Chapter 8

… Stanhope, find below the details for the paper at Cambridge on ceramics of the Etruscan period. For the love of God, I do not want to know why.

—from Mr. Mohan Tagore, barrister, to His Grace Peter Kent, the Duke of Stanhope

"You needn't talk." Selina resettled a pin into Lydia's hair in the Strattons' retiring room. "There's no need. Remember that he must charm you ."

Lydia groaned and put her face into her hands.

"You must simply endeavor not to run away." Selina tugged a lock of red hair loose and swirled it at the base of Lydia's neck.

"Oh, certainly. I shan't move a muscle, and then I'll vomit on Stanhope's boot."

Selina winced.

"In any case," Lydia continued, "do you think this even necessary? Did you not tell me he meant to call on Georgiana?"

Selina chewed on her lower lip. "He did say so."

Lydia arched a brow. "I told you. Men like that sort of thing."

"Lyddie, it just got worse after you left. I cannot countenance it."

"Go have a look at Georgiana in the ballroom, and see if you can countenance it."

She'd seen Georgiana, surrounded as always by suitors, swathed in virginal white and blinking around like she couldn't imagine what all the fuss was about. Selina understood the appeal—Belvoir's and four years on the Marriage Mart had taught her enough to know that men preferred Marianne Dashwood to Elizabeth Bennet, as unaccountable as it seemed.

But she'd seen Peter struggling against laughter at Georgiana's non sequiturs. Curse him, the man had had the temerity to turn those liquid chocolate eyes on her and plead for help. Half-amused, he'd looked, and half-agonized. And she'd thought, Yes, I will help you. Anything.

For the children, of course. Because she cared about the children. Because she wanted them to be a family.

Only when Peter had looked at her as though she were his partner in some great adventure, she'd felt something bright blossom in her chest. She'd felt like his friend. She'd felt like she mattered. For once in her life she didn't feel like too much—she felt exactly right , there in the warm embrace of his eyes.

And then, for some reason, he'd changed his mind. He'd smiled at Georgiana. He'd offered to call on her. And he didn't need Selina after all.

Selina smoothed the seam of her gloves between her fingers and tried to shake off the maudlin thoughts.

"Come along," she said, and she linked her arm through Lydia's. "If he's going to marry someone, he couldn't possibly find a better partner than you."

In the ballroom, they found Georgiana and Peter just finishing a set. Selina could hear Peter rattling on—something about his sister, Selina thought, and her fencing—while Georgiana looked at him with an expression of puzzlement.

She led Lydia over to intercept them as they left the dance floor. "Good evening, Your Grace. Lady Georgiana."

Peter stopped talking. His eyes caught on hers and held there. Her fingers itched to sweep the dark curls off his forehead, and she wondered if he'd been lying when he said his valet didn't form those bloody ringlets with hot tongs.

He must have been lying. Her own hair took Emmie an hour to arrange.

He seemed to come to himself with a start, and he bent to kiss her hand and then Lydia's. Lydia was rather pale but not yet that familiarly ominous pale green. Selina squeezed her upper arm encouragingly.

"Your Grace," Lydia muttered. "Have you heard that Brougham is running this year in Winchelsea?"

Selina hadn't the faintest idea who Brougham was, or why his campaign would be relevant to Peter, but Peter's eyes sparked with interest.

"I had, yes. I've been meaning to meet with him—I have a great deal to learn about abolition work in this country."

"You should," said Lydia. She was staring grimly down at her slippers, but she was still talking. Selina wanted to clap her on the back in delight but restrained herself. "He was instrumental in passing the Slave Trade Felony Act. If you want to work on legislation, he can help you do it."

Peter grinned at Lydia, and Selina felt a hot sensation in her chest and her fingers.

"You should dance," she said abruptly. "The next set."

Peter's gaze shot to hers. "Lady Selina. It would be my pleasure to escort you onto the dance floor."

"Oh," she said, and now the burning feeling rushed up to her cheeks. "No. I—I meant with Lydia." Devil take it, had she implied that she wanted to dance with him? Surely she had not. "You must ask Lydia."

He took her stuttered protest with equanimity. "To be sure. Miss Hope-Wallace, would you care to join me for the next set?"

Lydia managed to nod, and when the music shifted into a quadrille, Peter and Lydia made their way into the crush of men and women in the center of the ballroom.

Lady Georgiana was scooped up promptly by a small knot of suitors. Tresidder—poor foolish man—seemed to come out the winner, and he led Georgiana into the fray. Samuel Bowbridge, among the rejected, nervously angled his gaze toward Selina. She gave him a withering look.

