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While the relationship between Duncan and James remained tenuous—largely by the design of the dowager marchioness—Petra and Duncan's once-forced companionship had evolved into a unique but close bond. So much so that, just after Petra's twentieth birthday, Duncan made introductions between Petra and Emerson, Viscount Ingersoll, who was Duncan's most trusted friend from Oxford. The introduction swiftly became a love match, and soon Petra was to become the luckiest viscountess in all of Britain, in her opinion—and even more so due to the generosity of her late mama.

For Maria, Lady Holbrook, had left her daughter a gift the likes of which few women would ever know: an inheritance. Not a dowry to be settled onto Petra at the time of marriage, but monies that would belong to her no matter her circumstances. The earl had even duly promised his countess that any man who wished to marry their daughter would be required to sign away his rights to Petra's inheritance or receive her hand not at all. And he would stay true to his word, along with offering a generous dowry in the marriage contract between Lady Petra and the handsome, blue-eyed, broad- grinned Lord Ingersoll.

No one, however, could have foreseen that neither provision would be needed. For the viscount's life was lost to a tragic fall down a set of town house stairs mere weeks before the nuptials.

There were only three people who would know that at the moment Emerson died from a broken neck, Petra had been upstairs, asleep, covered only by a linen sheet, not yet cognizant that the warmth of her beloved's arms was no longer enveloping her. One was Annie, who had continued to be the most loyal of lady's maids. Another was Lady Caroline, the most steadfast of confidantes. The third was Duncan, who had been a true friend to both betrotheds, lending his London town house as a place of privacy for the young couple. That night, Duncan came running as soon as he was summoned by Petra, whisking her to the safety of Forsyth House at the south end of Berkeley Square before she could be seen. His quick and admirable actions freed Petra to do nothing but feel her grief and be pitied by the ton for her great loss, without a whisper of scandal or ruination floating about her. Though Duncan, too, would soon be gone from Petra's life, leaving for the Continent and his new role as the duke's agent only a day after Emerson's funeral.

Petra, still pale and drawn with mourning, had accompanied Duncan on a ride at Buckfields when he delivered the news. Even now, she could still feel how her brow had furrowed with disbelief. How could Duncan leave her when she most needed his friendship? His rakish sense of humor to make her laugh? As she hotly questioned his decision, Duncan responded by questioning her right to do so, his Scottish vowels reappearing like they always did when he was under strain. Tempers that had been taut on both sides in recent days then became rapidly untethered, their voices rising with each moment.

Their horses unnerved by the shouting, the two friends had circled each other on their prancing steeds, like opposing warriors moments before battle. Verbal spears made of the harshest words were thrown, faults of the other hurled back and forth, the row like no other they had ever had, each feeling they were being used most grievously.

In the end, Petra, her blue eyes blazing, would demand that Duncan be gone from Buckfields by the time she returned from her ride.

"If you wish it, my lady," Duncan had said with the utmost formality. He was galloping from Petra's sight in moments, and was gone from Buckfields within the hour. Petra was left feeling angry, terribly bruised on the inside, and truly unmoored for the first time in her life.

Before losing so much so quickly, Petra had never thought overly much on her inheritance, having never felt she would require it with such an amiable future husband as Emerson. The altering of her views on the matter did not come as a result of her mourning period, however. Rather, because of her contemplations that began a year later, when she finally felt ready to reenter society. At almost the same time her naturally buoyant disposition began to overtake the darker days, a notion had begun to slowly take seed. So slowly, in fact, that when it finally became a fully fledged thought, the guilt that would naturally accompany it was tempered with a curiosity to know if it would have merit.

That was, Petra began to wonder if having lost her chance of being advantageously married, if she might have—in a way—been given an opportunity. One that would allow her to view her inheritance through new eyes. Specifically, as it pertained to what was afforded to her as a woman; to what it could afford her life going forward.

Over the next year and some months, Petra contented herself with enjoying society, never eschewing dancing or the introduction to a gentleman, while her mind quietly considered other matters. Namely, what women were allowed and not allowed to do—both legally and according to the standards of feminine etiquette established by society. And with each topic on which she ruminated, Petra made certain she thought on both sides equally—often debating them with Caroline, who was always willing to take the opposing side for the sake of argument.

The earl, whose only thoughts on eligible matches centered on which of his thoroughbred stallions and mares would best produce a winning foal, never insisted Petra entertain suitors if she did not care to. And as eligible gentlemen came her way—two of whom proposed marriage, leading Petra to swiftly but kindly refuse—she was left in no doubt of one thing. That the freedom to remain her own woman—to hold her own reins instead of having them legally in the grip of a husband—had become of the utmost importance to her. And thanks to her mother's gift, it was a freedom she did not have to relinquish.

But it was not until June of 1814 when, surprising even herself, Petra finally announced her decision to society. It was at the Countess of Ardley's ball, a mere quarter of an hour after Petra had turned down her second proposal—this one from Lady Ardley's sweet if rather totty-headed son, a viscount whom everyone called Tibby. When Lady Ardley, not yet knowing Tibby had proposed, insinuated she knew Petra's surname would soon become Wyncroft, what Petra had been feeling manifested into words that somehow managed to sound both respectful and laced with a strength of conviction.

"Lady Ardley, as much as I respect your distinguished family and surname, I can truthfully say I have never found another man I love as much as my late Lord Ingersoll. And, as I am possessed of my own fortune courtesy of my late mama's will, I intend upon my own eventual death to be referred to as the late Lady Petra Forsyth, and by no other name."