Massingale House was unlike other ancient houses in Devonshire; it did not suffer from dry rot or chimneys that smoked, the doors did not stick, the floors rarely creaked, and the stair railings were free of pesky wobbles. It was, as the butler liked to remind the housekeeper, a very quiet house.

Except, of course, for His Lordship.

Even now the Duke of Massingale’s loud voice could be heard thundering through the heavy library door, followed by the unmistakable crack and shatter of a thrown teacup.

“Gor!” said the new footman.

Jameson, the butler, sent the man a flat stare. Jameson had been with His Lordship for more than fifteen years, and he did not encourage the staff to make disparaging comments about their master and mistresses. That was solely the duty of the upper servants and no one else.

Fortunately for the footman, a lengthy pause ensued inside the library, during which a light footstep was heard upon the landing.

Jameson snapped to attention. His quick glare sent both of the footmen to their posts by the front door. Unaware she’d interrupted anything, Lady Elizabeth came down the stairs, obviously trying to stifle a yawn, the early sun burnishing her golden hair. On seeing Jameson, she smiled. “Good morning!”

Of medium height with a gentle figure, thickly lashed brown eyes, and a wide, rather sensual mouth, Lady Elizabeth was quite used to hearing that she looked just like her mother, His Lordship’s late daughter-in-law, who was a noted beauty of her time. As this compliment was always followed with a sad sigh and the fervent words, “God rest Lady Ellen’s soul!” the comment was never accorded much attention.

From the other side of the library door, His Lordship’s voice rose yet again, along with the crisp sound of a newspaper being rent into tiny pieces. Lady Elizabeth pulled a comical face. “Oh dear! What has Grandfather in such a taking today?”

Jameson smiled. Every member of the duke’s large staff thought His Lordship’s granddaughter was a ray of sunshine, though that was not to suggest she was lax in her duties as mistress of the house. As Jameson once told the housekeeper, Mrs. Kimble, whenever that certain look entered Lady Elizabeth’s eye and her chin took on that particular angle, there was no use arguing, no matter how sunnily she smiled. “My lady, I fear it was the Morning Post. There was more than a normal amount of Tory verve today.”

“Ah, that would indeed put Grandfather into a foul mood.”

A noise outside the front door sent the footman scurrying to open it. Inside walked a lovely blond woman wearing a long pink pelisse, a fashionable bonnet trimmed in Russian ribbon upon her reddish hair. She was a small creature, barely five feet in height, of fairy-like proportions and a cupid-bow mouth. Accompanying her was Lord Bennington, a tall, dark gentleman with a somber expression and hooded eyes.

“Charlotte!” Beth said, hurrying forward to kiss her stepmother’s cheek.

Charlotte smiled. Though quite a bit older than her stepdaughter, she did not look it. Indeed, anyone seeing them together might think the two women were sisters, though Charlotte’s beauty was less memorable than Elizabeth’s.

“Beth, I am surprised to see you out of bed at such an hour,” Charlotte said in her soft voice, pulling off her gloves. Despite her gentle demeanor, there was a frantic air to Charlotte, as if the slightest excitement might break her into a million pieces.

Beth looked at her stepmother with a measured gaze, trying to ascertain the older woman’s true state. After a moment, Beth relaxed. Charlotte seemed quite placid this morning, a fact that would please everyone in the house.

Beth smiled at her stepmama. “I would still be abed, but I was summoned by Grandfather.”

“This early? Why, it is barely seven! What does he want?”

“I don’t know; I haven’t seen him yet. I just came downstairs and he was—”

Another teacup crashed against the door, followed by a thundering diatribe of which only the words “heathens,” “radicals,” and “forsaken” could be discerned.

Charlotte’s smile dimmed. “Ah, the paper.”

Lord Bennington glanced at the door with a grimace. “Massingale does not know what is due his station.”

Beth glanced at the servants. They remained impassive, though they had to have heard Lord Bennington’s comment. Beth did not like Bennington, though he’d been her father’s closest companion since they’d both been in short coats. To keep the rather contentious lord from making more disparaging comments before the servants, Beth said in a sedate tone, “Lord Bennington, it is good to see you.”

He made a ponderous bow. “Lady Elizabeth.”

“Good morning. Are you staying for breakfast?”

