Chapter One

London, 1822

"Do not be anxious, my dear," Joseph Woodvine whispered to his daughter, his white mustache twitching with trepidation. "All will be well."

Clara Woodvine smiled tightly at her papa as she held onto his coat sleeve. She tried her best to appear as if she wasn't nervous, even though there was a slight ringing in her ears as they climbed the stone steps. This was to be the most exciting night of her life. Not only was it her first ball in society, but if everything went according to plan, she would be engaged before the night was over, praised and congratulated by every guest in attendance tonight. This night was meant to be a triumph.

What did she possibly have to be anxious about?

Swallowing hard, Clara ignored the erratic beating of her heart. She felt like she had eaten too many sugary treats. She was jittery and nauseous all at once, and no amount of steady breathing seemed to calm her nerves. She wasn't usually prone to worrying. She had always had a healthy dose of self-assurance, but this was well outside her usual realm of experience.

They entered the foyer of the Earl of Trembley's Mayfair home as a footman directed them to a queue that led into the ballroom. Clara turned to face her mother, Mary, who tried to give her an encouraging nod but appeared rather pale herself. They walked through the bright, vaulted entranceway where hundreds, if not thousands, of white flowers decorated every spare inch. It was the definition of elegance, Clara mused as they were shepherded to the front of a receiving line.

"I'm not sure if this was the right gown to wear," Clara whispered to her mother as she tried tugging up the neckline.

Her mother had insisted that she wear the latest fashion London had to offer. While Clara quite liked the pale green color of the fabric, which brought out the green in her eyes, she hadn't been sure the low, square neckline her mother had chosen was appropriate. Nor was she particularly pleased with all the embellishments the seamstress had insisted upon. As Clara glanced around the room, she half suspected her dressmaker had added the extra beading simply for cost's sake rather than fashion. While all the other ladies in attendance wore gowns adorned with satin braided piping or silk laces, Clara's dress was heavily decorated with gold-colored glass beads, stitched in tiny, individual star-like patterns that covered the gown from hem to hem. On a figure like hers, which was far rounder and plumper compared to the narrow hips that were so popular among young ladies these days, she was sure she stuck out like a particularly gaudy sore thumb.

"It's divine, dear. Now stop tugging at it," her mother whispered back, her hand coming up to tuck a flyaway strand of Clara's frizzy ash blonde hair behind her ear. "We should have used oil of neroli on your hair to keep it tamed."

Clara gently batted her mother's hand away.

"I'm quite happy without it. I don't like smelling like an orange grove."

"Yes, but it would have made it smoother. More pleasant to look at."

Clara did her very best not to roll her eyes. She knew her mother was only trying to help and that her hair was unfashionable. Unmanageable even, but it wasn't as if she could do anything about it. It had been that way all her life, and she had long since come to terms with it, and with the other so-called flaws in her appearance. Unusual though it was, she had always liked her countenance and had never wished to change it. It was only now, with the pressures of their family coming out in proper society, that she was becoming aware of how unsatisfactory she appeared, at least compared to the fashion pamphlets. Part of her wanted to fit in, wanted to be accepted, but at the same time, she didn't particularly care for the way that the need to be fashionable was making her doubt herself.

Clara and her mother had spent hours preparing themselves for the Earl of Trembley's ball. While Clara had initially been happy at their invitation, believing it would be similar to the country dances she had attended before coming to London, she soon learned the soirées of first society were vastly different from the ones she was used to. While Clara had always believed herself a brave person, she found that joining the ranks of the peerage unsettled her greatly.

She inhaled and exhaled slowly, noting the scent of roses and wisteria in the air. This was the first formal ball that any of the Woodvines had ever attended, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, so she needed to get a handle on her emotions. Clara's cheek muscles stiffly pulled up as she tried to smile. Had she forgotten how to smile? Bringing up her free hand, she pressed her gloved fingers into her cheek as a footman approached to announce their arrival.

"Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Woodvine and Miss Clara Woodvine," the footman's voice boomed as they came into the ballroom.

Few heads turned, and only one or two ladies' eyebrows raised in vague curiosity, barely sparing Clara an up-and-down glance. For the most part, no one seemed particularly interested in Clara or her parents. For that, she was grateful. Although they were wealthy, nearly obscenely so due to her father's latest invention—a self-raking reaping machine that was set to revolutionize how grain was harvested—the Woodvines were commoners and relatively unknown in first society. There were only a handful of progressive peers who invested their monies in new technologies and who kept track of who was making waves. It had been enough to score Clara some invitations upon their arrival in London—but only a very few. Socially, they were largely overlooked, though that particular tide seemed to be turning.