"Beg pardon," he mumbled. "Good evening, Lady Selina."

And then she was mercifully alone to watch Peter dance with Lydia and to think.

They would have made a brilliant couple if Lydia didn't look miserable. She was an excellent dancer—not that she had the chance to demonstrate it often—but her face was set, and she kept refusing to look Peter in the eye. He was talking easily to her, though, and he didn't seem offended by her silence.

He was good at this—dancing, talking. Selina had not thought he would be quite so good at it.

She had, of course, some sense of his appeal. She had sat across from him at Rowland House more than once and had forced herself not to look too hard as he smiled and spoke easily of New Orleans. Once, when she and Faiza had encountered Peter and Clermont at the opera, she'd had to bite her cheek to keep from laughing aloud as Peter caught her elbow and drew her behind a screen while Faiza and Clermont argued.

"If I throw my glove at Clermont," he'd whispered, grinning down at her, "will it distract them, do you think? Because right now they're drowning out the soprano."

She'd noticed the way he had of focusing on her, his eyes bright, his expression suddenly serious—as though he was listening intently to what she had to say. As though it mattered.

She'd simply never seen him deploy the expression on someone else.

It didn't rankle. It didn't. She was glad he was so bloody charming.

Funny how glad felt like a sting in her chest.

She set her jaw and turned to look for Iris Duggleby. She still meant to present Peter with options for his future wife, after all. Even if he didn't seem to need her help nearly as much as she'd thought.

She found Iris in a chair on the side of the ballroom, an abandoned champagne glass at her side and her dark head bent over a book. Iris's mother, Lady Duggleby, was Italian, and Iris had inherited her thick, glossy black hair. Selina felt quite confident that the twists and ringlets into which Iris's hair had been tortured—along with the flounced pink satin gown Iris wore—were also the products of Lady Duggleby's influence.

She took the chair beside her friend. "Iris. I've missed you."

"Hmm?" Iris appeared engrossed in her reading, and Selina felt her lips tug into a smile. After an extended pause, Iris looked up, and her expression came into focus. "Oh, Selina! Have you read this?"

Selina looked down at the book in Iris's lap and promptly froze, mouth half open.

It was a Belvoir's book.

She had expected a treatise on archaeological practices or perhaps something in a language she did not recognize. She had absolutely not expected—

"Is that," she choked out, "a, er—"

Iris nodded cheerfully at the book. "A phallus. With a bow on it. Yes."

Selina looked around the ballroom, then tried to pretend she had not done so. Do not look guilty , she told herself. Don't you dare.

She reached over and flipped the book in Iris's lap closed. "Fascinating," she said on a wheeze.

"Isn't it? My lady's maid left this in my bedroom. I thought it was some kind of hint, but perhaps she just forgot it. I really did not know what a French letter was until this evening. Nor that one must tie it on with a ribbon like that."

"Indeed," Selina managed.

She recalled that book quite clearly. It was a guide to various forms of contraception, and she had been so pleased with it that she'd made Jean Laventille send it into a second printing. That was precisely the kind of text she wanted for the Venus catalog—a clear, lucid, scientific discussion of how to prevent pregnancy, with diagrams and even suggestions for where to purchase the various products therein.

She had not supposed she would encounter it in a ballroom, in the lap of Iris Duggleby.

But then again, this was exactly what she wanted Belvoir's to be: an attainable resource for women who would not otherwise have access to knowledge that could change their lives for the better.

The flush on her cheeks was not all guilt, she supposed. Some of it was pride.

Iris was drumming her fingers on the cover of the book and looking abstracted. "Do you know," she said, "this makes me wonder if we've misinterpreted some of the findings from Clarke's excavation last year. Something in these illustrations struck me as familiar…" She made to reopen the book, and Selina clapped her hand atop Iris's in alarm.

"Perhaps," she said weakly, "you might examine the illustrations at home?"

Iris looked down at their hands on the book. "Ah. Perhaps you are right."

Cautiously, Selina withdrew her fingers. When Iris did not immediately move to turn the cover, Selina gave an inward sigh of relief. "Listen, Iris," she said, "I wanted to speak to you about something. About someone , I should say. Have you met the Duke of Stanhope?"

Iris tapped the green-bound book meditatively before responding. "The American duke? Of course I have. My mother seems to think he might be persuaded to accept me, given that he missed the Puggleby debacle of 1812."

"Oh," Selina said. That was good, she supposed, that Iris had already considered marriage to Peter.