He flicked a glance at Charlotte, then said in his usual heavy manner, “Not this morning, I’m afraid. I have business to attend to.” He bowed at Charlotte, who stood by, threading the braided handles of her reticule back and forth through her fingers, a nervous habit she’d but lately assumed.

Beth always thought her stepmama’s delicate sensibilities had come from the death of Beth’s father. Indeed, several of the servants had mentioned that Lady Charlotte had changed greatly after that event. Beth could remember days after her father’s death that it seemed as if her stepmama would never stop crying.

That had been years ago, of course. Now Charlotte had good days, as well as tearful ones, though fewer and fewer of those. It was rather nice to see Lord Bennington taking Charlotte about and it certainly seemed to do her a world of good. Although Beth could find no liking for the pompous lord herself, she imagined Charlotte must find his overbearing ways something of a buffer against the unpleasantness of the outside world.

Bennington frowned at Charlotte. “I am certain I do not need to remind you that the play begins at seven. As it takes an hour to reach London from here—”

“I shall be ready at five.” Charlotte waved a hand, her gesture large and exaggerated. “You will not have to wait!”

“I hope not. Hamlet is one of my favorites.” He replaced his hat. “Good day, Lady Elizabeth. Lady Charlotte.” With that, he turned and trod out the door.

Cheeks a bit pink, Charlotte whisked herself to the stairs. “Beth, I hope you don’t mind, but I believe I shall take my breakfast in my room this morning.”

“Of course,” Beth said immediately. “Jameson, will you see to it that a breakfast tray is sent to Lady Charlotte’s room?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And Jameson,” Charlotte said, pausing halfway up the stairs, “Dr. Neweston is to bring a new bottle of medicine this morning. Would you let me know when he has come? I wish to speak with him. I haven’t been sleeping well, and I wonder if perhaps he might order something a bit stronger.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Beth frowned. “Charlotte, I didn’t know you weren’t sleeping. Is there anything that I can—”

“No, no! Dr. Neweston knows my humors. He will find something and fix me up well enough. You are the one to worry about. I wish you luck with Massingale. He’s been quite ill-natured of late.”

“It is the warmer weather. He hates it.”

“He is not easy to deal with when he’s in a good mood. When he’s in a bad one—” Charlotte shivered. “Well, you know him best. I will be in my room if you need me.” With a nervous wave, Charlotte dashed up the stairs and disappeared from sight.

Beth sighed as Grandfather roared out again, this time consigning the entire paper to the devil. “Jameson, please bring another pot of tea to the library. And some new cups.”

“Yes, my lady.” The butler cleared his throat. “My lady, forgive my presumption, but I fear Lady Charlotte is right. I have served His Lordship for almost fifteen years and he does not seem quite himself of late.”

Beth paused, her smile firmly in place. “Do you indeed think so?”

Jameson nodded, his thin face lined with worry.

It was one thing for Charlotte—who was forever imagining she and everyone she knew had this illness or that—to think Grandfather might not be well. But to hear such a suggestion from Jameson, who knew Grandfather as well as, if not better than, Beth…

Her jaw ached, though she did not allow her smile to slip. “His Lordship is just tired. That is all.”

Her voice was much sharper than she meant it to be. For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Jameson bowed and said in a careful monotone, “I shall bring more tea, my lady.”

What was wrong with her? Beth wondered as she let herself into the library. She never snapped at the servants. It must be because of the early hour. Yes, that was what was wrong; she was up much earlier than usual, and all this talk of Grandfather being ill had put her on edge.

She paused on the border of the thick carpet and watched her Grandfather. He sat in a chair by the fireplace, his shoulders slumped, a thick shawl wrapped about him. For an instant, he was starkly outlined by the fire. Thin and cragged, with a shock of white hair that never seemed tamed, he scowled absently at the fire.

Beth smiled at him fondly, her unease disappearing. Laurence Jeremy Charles Westover, now the Duke of Massingale, was a tough old man. At the tender age of twenty, he had inherited his title and position along with numerous estates, all encumbered to the hilt. A weaker man would have been tempted to put his head in the sand and pretend all was well as long as possible. But Laurence Jeremy Charles Westover was not weak. He was, in fact, indomitable.

He had not been a direct descendant to the line but a distant cousin, forgotten and ignored by the wealthier side of his family until a sweeping case of the ague disposed of the other male members. The ton snickered when the new duke was named; it was whispered he was of common Yorkshire stock, his mother the daughter of a German bookbinder, his father a poorly paid rector with long-forgotten ties to the Westover family.