It remained to be seen whether becoming known would make them accepted. After all, monied or not, Clara's mother, Mary, had even been a maid in her youth for a wealthy, titled family. There were sure to be some in the upper echelon who would baulk at the idea of welcoming her as an equal. Clara could only hope that her own marriage would help cement her family's position. It was why she was so eager to find Hubert. The expected proposal could not come soon enough.

Craning her neck as they walked, arm in arm as if they were entering a battlefield, Clara watched for Viscount Dilworth, Hubert Jenkins. In truth, they had only met a handful of times, but for Clara's part, that had been enough. She was sure they would be a love match, and, tonight, he would make their engagement official.

It had been a serendipitous meeting the day she and Hubert had come together. She had been invited to a salon held by Lady Kelsey, wife of banker Sir Alfred Kelsey. It had been a somewhat scandalous topic, considering Lady Kelsey had rounded up several professional men to speak about financial independence and the need for heiresses to protect their fortunes. Clara's father, a practical man at heart, had encouraged his daughter to accept Lady Kelsey's invitation and attend since she was the sole heir and set to inherit the family fortune one day. Clara's mother had thought the entire thing was macabre and, being a conservative woman, hoped that her daughter would find a good husband who would manage the family finances for her.

As it turned out, the viscount had arrived just as the salon was ending and Lady Kelsey had seemed somewhat annoyed by the young lord's unannounced arrival. There seemed to be some disagreement between Lady Kelsey and the viscount about a lost invitation, but as they were both too well-mannered to cause a scene, Lady Kelsey graciously allowed Dilworth to stay. Soon enough, his charisma soon had many of the ladies in attendance smiling. Clara herself had found his quick wit charming, not to mention how attractive his mouth appeared when he would grin at her. She felt herself blush just thinking about his smile. His light brown eyes shined with friendly acceptance, and Clara had found it difficult not to be instantly smitten with the handsome young lord.

It had happened so fast, Clara remembered fondly as she moved through the ballroom. She had only met him for a moment's introduction, but he had called on her twice the following week and three times after that before he had finally declared his undying love for her. Clara had been surprised and somewhat taken aback by his eagerness. She had never been the object of a declaration of undying love before, and while it was rather startling, it was also flattering. At twenty-four years old, she had started to believe that perhaps she just wasn't destined to fall in love. Until she met Hubert. He had seemed to be just the sort of man a lady should fall in love with. She wasn't quite there yet, but surely she would be soon. She had no objection to marrying first and falling in love with her husband afterward. After all, they had a whole lifetime ahead of them to spend together—and there was nothing to be gained by waiting.

She was several years older than most debutantes, and Clara understood her chances at marriage were growing smaller every year. The shift in their family's social-economical standing in recent years had been a bit of a whirlwind, and Clara barely had time to maintain her friendships, let alone explore her marital options. It was rather lucky for her to have met Hubert when she did. Her mother could barely contain her excitement at the prospect of her daughter becoming a viscountess. Her father, on the other hand, had been the one whose opinion seemed the most steadfast.

"I must confess, I don't believe this courtship of yours has lasted long enough for you to be certain in your choice," her father said as he led Clara and his wife through the crush.

"Papa, it has been several weeks, and I've learned quite a lot about his lordship," Clara said, her tone hushed so that others could not overhear them, even if no one seemed particularly interested.

"Yes, well, if you are certain that you wish to marry the viscount, my dear, I shan't stand in your way," he said, as his hand came up to his face and he twirled his whiskers with his forefinger, something he only did so when he was uneasy about something. "I would never wish to be an obstacle to your happiness."

"Oh!" her mother whispered-exclaimed. "What greater happiness could there be than a wedding? This is wonderful! Imagine. My daughter! A viscountess!"

"Mother, please. Someone might hear you," Clara said, keeping her voice low. "And thank you, Father."

"Although, one wonders about his intentions," her father said, causing Mary's steps to falter.