Really, it seemed as though everyone would consider marriage to Peter. Which was what she wanted. Of course.

"Why?" Iris asked. "Has he an interest in Clarke's excavation?"

"Um," said Selina. She rather hoped he did. She had told him to prepare for this, had she not? "I cannot say. But I do know that he is looking to marry. Soon. I'd like to bring him over to speak to you, if you're amenable."

Iris nearly upset the book. "Good Lord, Selina. My mother has delusions of grandeur; I've always known that. But you ?"

"Stop that." Selina ground her teeth. Why were her friends so bloody resistant to the idea that they were desirable candidates for marriage?

But of course, she knew why. Because society had told them they were undesirable for years now. And as much as Selina wanted to transform their narrow-minded world, she had not figured out yet how to change that .

"Let me bring him over," she said. "You'll like him, Iris. He's a good man."

"Hmm." Iris gave Selina a considering glance. "That's a better recommendation than I've heard you give most men of the ton ."

"Most of the men of the ton are fools."

Iris's mouth tipped up in a crooked smile. "Don't I know it."

Exhaustion had sweat pricking his brow as Peter whirled Lydia Hope-Wallace to a stop at the close of their set and watched her make her way toward her mother.

Thirty minutes. Had he really just spoken nonstop for thirty minutes? It was like a parliamentary speech, only he hadn't prepared remarks.

Well, that wasn't quite fair. At some point, he'd resorted to quoting his own maiden speech on abolition. And then a second speech he'd been writing these past weeks. Also William Wilberforce, William Pitt, and possibly several other Williams.

Lydia had slowly relaxed, though, as he'd babbled, and she'd even darted her blue eyes up to meet his once or twice. But then they were forced to change partners, and when she'd returned, the whole process had begun again. Terrified Lydia. Nonsensical Peter. Extended rambling followed by gradual thawing of Lydia's fright.

Perhaps they might suit. Perhaps if he had weeks alone with Lydia at the Stanhope residence, she would find her voice, find herself willing to share what was happening behind the pale facade of her face.

It was clearly a measure of his personal distraction that when he thought about weeks alone with his hypothetical new bride, he imagined spending their days talking politics. There was no good reason that Lydia Hope-Wallace, with her ginger hair and generous figure, shouldn't inspire him to all sorts of erotic daydreams.

No good reason. One very bad reason.

The very bad reason herself was making her way toward him through the crush, and he felt himself smiling at her. She walked with long, impatient strides, her legs eating up the distance in a way that seemed to declare the ballroom and all its inhabitants in the way of her plans.

He wondered what it would be like to have all that singular focus to himself. On himself. Just for a day. A night. One long cold English night, with nothing but starlight and Selina's bare skin to keep him warm.

Good Christ. He blinked at her as she approached, trying to remember the expression on her face when he'd mistakenly thought she wanted to dance with him.

She hadn't. The very idea filled her with horror. She was trying her damnedest to marry him to someone else.

"Your Grace," she said, her greeting barely acknowledging his bow at her approach. "I'd like for you to meet another one of my dearest friends. Do you remember when we spoke of Miss Duggleby?"

Of course he damned well did.

"I'd be delighted. I've studied up on Etruscan art."

Selina gave him a narrow-eyed glare, evidently trying to determine whether or not he meant it. He smiled innocently at her, and she pursed her lips in a way that had blood rushing away from his brain and decidedly southward. A pout. Who knew Selina Ravenscroft could pout?

"Come along, then." She linked her arm through his and gave him a solid tug. Her hair was undecorated this evening, pulled back into some kind of twist that had waves of gold spilling down her back. He was close enough to smell her, and he couldn't put his finger on her scent. Something spiced. Cloves, perhaps, or rum.

He followed her lead, and she took him to one of the corners of the ballroom, where a dark-haired woman of about Selina's own age sat alone, her head bent over a green-bound volume in her lap.

As they approached, Selina cleared her throat.

The woman did not move. She did not even seem to hear them.

Selina coughed again, rather more loudly. Peter bit hard on the inside of his cheek.

Selina muttered something incomprehensible under her breath, reached down, and plucked the book out of Iris's hands. She snapped it closed and stuffed it into her own reticule before Peter could see what it was that Iris had been reading.

"Miss Iris Duggleby," Selina said loudly, "may I present His Grace, the Duke of Stanhope?"

Iris blinked up at them, her eyes a dreamy gray-green. "Oh. Already? That was quick."