The new duke was not dismayed. He might be the son of a bookbinder’s daughter and a poor rector, but by God, he knew how to economize and how to run a business. Within months, centuries of mismanagement were ruthlessly brought to heel. Within a few short years, he’d restored the estate to its former glory of wealth and riches.

Older members of the ton sneered that they would never accept the new duke, titled or no; he was a commoner, and a tradesman at that. But younger members—and especially those with marriageable daughters—disagreed; the Duke of Massingale was rich as Croesus and unmarried. A great number of faults could be overlooked under these circumstances. And so the duke, with all his plainspoken ways and manners, had been accepted into society.

Beth walked forward a few more steps until Grandfather turned her way. She immediately dipped a curtsy. “You summoned me, my lord?”

Hands clutched about his silver-knobbed cane, the duke sent his granddaughter a dark glare from beneath thick, white brows. “Don’t stand there ‘my lording’ me like some ninnyhammer. Sit down!”

Beth grinned and took her place in a chair opposite his, eyeing with interest two broken cups on the floor in front of the fireplace. “Is that from our new set of Delft china?”

He hunched his shoulders even more. “Damned blue stuff.”

“Perhaps we should use the gold plate. You might bend it, but you’d never shatter it, though I shudder to think what the poor firescreen might look like after another attack.”

Grandfather glared. “I wouldn’t have thrown anything if that damned paper hadn’t been so full of foolishness.” He scowled at the shredded paper at his elbow. “Jackanapes!”

“I don’t know why you read it. You always get upset.”

“It’s important to keep abreast of the world. We are buried here in the country.” He scowled down at his legs, bent with gout. He could walk, but only a short distance and only with the help of his cane.

Beth reached over and patted his hand. “Grandfather, I hate seeing you so upset. We may not be in the midst of London, but you make it sound as if we were trapped in a nunnery!”

“Might as well be in a nunnery,” he replied sourly, “as secluded as we are.”

“Yes.” Beth sighed, affecting a sad pose. “I, for one, am so afflicted! All there is to do is run the house and oversee the servants in this luxurious manor stuffed high with books to read, horses to ride, flower gardens to design, lovely embroidery work to finish, and more things to keep me busy than I can list. It is a burden, but I do the best I can.”

He looked at her. “Are you finished?”

She twinkled at him. “No. I also have you and Charlotte for company, and for that, I am very thankful.”

Though he clearly disapproved of her answer, he could not keep a quiver of affection from his face. “I am glad to have you; don’t think I’m not. I just don’t wish you to be trapped here, your life wasted.” Grandfather gripped the shawl tighter, his face tight with a myriad of emotions. His brow lowered, his mouth pressed into a tight line. After a moment, he turned a concerned gaze her way. “That is why I sent for you. Beth, you deserve a husband, someone to see after you when I’m gone.”

For an instant, she could only stare. Though Grandfather had mentioned such a thing occasionally over the years, he’d never spoken so directly. “What has brought this on?”

His face darkened, and he began plucking restlessly at the blanket covering his lap. “I have been thinking a lot lately. I have not done well by you. Your father would not have wished you to rot away here.”

“I am not rotting away. I am perfectly happy.”

“How do you know you wouldn’t be happier with a husband?”

“How do you know you wouldn’t be happier with a new wife?”

He scowled. “It’s not the same! I’m eighty-one!”

“Well, I’m five and twenty and I know exactly what I want and when. I don’t need your help in directing my life, thank you.”

He eyed her morosely. “You could at least give it a try.”

She sighed. “Perhaps you are right. Shall I begin interviews today? I had planned to go on a picnic but I suppose I could put that off until tomorrow.”

“Don’t try to wheedle your way out of this with a chuckle, Miss Priss! You should have been presented on your seventeenth birthday, but your uncle Redmond had the bad sense to die of some silly childhood complaint. Then your cousin Gertrude went the same route and we had to go into mourning all over again!”

“How rude of them, to be sure. I hate them both.”

Grandfather eyed her with a flat gaze. “Cheeky, ain’t you?”

“Only with you,” she murmured with a smile.

“Ha!” Yet he did not smile back as he normally would have. Instead, he fidgeted with his shawl, his brow lowered.

The clock ticked loudly; the birds outside the windows sang sweetly. Usually Beth would have been fine sitting still and enjoying the day, but after Jameson’s rather odd comment about Grandfather’s temper, she instead found herself watching him from beneath her lashes.