"Oh, Joseph, do not dare try to paint their courtship in a poor light. The viscount is simply in love. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, my dear. But I won't pretend that it isn't at least curious that the young lord happened upon our daughter when he did." He faced Clara. "Of course, I would never find it strange in the slightest that any man under the sun would fall in love with you, dear daughter, as soon as they became aware of your merits. You are quite perfect in my eyes. But then I'm not an impartial judge, nor am I a disinterested party. As your father, it is my duty to see you well settled. I would be failing in my responsibility if I didn't at least express my concerns about Lord Dilworth."

"Hush, Joseph. Someone will hear and think you're disparaging the viscount," Mary said, peering over her shoulder as they walked.

"Settle down, dearest. I only wish to approach it from a logical point of view," he countered before turning back to Clara. "Now I know it isn't unheard of to fall in love with members outside one's social circle. But let us recount the last, oh, five marriage announcements written in the Times about peers who marry wealthy heiresses. And should we not also take into consideration his presence at the salon? It was a discussion on financial literacy for heiresses. His attendance was suspicious, to say the least."

"I'm well aware that without my inheritance, the viscount would probably never look twice at me," Clara said calmly. "But I hardly think a man's lack of funding can determine his character. Perhaps he inherited his debt and is no more responsible for it than I am."

Mary nodded furiously at her daughter's words.

"If anything, the viscount is very astute and enterprising to have attended such an event," Clara continued. "And if the result of a practical act is an acquaintanceship, which led to love, which will result in a happy marriage, well, it's hardly an issue, is it?"

Joseph shook his head and smiled at his daughter, his deep-set eyes shining slightly.

"Dear daughter, how can I possibly be happy to see you married off when I will have no one to argue with when you are gone?"

Clara smiled and hugged her father.

"Mama will argue with you."

"I shall do no such thing," Mary interrupted. "Your father enjoys talking circles around everyone. Only you enjoy entertaining his dizzying speech."

Clara tried ignoring her sadness at the prospect of moving out of her parents' house. She so enjoyed her discussions with Papa. They would spend hours trying to convince the other to change their mind. Then, having done so, they would proceed to argue the opposite point, just to see if they could get the other to change their mind once more. It was a game that she would miss dreadfully upon her marriage to the viscount. There would be letters and visits, of course, but it wouldn't be the same.

However, everything changed, she reminded herself as she set her shoulders back a fraction. She would meet her new life with determination and an open mind, just as her papa had always taught her.

Clara always hoped to make a match like her parents. They had such an easy and compatible marriage and had always been good helpmates to one another. While they hadn't been a love match at first, it had grown into one. That was perhaps the most charming thing about their story. They had married out of practicality and love had bloomed all on its own. Her mother had often said that her father's respect towards her had been the deciding factor that made her say yes when he proposed, and it was that consideration that Clara longed for most. Respect from one's spouse was a rare and precious gift. She had witnessed so many of her friends marry men who didn't seem very interested in their wives' opinions.

But Clara's father had always supported his daughter's analytical thoughts and Clara only hoped to find someone who was equally curious. Dilworth had been terribly curious about her ever since their first meeting and as a gentleman, he displayed the utmost respect towards her. Clara was very pleased about it indeed. And if she wasn't in love yet, surely she would fall in love soon, and with who better than a handsome, young viscount who already avowed to love her devotedly?

As her papa recognized several older gentlemen who were gathered around the refreshments table, he took Clara's hand from the crook of his arm, squeezed her fingers, and headed over to meet his associates. Meanwhile, Clara and her mother were approached by a short, plump woman with refined features and kind eyes. She was dressed in a deep, ambiguine colored gown, with glittering jewels wrapped around her neck and set in her dark curls.

"Welcome to Elswick Terrace, Mrs. Woodvine, Miss Woodvine," the woman said as Clara curtsied deeply, just as her mother had taught her. Though she didn't know who this woman was, she could tell by the gems that adorned her neck that she was a lady of importance. "My son informed me that he extended an invitation to you and your family tonight. Evidently congratulations are in order to you and Lord Dilworth. However," she said, looking around, "as neither my son or Lord Dilworth is present, I shall have to introduce myself. I am Lady Trembley."

"Oh, my lady," Mary said, curtseying again. "It is an honor to make your acquaintance. But the engagement is not quite official. The viscount has not yet asked my daughter."

"Oh, no?" the countess said, turning to Clara. "I was under the impression Dilworth had plans to announce his engagement tonight."

