He must have come close to baring his teeth, because Jelves swallowed and bobbed his head.

By now Gowan was tardy, damn it. He had to be on the coach road out of London in a matter of two hours at the very most, since a table full of bankers would be waiting for him in Brighton. Instructing his retinue to follow in a second coach, he directed his coachman to return to Gilchrist’s house in Curzon Street.

The Gilchrists’ butler took his cloak, informed him that the countess and Lady Edith would shortly join their guests, and opened the door to a large and gracious drawing room that—at present—resembled nothing so much as a gentlemen’s club.

Men were everywhere, posies and bouquets by their side, laughing amongst themselves. Incredibly, a discreet game of piquet was going on in one corner. He recognized only the half of them. Beckwith was there, decked out in an orange coat with garish buttons. Lord Pimrose-Finsbury was there as well. Pimrose-Finsbury held only a life title, but he owned a good share of Marylebone. He clutched a delicate little violet nosegay.

Gowan felt a prick of chagrin; it hadn’t occurred to him to send someone to Covent Garden to procure roses or something of that nature.

“If you would join the morning callers, Your Grace,” the butler said, “I will serve refreshments very shortly.”

Instead, Gowan turned on his heel and strode back to the entry.

“Would Your Grace prefer to leave a card?” the butler asked, following him.

“I would prefer to speak to Lord Gilchrist. When did Lady Edith debut?” he asked bluntly.

The butler’s eyebrow twitched, but he controlled himself. “Last night,” he said. “Last night was her first appearance in society.”

Gowan wasn’t the only man who had taken one look at Edith and pictured her by his side.

But he now knew precisely why Gilchrist had asked him to attend his ball: the invitation had included the gift of his daughter’s hand. There would be no further competition if he chose to take up the earl’s silent offer.

“I should like to speak to His Lordship, if he is free.” He did not ask. Gowan never asked; he stated. It made no difference, because he always got what he wanted. And there was something undignified about asking.

Dukes, in his opinion, did not ask.

They stated.

He had a feeling that there would be no asking with regard to Lady Edith’s hand, either.

Two

It was a fever that had turned Lady Edith Gilchrist into the greatest success of the season, winning her the hand (and presumably, the heart) of the Duke of Kinross. If Edie hadn’t been dreadfully ill at her own debut ball, she might well have been less popular. But as her head felt like an empty gourd, all she did was drift about the ballroom and smile. And smile.

That turned out to be a formula for extraordinary success.

By halfway through the evening, she’d danced with every eligible bachelor on the market, and twice with the Duke of Kinross, Lord Beckwith, and Lord Mendelson. Her stepmother, Layla, caught her arm at one point and said that Lady Jersey had declared her the most enchanting debutante of the season. Apparently, the queen of Almack’s patronesses would overlook the fact that at nineteen, Edie was unfashionably old.

Edie had just smiled. She was trying to maintain her balance.

By the time she appeared in her father’s library late the next morning, her cheeks as white as her gown, the negotiations surrounding her marital future had already been concluded.

She kept her eyes lowered (to hide the fact they were bloodshot), smiled when spoken to, and said only: “Of course, Father.” And: “I would be honored to marry you, Your Grace.”

“The truth is, Edie,” Layla declared five minutes after Kinross had departed and she’d brought Edie back to her bedchamber, “your fever was sent by a fairy godmother whom your father forgot to mention. Who would have thought you’d catch a duke?”

This particular duke was Scottish, which was a mark against him—but according to Layla, the fact that Kinross owned the grandest estate in all Scotland made him an honorary Englishman and the most desirable man on the marriage market.

Edie just moaned and fell face down onto her bed. Her head was throbbing, she felt faint, and frankly, she wasn’t even quite sure what her fiancé looked like. He had lovely voice, but he was too tall, she thought. Big. At least he didn’t have red hair. She didn’t like red-haired men. “That’s not very kind,” she said into her pillow.

“You know what I mean. You looked so lovely and pale. The way Mary wove pearls into all that hair of yours was quite fetching. And you just smiled instead of talking. That’s very attractive. To men, anyway.”

“Don’t you think that he’s a little impulsive?” Edie mumbled.

Layla pulled back the curtains and pushed the window open. Edie loved her bedchamber, which was large and airy, with a windowsill that overlooked the back garden. But she loathed the fact that Layla perched on that windowsill to smoke cheroots.

“You can’t smoke one of those foul things in here,” she said quickly. “I hate the smell and I’m sick!”

Even face down in the bed, she knew perfectly well that Layla was paying no attention to her. Edie could hear her settling in her favorite perch and lighting her cheroot at the candle so that she could blow the smoke into the garden. Which she thought kept it out of the room, but it didn’t.

“I might throw up,” Edie pointed out, moving her cheek to a cooler patch of pillowcase.

“No, you won’t. You have a fever, not a stomach upset.”

Edie gave up. “My future husband is either impulsive or stupid. I only met him last night, and I can hardly remember what he looks like.”

“Not impulsive, manly,” Layla said. “Decisive.”

“Idiotic.”

“You are beautiful, Edie. You know that. For heaven’s sake, the whole ton knows that. He probably heard about you long before yesterday night. Everyone has been talking about Exquisite Edith, who is finally making her bow before society.”

“Don’t forget my Delightful Dowry,” Edie said sourly. “It’s more important than the shape of my nose.”

“He doesn’t need your dowry. You clearly have no idea how many young ladies have tried to snag the duke. He used to be betrothed to a girl from a Scottish family—the Capons? the Partridges?—some sort of fowl. She died a year ago and no one has succeeded in catching his eye since. Of course, he was in mourning for some months.”

“That’s so sad. Perhaps he’s been nursing a broken heart.”

“From what I’ve heard, they were betrothed in the cradle or some such and no one, including the duke, knew her very well.”

“I still think it’s sad.”

“Don’t be so tenderhearted, Edie. The duke has obviously put it behind him, since he walked into the ballroom, waltzed with you, and lost his heart.” Layla paused, almost certainly to blow a smoke ring out the window. “That’s rather romantic, don’t you think?”

“Did the duke actually say that he lost his heart? Because he didn’t seem heartsick to me, though my eyesight was so blurry that I wouldn’t know.”

“His face spoke volumes.”

“It had better, since we were completely silent while dancing last night.” Edie wiggled a fraction of an inch in order to cool her burning cheek against yet another section of sheet. “Don’t wave that cheroot around. Smoke is coming into the room.”