He was a bit more stooped than usual, and there was no denying the heavy circles beneath his eyes. But it was the tinge of blue to his pale skin that worried her the most.

“Beth, I’ve made a decision,” Grandfather said abruptly into the silence. “And I will not allow an argument; it is time you were presented.”

Beth blinked. “Grandfather! I am too old! I’d be the laughingstock of London.”

“Poppycock! You might be a bit long of tooth, though no one would ever countenance it to see you. You’re my only grandchild. The family title may have to go to that twit Theakeham, but you will inherit everything else, including this house.”

“You cannot mean to separate the title from the house!”

“I’m eighty-one and I can do what I damned well want,” he said testily. “Your father was to have inherited the title and the house. I wish he had lived to do so.”

She heard the faint quaver in Grandfather’s voice and reached over to pat his hand. “I miss Father, too.”

Grandfather grasped her hand tightly, meeting her gaze almost fiercely. “It’s what he would want, Beth. What I should have done but—” His brows lowered. “I shall not rest until you have had at least one season.”

The determined gleam in Grandfather’s eyes sent a wave of alarm though Beth. He was deadly serious, almost as if he thought this was his last chance—

She couldn’t finish the thought. Grandfather had been parent, mentor, family, friend, and more since Father’s death. She looked down at Grandfather’s hand where it was clasped over hers. White and heavily veined, it appeared remarkably fragile. When had that happened? When had he grown so feeble?

She bit her lip against an onslaught of tears. Beth suddenly knew she could not let him down. She didn’t wish to go to London, but if it would make him happy and set his mind at ease, what would be the cost? It wasn’t as if taking a season meant she had to marry. And that was the one thing she did not wish to do.

When her responsibilities here at Massingale House were no more, she’d be free to taste real freedom, perhaps travel a bit and have adventures of her own. A husband could hamper all her plans.

Still…if it made Grandfather happy, she supposed it wouldn’t hurt to pretend to look for a husband.

He must have sensed her capitulation for he gave a grateful sigh. “You will be the belle of the season.”

“I am far too old for that.”

“Nonsense. I met and married your grandmother at your same age, God bless her soul.” Grandfather’s face softened as he looked at the portrait over the fireplace. It was of a tall, slender woman, wearing a costly gown of red silk, her blond hair adorned with flowers. She was a beautiful woman by any accounts, her face heart-shaped, her expression sweet.

“I loved your grandmother from the moment I saw her.” He tilted his head to one side, smiling up at the portrait.

The door opened and Jameson came in with a tea tray. Beth put a finger to her lips and nodded to the table. The butler, upon seeing the elderly duke gazing upon his wife’s portrait, quietly set the tray on a side table and then withdrew.

Beth poured two cups of tea and placed one at her Grandfather’s elbow.

He pulled his gaze from the portrait with obvious difficulty and picked up his teacup, the dish rattling slightly against the saucer. His eyes twinkled over the cup at her. “I have to say that I expected you to argue.”

“Me? Argue?”

He cackled. “You certainly took your time coming. I thought you’d guessed what I wished to ask you.”

“No. I fear it was nothing so prescient. I was merely reading. Had I known you were down here, tossing crockery and planning my launch into society, I would have slipped out my window and gone to live in the stable.”

Grandfather chuckled. “Cheeky wench.”

“Crotchety old man,” she returned, grinning over her cup.

A tremulous smile touched his mouth. “Ah, Beth! You’ll enjoy London, see if you don’t! With your looks and spirit, not to mention the dowry I plan to put behind you, every duke, earl, and marquis will be tripping over his feet to win your favor.”

She replaced her cup into the saucer so quickly, the china clacked noisily. “Dowry?”

“Of course you’ll have a dowry!”

Beth sighed. Why was it that the simplest of plans was never really simple? The idea of hordes of suitors panting after her dowry made Beth wince inwardly. She would have to be very crafty to turn the tide of that enticement. “At least it will be good for Charlotte to serve as chaperone. She will—”

“No.” Grandfather’s mouth took on a mulish twist. “Your stepmother will have nothing to do with this.”

“You are much too severe on poor Charlotte.” Grandfather had never liked Charlotte. Beth was at a loss to understand why; Grandfather was not usually so judgmental.