Mary couldn't help but smile widely at her daughter, who felt rather silly for being the center of both women's attention. Clara wasn't sure why, but she felt unsure all of a sudden. Shaking her head, she tried to brush off her feelings and gave the women a small smile.

"I should be fortunate indeed if the viscount should bestow such an honor on me," she said demurely.

The countess's eyes narrowed slightly as she scrutinized Clara.

"My dear, it will be he who is lucky," she said quietly. "Never forget that."

Clara could tell that Mary was shocked by the countess's words, but all she could do was grin.

"Yes, my lady," she said before another guest distracted the countess.

She left Clara and Mary as she glided away, but they were not alone long. In the next moment, Hubert was upon them.

Clara's stomach seemed to buzz at the sight of him. Though there was not anything exceptionally striking in his fair complexion, regular features, and light hair, Clara thought he was quite dashing, especially once one had to chance to get to know him. He was always smiling and impeccably dressed, and Clara doubted there was a man anywhere in the world that was a more perfect example of what a gentleman should be. While he was slight in the shoulders, he appeared relatively fit and she had come to like that they were the same height, feeling that it gave her equality to him.

"Mrs. Woodvine," the viscount said with a nod before turning to speak to Clara, his round, blue eyes shined with eagerness. "My dearest," he said. "I'm sorry I could not escort you and your family to tonight's ball. I had a previous engagement I could not avoid."

"It's quite all right," Clara said. "We just were introduced to the dowager countess."

"Ah, yes, the old bird is making her rounds," the viscount said, glancing around. Upon seeing the shock and discomfort on Clara's face at this show of disrespect toward their hostess, he quickly turned contrite. "My apologies, dearest. The dowager countess and I have never gotten on for some reason."

"It is her loss to be sure," Mary started.

The viscount gave her his most charming grin as thanks. He always flirted just a bit with her mother—indeed, with most women they encountered. It was a curious thing to witness, but she supposed that was how fashionable people behaved. She told herself it didn't bother her, even if it seemed a bit insincere.

"Are you all right, my heart?" he asked sweetly.

Clara gazed at him and instantly allowed herself to be swayed by his smile. She shook her head.

"It's only nerves, I suppose," she lied smoothly. "I've never attended such a formal ball."

He peered around the room, looking more bored than impressed.

"Yes, Elswick Terrace is an impressive home," he said dismissively before turning back to her. "But it pales compared to my country estate, Emerson Abbey."

Clara gazed tenderly at the viscount.

"Where is it?"

"In Devon," he replied. "You will adore it, I'm sure."

Clara smiled, though she felt a strange sense of unease. It seemed the viscount had forgotten to ask her to marry him and assumed she would say yes.

Of course, she would say yes. He was a viscount, for heaven's sake. An eligible, handsome, charming viscount who was close to her own age. He had all of his hair, his teeth were straight, he didn't seem moody or ill-tempered, and while she suspected that he was in desperate need of funds, her dowry should be more than enough to smooth that trouble away, and then there would be nothing to stand in the way of their happiness. A marriage to him would elevate her beyond all her wildest dreams, and wasn't that the greatest thing she could do? Elevate her status as well as her family's.

An inkling of doubt seemed to settle in Clara's stomach. While she appreciated that she should want to marry as far up the social ladder as she could, she couldn't quite stifle the nagging sense that told her she didn't quite belong with Dilworth. Even her friend Bettina Moppet, whom she had befriended when she first came to London, had not spoken very highly of Dilworth, but she was careful never to say anything reproachful about the viscount.

Perhaps these bursts of doubt were simply the result of nerves. Surely there was no reason for her to question what anyone would view as a brilliant match for a girl of her background.

"If you'll excuse me, dearest," the viscount said as he stared into the corner of the ballroom. "I see someone I have business with, and I can't lose sight of him."

"Oh," Clara said, just as the orchestra started to pluck and play at their strings as they warmed up their instruments. "I thought we might dance."

"Darling, it isn't quite right to ask a gentleman to dance," he said as if speaking to a child. "I'd refrain from doing so while I'm gone."

"I didn't mean it that way," she miffed. "I only meant that—"

"To be sure, to be sure," he said quickly. "I'll only be a moment."

The viscount disappeared into the crowd, leaving Clara and her mother alone.

