. She pulled out the chest from its hiding place and took a long breath as she opened it. Random things immediately confronted her. She smiled when she saw her aunt Antonia's old apron. Lydia must have been here just recently. She looked down at the box on her lap and murmured a goodbye before she dug into the chest, making room at the bottom.

"There," she said aloud. "You'll be safe here." They never touched one another's treasures. That was the rule. Whatever they placed here was theirs and it should be respected.

She looked for her treasures next: her father's pillowcase and her mother's perfume. She took them out and sat cross-legged on the floor. Her father's smell had faded over the years, but she would smell the pillowcase to get a hint of him. To remember. She never used her mother's perfume. She would just sniff the tip so the memories of that one last morning would return to her. Dorothy Priest sprayed from this bottle as she prepared to leave, Simone standing beside her dresser table, whining to go with her.

She did not notice the tears until they fell on her hand. And just like always, it just took one drop before she would allow herself the luxury. She cried, but not as hard as she used to.

When she heard steps crumpling dried leaves and twigs outside, she hastily wiped her face and forced her tears to stop. And then the hiccups came just as Daniel Cavendish entered the cabin with a worried look on his face. She blinked at another hiccup as his face turned to relief upon seeing her. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

His eyes landed on her father's pillowcase and the perfume in her hand, then it went to the chest. "I saw you walking into the woods."

"So you stalked?" she asked, almost irritably. Another hiccup. She rose to her knees and carefully replaced her parent's things into the chest. She tried to swallow, took a long breath and held it in to stop the hiccups, but it was no use.

"Are you all right?"

"Just hiccups," she said, closing the chest and dragging it back into its hiding place. He tried to help, but she stopped him with a motion of her hand. Once she was done, she straightened and faced him. Another hiccup. And more tears. It was quite hard to stop both, so she focused on the thing that she was a master at—the stopping of tears.

She blinked rapidly and started for the door. "You can't be here—" hiccup "—this is our secret place. It's rather rude of you to walk in—"

"Simone," he said, catching her arm as she passed. "What's wrong?"

Another hiccup. "Nothing," she said, gritting her teeth as a tear dropped straight to the ground. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

With another hiccup, she tried to pull at her arm. He stepped in front of her and bent down, peering at her face. "Stop staring," she said, looking away, hastily wiping her face.

"I would not mind if you tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"That you're sad."

Ah, there it was again. The pity. "And then?" she asked, eyes darting toward him. A tear fell from her eyes and she wiped it away. "What will you do this time? The last time you felt sorry, you wrote me letters."

"I never wrote to you because I felt sorry," he said, tone frustrated.

"Then it must be because liked the feeling of receiving letters from a naive girl. Or maybe that's why you stopped."

He let go of her arm and stepped back. "Simone, that's not—"

She stepped forward, almost like an attack, a hiccup as her armor. He stepped back. "Or maybe you did not know what to do when you started to realize you're growing affections to the same naive girl," she managed to finish with another hiccup. What was she doing? She should just leave, really. But she was tired of being around him and feeling quite giddy and disappointed at the same time. She should not have agreed to his crazy idea because whether or not she wanted it, they would win the wager, because it was clear he did not want to want her. But first, she had to make one thing clear. The arrested look on his face gave her more courage to say, "Maybe that's why you're pushing me away, even though it's clear that you don't want to."

His jaw tightened. "I'm not pushing you away—"

"I think the two of you would make a wonderful match, Miss Priest," she mockingly repeated his words in between hiccups. She was no longer crying, thank God, because she could see the almost angry look on his face. "I'm not naïve, Your Grace. I know the look of someone who yearns." Her eyes imprisoned his. "I see them in my suitors. You can't fool me."

He froze and she hiccuped. And as if something snapped, he stepped forward so fast and grabbed her by the arm. She thought he was going to kiss her. It was in the way his eyes lit with fire and the way his head bent toward her. But then he stopped. "I have my reasons." His voice was barely a whisper.

If she had to be honest, she was quite distracted. His lips were too close that she almost felt it brush against hers when he spoke. It took a while for his words to come to her.

"Of course, you do," she wryly and bravely retorted, refusing to step back, very much aware that he could also feel her breath against his lips. "I have long surmised that fact. Is that why you pretend to not remember my silly letters?"

His hand tightened around her arm. "They're not silly."

Hiccup. "That's not my question."

His face was so close, his gaze so intense. "I don't think I can tell you."

"Why don't you try sharing a secret, Your Grace?" Hiccup. "Mayhap you can bear it as much as you can stand to share one breath with me."

At her last statement, he broke. But he did not kiss her as she had expected. He smiled and then he laughed, resting his forehead on her shoulder as he did so. With a hiccup, she frowned. "What's so funny?"

He could not even speak, the fool. He was just laughing.

"Are you laughing—" Hiccup "—at my expense? Is it the hiccups?"

"No," he managed to say, clearing his throat and lifting his head to look down at her, the smile on his face quickly fading. "I'm laughing at myself."

"But you're not even funny."

He snorted, eyes gazing down at her with the same yearning she knew too well. Maybe it was her who was rising to her toes to close the gap, or maybe it was him. Or maybe it was them. But no matter, it was happening.

The kiss.

She just knew it. She had kissed men before and was quite familiar of the feeling just before it happened.

"Miss Sisi!" They both jumped away from each other at the sound of Leroy's voice coming from outside the cabin. She pushed him aside as she ran to the door, saying, "Return only after we're gone."

Outside, she met Leroy and assured the man she was alone when he asked.

"I saw him on the deck, Miss. You should return to your room at once before Juliet and the others can do something."

"Of course, Leroy," she absently said, giving the cabin one last glance.

She achieved nothing, really. She did not even get a kiss. In fact, their encounter merely caused her more confusion.

"Leroy, what would you do if we won this wager?"

"Why—buy myself a cow, of course. The wife wants more cows, see? And you, Miss Sisi?"

Another hiccup. "I'll spend all my money making a wedding dress. It's time I marry."

"One of your suitors, I hope?"

She shrugged. Hiccup. "Maybe."