“I rue the day your father married that woman. She was not fit for that position. And now look at her! Flirting shamelessly with that man—” His lips folded with disapproval.

“Charlotte has been a widow for a long time. Father would not have wished her to remain alone. She seems quite happy with Lord Bennington’s attentions, and surely she deserves that, at least.”

“Bennington! Pah! I don’t trust him. Either of them!”

“When Father was alive, Charlotte was completely devoted to him. You told me yourself that she made herself ill taking care of him the last few months of his life—”

“I don’t want to discuss this anymore.”

Beth sighed. She’d been young when Father had died, but she remembered Charlotte’s haggard expression and the way the woman had practically lived in the sickroom. After his death, Charlotte had taken to her own bed and hadn’t risen for months. If it hadn’t been for Dr. Neweston, Charlotte would probably still be abed. “Grandfather, Charlotte has not—”

“Is she still seeing Dr. Neweston?”

Beth frowned. “Yes. He is to bring her medicine today.”

“Good. Now enough of Charlotte; I don’t wish to speak of her. Beth, you will set up residence in our London house as soon as possible. Your cousin Beatrice is returning to town to be your chaperone.”

“Cousin Beatrice?”

“She will be the perfect chaperone. She’s a bit older than you, but young enough to have the energy to gallivant about town. I wrote her a month ago, but she was on the continent with her husband. She is to return to town in two weeks.”

“So I have two weeks—”

“No. You will go to town tomorrow. You’ve fittings for gowns, shoes to purchase, all that frippery stuff. Until Beatrice arrives, Lady Clearmont will escort you.” He didn’t allow Beth to protest, but began issuing orders with bewildering speed about letters of credit and accounts.

When he paused for breath, she quickly said, “Grandfather, there is a cost to my capitulation.”

He cocked a wary brow.

“I am willing to go to London, but for this one season only, whether I find a husband or not.”

Grandfather’s shoulders slumped. “You are a difficult child.”

“And you are a difficult old man, which is why we deal so well together. I want your word that if I have this season in London, you will cease speaking of it. Forever.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“Then I won’t even go this one time. I shall stay at home, instead, and make life miserable by cosseting you until you scream for mercy.”

He scowled. “It wouldn’t hurt you to find a husband.”

“I said I would go,” Beth said with a laugh. “You will have to be content with that. Now, what were you saying about a bank draft?”

Grandfather reluctantly began to explain how he’d arranged financing for her trip, his voice strengthening with enthusiasm with each word.

Beth listened with but half an ear. She would go to London and set Grandfather’s mind at ease, but she would not countenance a horde of suitors panting after her dowry. That would not do. So as Grandfather set about describing his plan for her, Beth began to weave one of her own.

 

Exactly four weeks later, in the Smythe-Singletons’ glittering ballroom, a small group of men waited near the door, eyeing the newcomers with impatience.

Beth saw them as she entered. She muttered an imprecation under her breath and turned away so they would not see her.

“Pardon?” Lady Clearmont asked, yawning behind her fan.

Beth planted a smile on her face. “It’s a bit hot in here, isn’t it? I wonder if it might be cooler in the card room.”

Lady Clearmont brightened immediately, her fingers tightening visibly over her stuffed reticule.

Beth hid a smile. Though she had a large heart, Lady Clearmont was a horrid chaperone, disappearing into the card room each evening within moments of their arrival. If there was no gaming, she would simply find a comfortable chair and doze away the evening until Beth asked to be taken home.

Fortunately, this all worked in Beth’s favor. She found an absentee chaperone the best kind, and it was quite a good thing that Beatrice had been held up an extra two weeks. Already in the month since Beth had arrived in London, the group of men waiting for her at any gathering had steadily lessened. From twenty or so eager fortune hunters, there were now only five.

Beth eyed the group with a martial light in her eye. If she could discourage but one of them from trying to win her favor, then her evening could be considered a success.

A dapper young gentleman walked by and accidentally caught Beth’s eye. She smiled and waved. He gaped, gulped, looked wildly about as if trying to find an escape before whirling on his heel and almost running in the opposite direction.

Lady Clearmont blinked. “That was Viscount Poole-Stanton!”

“Yes,” Beth said, trying hard not to let her smile burst into a full-fledged grin.

Lady Clearmont turned to look at Beth. “Why is he avoiding you? He seemed quite taken at first and called nearly every day. Then he quit. So, too, did Lord Silverton, Mr. Benton-Shipley, Sir Thomas, Lord Chivers—all of them!”