"Really, dear, you shouldn't have asked him that," her mother admonished beneath her breath. "You know better."

"I wasn't asking him to dance," Clara countered. "I just assumed he might wish to ask me since we are to announce our engagement this evening," she said, glancing around the room. "I'll admit, I thought that dancing might help me feel more at ease. I've never been to a ball like this. I suppose I was expecting something smaller, more like our country soirees."

"Yes, it's certainly very different—very grand," her mother agreed. "But you will grow accustomed to it. We shall wait amongst the wall over there, by all the chairs, and when the viscount returns, I'm sure he will make you the center of his attention."

Clara nodded in agreement but had the strangest feeling that the viscount wouldn't make a speedy return. Hubert seemed distracted this evening, almost as if something was commanding his attention. She was curious about what might affect him so. She would ask her mother's opinion, but Clara often sensed that her mother was too stuck in her below-the-stairs mentality to ever question the behaviors of titled men. Perhaps she should write her friend Holly Smyth when she returned home that evening.

Clara had written her friend every detail of her courtship with the viscount so far, and where her mother was wildly impressed with the upper crust, Holly was the granddaughter of a Marquis and far more critical of her social class. She had congratulated Clara on finding a beau but expressed her worry about such a quick courtship. Clara had waved off Holly's warnings, quite sure that she was being overly cautious. But Holly had grown up in their world and was, therefore, Clara's most reliable source of reference.

Clara sighed at the idea of her friend and the quiet little village where she and her parents had lived before their financial windfall. It was a darling town with country lanes, stone cottages, and a river that cut directly through town. As the daughter of the primary landowner, Holly had been stationed much higher than her in society, of course, but in the countryside, those divisions were not as rigorously maintained, and a strong friendship had developed between them from a young age. She had spent her entire childhood running around the village with Holly. Though Clara knew it was ridiculous to be nostalgic for a time when her family had less, she couldn't help but remember the simplicity of their lives before money and the pressures of the ton had changed everything.

Clara followed her mother to the far side of the ballroom. The crush of the crowd had grown since their arrival, and it wasn't easy to make their way through the throng of guests. Her mother moved ahead, slipping between people before several bodies moved behind her. Clara halted just as another group of visitors stepped in front of her. Sighing in a very unladylike manner that earned her several contemptuous stares, Clara sidestepped the group and continued to the outskirts of the room. Another halt in walking caused her to become somewhat annoyed. There were far more people in attendance than she'd expected, and before she was caught in the crowd, she moved quickly between a pair of gentlemen who had allowed a narrow space to come between them. Clara escaped the ballroom within minutes. She was rather proud of herself for evading so many people when a sudden force knocked into her shoulder, pushing her forward.

Throwing her hands up to brace herself for a fall, Clara was surprised when she felt large, warm hands quickly grab her by her shoulders, pulling her back before she could tumble to the floor.

"Oh my," she said as she caught her footing. She turned to see her savior. "Thank you. I didn't see…"

As Clara's eyes lifted to see the man whose hands were still on her, the words on her lips died away. He stood a whole foot taller, effectively towering over her. His black, wavy hair was pushed up in a fashionable, lazy style that most gentlemen tried to accomplish these days. His stormy blue eyes glared at her; his full mouth, set beneath a large nose in a stern face, was set in a scowl.

Clara swallowed hard as she stared at him, convinced that he was the most attractive man she had ever seen. Of course, Clara doubted he felt the same as he was staring at her as if she had just morally offended him.

"I-I'm sorry," she whispered.

For a fraction of a second, the man's eyes flashed with something dangerous, and Clara felt the pulse in her neck begin to flutter. His attractive face and imposing manner made her want to squirm. As his eyes drifted down her face to her chest, she felt exposed and slightly excited. She was sure she should be offended by his open stare, given that it felt as if he could see right through her, but she couldn't manage to muster any offense.

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment as he looked into her eyes.

"The fault was mine." His deep, cultured voice curled around his words.

He bowed slightly and turned quickly, leaving Clara slack-jawed, watching him as he disappeared down the long hallway of Elswick Terrace. What a terrifying man. She exhaled slowly, finally realizing that she had been holding her breath in his presence. Clara had never seen a man so commanding in all her life.

"Was that the Duke of Combe I just saw?" a feminine voice said behind her, causing her to be pulled from her private thoughts. She turned to see a very petite woman with dark hair peering down the hallway. She leaned towards her taller, redheaded friend. "I wasn't aware he had rejoined society."

