1. The book in its entirety, seriously

Kipling Mancheste, newly made duke and just as gorgeous as he'd always been, was currently laughing as he backed out of Amelia's brother's study.

Speaking of bad timing.

Amelia's back was pressed against the wall of the corridor, cradling a chicken. As one does.

"I'll see ye tonight, then, Alistair? Tell me ye're no' leaving me high and dry at my first Society event!"

Her brother must have responded without words—he still only spoke in short sentences and only when necessary—because Kipling laughed again and made a rude gesture. Amelia clamped her hand around the hen's beak and tried to back around the corner, praying he wouldn't see her.

It had been two years since she'd last seen Kipling Mancheste, and although he likely remembered her only as his best friend's youngest sister—gangly and awkward in her unceasing championing of God's creatures, if he remembered her at all—Amelia remembered him as the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.

The intervening years hadn't changed that.

She'd only learned he was back in London—having unexpectedly inherited the Duchy of Bestingbum—earlier this year, and despite her loitering outside her brother's study, she hadn't seen him yet. There were only so many times one can claim to be studying this portrait, or picking out the location for her new aquarium, or—in a pinch—reapplying the wallpaper, before the butler would get suspicious.

And wasn't it just like Fate that the day she actually did see Kipling Mancheste, she was taking her little darling for a walk?

It was too much to hope he hadn't seen her.

"Amanda?"

Amelia squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her back against the wall, the squirming hen clamped firmly under one arm.

"Lass, I can see yer skirts peeking around the corner. Are ye Alistair's new wife, Olivia? I've been looking forward to meeting the lass who stole my best friend's heart."

Amelia held her breath, praying he'd give up and walk toward the foyer. She wanted to see Kipling after all these years…but she wasn't exactly ready for him to see her .

Long moments passed, during which she heard nothing from the man. Praying he'd given up and left, she peeked open one eye.

And promptly closed it again.

He was standing right there .

"Amelia,"

he said, in that warm caramelly voice of his. She'd been rather hoping the years apart had changed it, so it would become scratchy or gravelly. Different in any way. Oh, why hadn't he taken up smoking in the interim?

Because hearing that voice she'd always loved, saying her name like that? His lips, caressing the M, his tongue wrapping around the L?

She was lost.

"Amelia, ye ken I can see ye?"

She was going to have to speak to him. Outrageous.

"I do not know anything about the state of your eyesight, Kip—sir. Your Grace."

"Well, as far as I'm aware, it's perfect. I'm standing right in front of ye, looking at ye."

Her eyes were beginning to ache from how hard she was squeezing them shut. "Could you…not?"

"No' look at ye?"

Inspiration struck. "I am practicing hiding from raptors."

"Raptors?"

Oh God, she could hear the amusement in his voice.

"Raptors. Eagles, falcons, that sort of thing. They have remarkable eyesight, but rely mainly on watching for prey's movement. If the prey remains very still while the raptor is soaring above, they can remain safe."

He hummed. "And are they a frequent danger here in Effinghell House? Is that why ye're carrying a chicken, wee Mellie? As a distraction?"

She gasped, eyes popping open, less at the childhood nickname and more at the thought of using one of her babies as a distraction. "Whatever do you—"

Amelia bit her tongue. Really, when confronted with the fact the man had his hand splayed against the wall near her head, and he was leaning toward her—close enough to smell whatever soap his valet used to trim his beard—it seemed safest.

When Kipling grinned, her knees went weak. Oh Lord in Heaven, how had she forgotten The Grin? It was even better than The Voice. It took his normally craggy face and shaped it into a work of pure Art.

"I mean, wee Mellie, that if attacked from above by a raptor, ye could always toss yer chicken at it as a distraction. The raptor could attack the chicken, and ye could get away safely."

By studying his lips, Amelia was able to ignore his offensive words. "My uncle used to tell me that was why he brought dogs along on bear hunts in the wilds of Canada."

How horrific . "I do not think your uncle sounds like a very nice man,"

she sniffed.

His eyes—so blue, so very blue—flicked across her visage. "Nay, he wasnae."

Oh.

The Grin was nice, The Voice was even nicer…but when he agreed with her?

Be still my heart .

It was possible her childish infatuation with her brother's best friend was not quite out of her system.

"So, wee Mellie…"

"Amelia,"

she corrected primly, trying to maintain some dignity while pressed to a wall, cradling a chicken. "I have not gone by Mellie in many years, Your Grace."

He winced, which looked wrong on such a beautiful face. "I'll make ye a deal. Ye dinnae call me Yer Grace , and I will try to remember no' to call ye Mellie . It'll be hard, since that's how I thought of ye all these years."

If Amelia needed proof that the man remembered her as the skinny lass with the skinned knees and torn hem, she need look no further.

But he was still staring expectantly. "Deal,"

she managed to croak out.

Abruptly, Kipling straightened. "So, Lady Amelia , are ye going to tell me why ye're cradling a chicken?"

"A chicken?"

His lips twitched. "Surely ye havenae forgotten yer passenger? The one ye're no' using as raptor bait-slash-distraction?"

"Oh, Becky ."

She lifted the bird, cradling her in her palms.

Kipling blinked. "Becky?"

Becky obligingly squawked.

"This is Becky. I raised her from an egg."

Some people— Let us be honest, most people —would flinch away in surprise at such an announcement. Kipling, bless him, merely smiled. "Did ye now? Ye must be verra proud."

And then the man reached out his hand, and petted her chicken .

Oh, her heart!

Petting your chicken sounds a bit like a metaphor. Is that one listed in the Harlot's Guide ?

It was difficult to ignore her chattering subconscious, but it was necessary, because Kipling Mancheste was currently cooing happily at Becky. At her Becky.