“It’s an odd thing, isn’t it?” Beth said, shaking her head. “Gentlemen today are so undecided.”

Lady Clearmont considered this. “So true! Just look at the prince. Such a sad state of affairs.”

Beth lifted up on her tiptoes. “I vow, but is that Lord Beaufort going into the card room?”

“Is it? I won forty guineas from him yesterday. Perhaps he’s ready for another trouncing!” She turned to go to the card room, then paused. “Do you—”

“I will be right here when you return.” Beth looked at the small knot of gentlemen hovering just out of earshot. The second her chaperone left, they would descend on her like locusts. A plague, that’s what they were.

“Very well. You know where to find me if you need me.” Smiling, Lady Clearmont eagerly made her way to the card room.

Beth did not allow her admirers to swarm. Instead, she walked directly toward them. The group of fashionably dressed men straightened, hands going to cravats, tugging on shirt cuffs, smoothing back already smoothed hair.

“Lady Elizabeth!” the Duke of Standwich said, stepping forward with an eager bow. “How delightful you look this evening!” An older gentleman, he dyed his hair an unfortunate shade of brown, which had a tendency to turn his shirt collars an odd reddish color.

Viscount Longwood took her gloved hand and pressed a heated kiss to it. The youngest son of a destitute earl, the viscount was desperate for a wife with funds. “I was just telling the comte that you are the loveliest woman in all of London.”

“And I,” Comte Villiers hurried to add, “told everyone that you were the loveliest woman in the entire world!”

Beth suspected that the comte’s tales of escaping France with his fortune intact were largely that—tales.

She glanced over her shoulder to make certain Lady Clearmont was well away before she sank into a graceful curtsy. “Y-y-you are all t-t-t-too kind. Th-th-thank you, C-C-C-Comte V-V-V-Villiers and L-L-L-Lor—”

“Indeed,” Viscount Dewsbury interrupted hastily. Nineteen years of age, he was the only one of Beth’s remaining suitors who possessed any means, though the one with the least amount of address. He took her hand now and patted it in a patronizing manner. “Lady Elizabeth, there is no need for you to bother your pretty head remembering all of our names.”

Beth had to bite her lip to smother a chuckle. “B-b-b-b-but I should th-th-th-thank you all f-f-f-f-f-or—”

“Precisely,” the duke interrupted with a rather superior smirk. “Lady Elizabeth, I hope you have saved a dance for me?”

“I-I-I-I-I—”

A young matron in pink burst into view. “There you are!”

Beth gasped. “Beatrice!” She was instantly enveloped into a heavily perfumed hug. “When did you arrive in London!”

Tall and buxom and with the same honey-colored hair, Beatrice—now know as Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton—was as well known for her jocular ways as for her rather pronounced nose. “I just arrived this evening. Your grandfather said I was to find you as soon as possible and make certain you came to no harm.”

Beth smiled and began to answer, when she caught sight of her audience’s rapt gaze. Oh yes. Her stutter. She managed a smile as she said, “Wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-why, Cousin B-B-B-B-Beatrice! It is so g-g-g-good to see you!”

Beatrice blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Beth raised her brows meaningfully. “I-I-I have so m-m-m-m-much to tell you!”

Beatrice pasted a rather weak smile on her face. “Yes, you do have a lot to tell me, don’t you?”

“Beatrice, h-h-have you met the D-D-D-D-Duke of St-St—”

“Oh yes!” Beatrice said hastily, sending Beth a sharp look. “I know the duke quite well.” Beatrice hurried to add, “I know them all, thank you! Gentlemen, I must steal Elizabeth away. I haven’t seen her in forever and we have so much to discuss!”

“Of course,” the duke said, tucking his thumbs in his waistcoat and beaming idiotically. “Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton, I do hope you bring Lady Elizabeth back ere long.”

“Oh, you won’t even know she’s gone!” Beatrice took Beth’s arm and laced it with her own, an amused quirk to her generous mouth. “We’ll be back before Beth can say, ‘Dilly’!”

Beth scarcely had time to wave a hand in farewell before she was whisked away by her determined cousin. Beatrice immediately hissed in Beth’s ear, “What on earth are you doing?”

“Keeping the wolves at bay.”