"I'm surprised he had the audacity to come," the redhead answered.

"But he and the earl are such good friends," the other lady said. "Of course, he would come to Trembley's first ball since the earl inherited his title."

"Still, it's astonishing that he would dare to show his face given all that's been printed in the Times about how he treated his poor wife," the redhead said, shaking her head. "Do you know, I heard he nearly killed the poor woman before divorcing her." She made a tsk tsk tsk sound as she shook her head. "Supposedly, his temper is just as wicked as his dalliances. I wonder if he's come here for one of Trembley's famous card games."

"To be sure. All men are affected by gambling. It seems the duke is no different."

"I can only hope he'll have the decency to confine himself to the card game and avoid the rest of the ball. After all, there are innocent ladies here."

"Do you think his mere presence here might sully them?"

"Lord knows, but I wouldn't let my daughter anywhere near a divorced man," the redhead said as her eyes fell on Clara, who turned her head quickly and walked away.

Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment for eavesdropping so brazenly. But at the same time, she felt as if the ladies themselves should be at least a little ashamed of gossiping, especially about a man neither of them seemed to know personally. She didn't think the divorced duke deserved such belittling.

Clara made her way back into the ballroom. She had read a bit about him in the gossip pages. When a story was large enough or wicked enough, it would always make its way around, and Clara vaguely remembered hearing about the duke and his unfortunate divorce sometime last year.

The papers had labeled him the Divorced Duke, and they had been brutal in detailing most of the ordeal. The Duchess of Combe had supposedly suffered greatly in her marriage with him until she'd fled to another man for protection, leading the duke to divorce her only three years after the two had wed. Rumors had persisted that the duke had wicked tastes and had forced the duchess into depraved situations of the carnal variety.

It seemed a large part of refined people's day was spent gossiping, and Bettina had been particularly interested in anything scandalous. Only a week prior, while having tea at Bettina's home during her mother's weekly social gathering, Clara had overheard the Novak sisters being reprimanded by their mother for discussing an article about the former duchess's new life in France. Mrs. Novak had pointed out that gossip wasn't the best form of getting information, but her daughters had countered that it was best to pay attention to rumors, insisting that they always carried a grain of truth. Bettina had listened to the exchange with rapt attention. It was a shame that Bettina was away currently, visiting the country for the week. No doubt she would be astonished to hear that Clara had actually encountered the scandalous duke. Clara would have to be certain to tell her friend all about it when they met the next day, since Bettina and her family were travelling back to London sometime later that night.

The duke's divorce had only been recently finalized as both the House of Lords and the House of Commons were required to grant it. It should have taken longer, but the duke was well connected and seemed to have rushed the matter through.

"I cannot believe it! I just saw the Duke of Combe," someone to her left said as Clara sought her mother, who was sitting against the wall, dutifully waiting for the viscount return.

His attendance was not only interesting to see but to most of the guests. Within minutes of reaching her mother, Clara had overheard at least three other people talking about the duke.

Clara couldn't understand it. It seemed relatively trivial to constantly talk about a man who had suffered a divorce. Divorce was a scandal in and of itself and quite rare, but it hardly seemed an interesting enough topic. And while everyone claimed that the duke's behavior within the marriage had been quite shocking, no one seemed to know any specifics. All Clara had been able to gather from it was that she should be wary about marrying a man with a poor temper. She would not like to be indefinitely linked to a man who would raise a hand to her. Perhaps the duke was violent, and his wife had been lucky to escape him. And yet, having met him, she found it hard to believe. His touch had been tender, if not gentle.

What a silly thing to think. How could she be aware of what sort of man he was from an interaction that lasted for less than a minute? She had no way of knowing anything about him and would do well to push him entirely out of her mind.

And yet, as she watched the ladies and gentlemen pair off to start the dancing, wishing to join the happy couples, she found herself wondering about the duke. Her skin seemed to tingle where their bodies had crashed together, and she unwittily raised her hand to her shoulder and rubbed the spot where they had met. She wondered what it would be like to feel the duke's arms around her as they danced across the crowded ballroom.

But those were foolish thoughts. She shook her head, trying to fight off her curiosity. She was nearly engaged after all, if only Hubert would come back from wherever he went and propose…