Selina made a slightly strangled sound, and despite Miss Duggleby's less-than-enthusiastic reception of his arrival, he found that he wanted to laugh. He turned to look at Selina, who was staring daggers at Iris. Evidently he wasn't the only one who could earn that whiskey-colored glare.

He wanted it back. That fierceness. He wanted her , curse him for a fool. He wanted her so much he could barely stand the heat from her body at his side, the way her fingers held his arm through his jacket sleeve. He wanted to drag her fingers up to the back of his neck and pull her long body against his and watch the shape her lips would make just before he took her mouth.

He clenched his teeth against the hard pulse of arousal and forced himself to turn back to Iris Duggleby, who didn't appear to want him either, but who at least didn't send him out of his head with addled lust.

"Miss Duggleby," he said, "it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Would you like to dance?"

Iris directed a single longing glance at Selina's reticule. Selina tucked it under her arm and glowered so powerfully that even Iris seemed to feel the heat of it.

"To be sure," Iris said, and took his hand.

She wasn't nearly as accomplished a dancer as Lydia Hope-Wallace, but when she made to turn the wrong direction, she didn't appear overly perturbed. He thought she was still staring off in the direction of her book.

He had , in point of fact, attended a lecture about Etruscan ceramics. He'd even attempted to listen, though his knowledge of antiquities could fit in a teacup with room to spare for an entire serving of oolong. Never let it be said that Peter Kent wasn't willing to do whatever it took for his damned ungrateful siblings.

But the introduction of the topic was enough for Iris's attention to finally land upon him. She had, as it turned out, also attended the lecture. She worked out his total lack of familiarity with the topic in the time it took them to exchange partners and then return to one another—that was to say, about four minutes—but he managed to ask her a reasonable question or two. She was clever, as Selina had said. He could discern her expertise in the subject matter, and he liked the way she spoke about the lecture—judicious and fair, even as she dismissed several of the lecturer's conclusions with a toss of her dark head.

He was in the middle of composing a third question on the subject when she interrupted him.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Beg pardon?" He wanted to pretend he didn't understand what she meant, but he had a sinking feeling that he did.

"Dancing with me. Talking about my interests as though they could possibly matter to you. Do you need money? Because I assure you, while I may be the daughter of a viscount, my dowry is passable at best." She didn't sound angry, precisely, but rather coolly factual. Maybe a little resigned, those eyes calm on his own.

Christ. What could he say? It crossed his mind for a heartbeat to try to charm. Something about her cleverness, and the way her eyes caught his gaze—it wouldn't be a lie, not really—and yet he found he couldn't do it.

So instead, he told her about Freddie and Lu. About Lord Eldon and the Court of Chancery and Selina's scheme to make him less objectionable.

When he finished, Iris gave him a considering look. "I see. And you've selected me because you think I am desperate enough to accept you anyway?"

Peter choked. "No," he protested. "Of course not. You—are—"

Iris tipped back her head, and to his extreme relief, laughed. "Don't look so alarmed," she said, her lips still curled as she looked at him. "I won't balk at being thought desperate so long as you promise not to object to the same."

He thought about Freddie and Lu. About Morgan and their goddamned father. "Not at all."

She nodded. "I don't particularly want to marry you, Your Grace. But I can't say I don't respect your motives. And the way you told me the truth. I have a strong aversion to men who tell me lies."

"A reasonable objection."

The orchestra was winding down, he could hear, and dancers were starting to fall away to the sides of the room.

"I have no illusions about my ability to attract a husband on my own merits," said Iris. Peter started to object, but she cut him off with a lifted hand. "As a scholar of antiquities, my confidence in my own abilities is unparalleled. As a debutante—" She gave a little half shrug, and her voice stayed so stubbornly bright he wondered if she'd practiced it. "I have other talents."

"Of that, Miss Duggleby, I have no doubt."

"I have no special desire to marry at all. But if I were to marry, I would like it to be to someone who sees me as more than simply a means to an end."

They'd stopped dancing, and Peter released his grip on her small fingers. "Thank you for the dance, in any case."

She stopped him with a measured look. "However. You are more than welcome to continue to pay me your attentions. If anything, it can't hurt my reputation. And if, in the next week or two, you can persuade me that I am more than an avenue to achieving your desires, then I will consider your proposal."

Peter wasn't sure if he was impressed or terrified. "I'll call on you, then."

Iris gave him a little nod. "You may."

He bid her farewell. And then he looked around, trying to catch a hint of dark-blond hair. Because after that conversation, what he really wanted to do was recount the whole thing to Selina. He wanted to know what she would say.