Beatrice choked on her laugh, pulling her cousin out of the crowd and into a small alcove designed for more private speech. “Lud, Beth! I am sorry I was late returning from Italy! The weather was—oh, never mind. What on earth made you decide to affect such an atrocious stutter?”

“Those lump skulls. I am bored to death!”

Beatrice chuckled. “Your grandfather will put a stop to this the instant he arrives.”

“He won’t be coming to town anytime soon. Beatrice, he is not well.”

Beatrice’s expression sobered. “I wondered if that was the case when he wrote to me, but then I thought perhaps he simply didn’t wish to leave your stepmama.”

Beth frowned. “Not leave Charlotte? Why would he not—”

“Or the house,” Beatrice added hastily. “He loves Massingale House.”

“So do I. As much as I’ve enjoyed my time in London, I would much rather be there.”

“Has Lady Clearmont been so horrible?”

“Not at all! I hardly ever see her.”

“How horrid! My mother-in-law—gossipmonger that she is—wrote to say you’d arrived and were rumored to possess a dowry unlike any other. I daresay you’ve had admirers in droves!”

“Had admirers in droves,” Beth said, smiling. “I have frightened them all off but these last few. No matter how much money one might have, it is quite lowering to think one might have to face th-th-th-this over the br-br-br-br-breakfast table every m-m-m-m-morning for the rest of your l-l-l-l-life.”

Beatrice laughed merrily. “I can barely stand it this minute! What made you think of such a devious plan?”

“Desperation. Grandfather thinks I should marry now, before he’s—” Beth could not say the words.

Beatrice sobered instantly. “Beth, I am so sorry.”

“So am I. I promised him I would have one season. After that, he has promised never again to mention my leaving him for London.”

“I see. He hopes you’ll meet someone?”

“Of course. I can’t have anyone running to Grandfather with an offer for my hand, at least not a man he might countenance. If he found someone he thought would be suitable, he’d insist I marry despite his promise. I know he would.”

“You are in a fix! I hope your plan works.”

Beth shrugged. “If it ceases to work, I shall simply develop another bad habit. And then another and yet another until not even you will be able to stand my presence.”

Beatrice laughed. “Harry is going to love hearing about this. May I tell him?”

“Yes, but no one else.” Beth smiled at her cousin, a wistful light in her eyes. “How is Harry?”

Beatrice’s cheeks stained pink, a pleased smile softening the effect of her protuberant nose. “Unfashionable as it is, I am mad about my own husband. And he, me. It has been that way since the beginning, and only gets worse each passing year.”

“Maybe one day I will be so fortunate.”

Beatrice gave her an odd look. “It will happen, Beth. When you least expect it.”

“Perhaps. But for now, I am well protected by my st-st-st—”

“Enough!” Beatrice giggled. “Pray do not do that when we are alone. I shall have to strangle you otherwise. Ah, Beth! You are such a minx! Your stutter should keep any sane man from falling in love with you.” Beatrice’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “The question is, will it keep you from falling in love with one of them?”

“Me? I am far too pragmatic to ever—”

“May I have this dance?” came a deep masculine voice from behind Beth.

She started to answer, but caught sight of Beatrice’s face. Her cousin stood, mouth open, eyes wide.

Beth turned her head…and found herself looking up into the face of the most incredibly handsome man. He was quite tall, his shoulders broad, but it was his face that sent a flush straight through her. Black hair spilled over his forehead, his jaw firm, his mouth masculine and yet sensual. His eyes called the most attention; they were the palest green, thickly lashed, and wickedly beautiful.

Her heart thudded, her palms grew damp, and her stomach tightened in the most irksome way. Her entire body felt leaden. What on earth was the matter with her? Had she eaten something ill for dinner that evening? Perchance a scallop, for they never failed to make her feel poorly.

Unaware his effect was being explained away by a shellfish, the man smiled, his eyes sparkling down at her with intimate humor. “I believe I have forgotten to introduce myself. Allow me.” He bowed. “I am Viscount Westerville.”

“Ah!” Beatrice said, breaking into movement as if she’d been shoved from behind. “Westerville! Rochester’s ba—” Color flooded her cheeks. “I mean—”

“Yes,” the viscount said smoothly. He bowed, his gaze still riveted on Beth.

Before she knew what he was about, he had captured her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her fingers. Heat shot up her arm and warmed her to her toes.

“Well, Lady Elizabeth?” he asked, his breath brushing her hand. “Shall we dance?”