"Ye're a pretty girl, are ye no'? I've never seen a hen so fluffy and white. Those little black feathers make her look as if she's wearing a lacy necklace, aye?"

Amelia could admit that not everyone was as animal-obsessed as she was, but she couldn't imagine a more perfect response. She had to swallow and force herself to focus. "Aye—I mean, yes. Becky—short for Lady Rebecca Marie Skye Kincaid, by the way—is a Shanghai white. She is a fancy breed, and a brilliant layer."

She scratched beneath Becky's chin. "Yes you are."

Grinning impishly, she met Kipling's amused gaze once more. "And she's much better company than her brother Charles."

"As evidenced by the fact he's no' here, tucked beneath yer arm as ye go strolling."

Strolling, indeed. As if she hadn't heard from the upstairs maid, who heard it from Rocky, who'd heard it from the butler, that Kipling would be visiting today, and thus had been lingering here in the hall all morning.

But he was staring at her expectantly, and Amelia was at a loss for words. How to explain she'd been stalking the corridor of her brother's study for a month, hoping for a glimpse of the man she'd once been so in love with she thought she'd explode from it?

Oh, to be a seventeen-year-old, angst-driven, silly lass again.

She'd doodled "Mrs. Kipling Mancheste"

all over one of her books of poetry until her sister had discovered it and tossed it in the waste bin.

He is looking at you. Clearly he is waiting for you to say something. Anything!

"Becky requires daily exercise!"

she blurted, finally, then expounded, extemporizing as she went. "I often allow her and Charles out in the cook's garden in the mews. To hunt for—for insects and such."

The Grin arrived again. "Sounds idyllic,"

he murmured, his gaze caressing her face once more.

Was it her imagination, or was he leaning toward her a bit? How much effort would it be to press up on her toes? To stretch toward his lips? To give into the urges which had bedeviled her for two long years?

To squish a chicken between you.

Oh, yes. Becky.

With horrible—or perhaps impeccable—timing, Rocky the footman chose that moment to wander by. "Morning, Your Grace. Morning, Lady Whichever. Need me to pick up anything?"

Amelia cleared her throat and straightened her spine. "No, thank you, Rocky. Carry on."

"Ta, cheers."

The huge oaf tugged his forelock—or where he likely thought his forelock was—and strolled on.

She had to stifle her giggle.

"Lady Whichever?"

Kipling murmured, clearly noticing the attempted giggle.

"He cannot keep Amanda and me straight. We have found it's easier not to task his few braincells."

Kipling had stepped away from her—and Becky—when Rocky had come into sight, and now he straightened his cuffs. "And he regularly picks things up for ye?"

Ah . Amelia felt her cheeks heating. "It is…mainly a game Amanda plays to irritate the butler, Hiro."

She played it too, but she wasn't going to admit that right now. "She…drops things."

"For Rocky to pick up? Does he no' have better things to do?"

Oh Lord. Rather be hanged for a sheep than a lamb. Cheeks blazing, Amelia pretended great interest in smoothing down the ruff of black feathers behind Becky's head. "Rocky has a remarkably toned rear end, Your— sir. "

To her surprise, Kipling burst into laughter.

She peeked up at him and couldn't help her smile. Kipling's laughter was whole-hearted, coming not just from his mouth, but from his chest and his heart as well. He was the kind of man who made you want to laugh with him.

So really, how could she help her smile?

"Lady Amelia,"

he suddenly said, scooping up her free hand, chuckles still shaking his shoulders. "Thank ye."

As he bent over her hand, his gaze twinkled up at her. "I've convinced yer brother to attend the Stallings' ball tonight, which my—well, it doesnae matter. I'll be there, and I need some troops at my back. Alistair, Fawkes, Thorne…and ye?"

He was holding her gaze, his thumb rubbing the back of her hand.

Was he…asking her to attend a ball? With him?

Oh Heavens.

Oh, Heavens and angels and archangels and all the Heavenly choir and clouds and the Pearly Gates and whatever else went on up there.

Stop being silly. If Alistair and Olivia are going, you would just attend with them .

Well, yes. But Kipling would be there. And he clearly wanted to see her.

"Would—would it be permissible to dance?"

Good Lord, when had she grown so bold?

When you met him holding a chicken, likely.

His Grin was blinding. "I wouldnae have it any other way, milady. Save a dance for me?"

When he placed a hand on her knuckles, she made an embarrassing little sound like meep .

And then, still grinning, with one glance over his shoulder at her…Kipling Mancheste sauntered out of her life once again.

"Darling, ye could at least pretend to smile."

Kipling stifled his sigh and forced his lips to curl as he patted his mother's hand on his arm and watched the dancers floating about in circles. It wasn't that he didn't normally enjoy balls and social events like this one…it was what tonight represented.

His first appearance in Society as the Duke of Bestingbum.

A title he'd never expected would be his.

"Mother, are ye certain I cannae escort ye to the gambling tables?"

Since he'd gained the title, she'd proven that she had no qualms helping to spend the Bestingbum fortune. "Or to visit with some of yer friends?"

"And miss yer official debut?"

She scoffed, swatting at his arm. "I am right where I want to be, darling."

Debut . As if he were some kind of young miss, being presented to the vultures. Kip stifled another sigh.

Mother meant well, he knew. She'd married a younger son of a duke, and Kip remembered his parents being very much in love before Father's unexpected death. Then her first son—Kip's older brother—had passed on as well, a few years later. Mother had turned her undaunted affections to him, and he did his best to fill what he assumed were several holes in her heart.

It was just the two of them now, against the world, and of course he did what he could to keep her happy. She'd even spent some time with him on the Continent during the last two years, since he'd fled in desperation.

"Could I at least convince ye to go make polite conversation with Lady Stallings?"

Kip murmured.