Emily pressed herself even closer to him, wanting to be ever nearer and nearer. Wanting she knew not what. But her sudden movement sent him off-balance, and he stumbled backwards into the bank of potted palms.

She landed hard on top of him, and the impact, along with the crash of plants to the floor, shocked her awake. It was like a cold rain suddenly falling over her head.

‘Your Grace?’ someone said in a hushed, shocked voice.

Emily, still lying prone on Nicholas’s chest, peered up through the loosened skein of her hair. At least ten people stared back.

This was a nightmare. It simply had to be. It couldn’t be real, couldn’t be happening to her. Not to the Ice Princess, the most proper lady in all London.

Nicholas lifted her off and rose to his feet in one smooth movement. He held onto her hand and kept her firmly by his side.

‘I am sorry to disrupt the ball. Lady Emily and I were going to announce our betrothal at a small family dinner, but I see we should do so now. Lady Emily has made me the happiest man in England by agreeing to be my wife.’

There would be no escape for either of them. Not now.

Praise for
Amanda McCabe

A NOTORIOUS WOMAN ‘Court intrigue, poison and murders fill this Renaissance romance. The setting is beautiful …’ —RT Book Reviews

A SINFUL ALLIANCE ‘Scandal, seduction, spies, counter-spies, murder, love and loyalty are skilfully woven into the tapestry of the Tudor court. Richly detailed and brimming with historical events and personages, McCabe’s tale weaves together history and passion perfectly.’ —RT Book Reviews

HIGH SEAS STOWAWAY ‘Smell the salt spray, feel the deck beneath your feet and hoist the Jolly Roger as McCabe takes you on an entertaining romantic ride.’ —RT Book Reviews

About the Author

AMANDA MCCABE wrote her first romance at the age of sixteen—a vast epic, starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class. She’s never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA®, RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers Best, the National Readers’ Choice Award, and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Oklahoma, with a menagerie of two cats, a pug and a bossy miniature poodle, and loves dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs, and watching the Food Network—even though she doesn’t cook. Visit her at http://ammandamccabe.com and http://www.riskyregencies.blogspot.com

Previous novels by the same author:

TO CATCH A ROGUE* TO DECEIVE A DUKE* TO KISS A COUNT* CHARLOTTE AND THE WICKED LORD (in Regency Summer Scandals) A NOTORIOUS WOMAN† A SINFUL ALLIANCE† HIGH SEAS STOWAWAY† THE WINTER QUEEN (in Christmas Betrothals)

And in eBook Mills & Boon Historical Undone!

SHIPWRECKED AND SEDUCED† TO BED A LIBERTINE THE MAID’S LOVER

*The Chase Muses trilogy †linked by character

THE SHY DUCHESS

features characters you will have met in

CHARLOTTE AND THE WICKED LORD

THE SHY DUCHESS

Amanda McCabe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Many thanks to two of my best ‘writing friends’

Deb Marlowe and Diane Gaston, for creating the

Fitzmanning family with me!

It’s been such a wonderful, fun journey.

Chapter One

Lady Emily Carroll wished with all her might that the polished parquet floor beneath her satin slippers would open up and pull her down into the fiery pits of hell.

It would be far preferable to Lady Orman’s ball.

Emily hid behind a bank of towering potted palms, the silk-papered wall at her back as she peered between the green fronds at the crowd. Lady Orman’s rout was the invitation of the Season. Everyone who was anyone at all—and a few nobodies who managed to slip by the footmen—was gathered in the sparkling ballroom. Thousands of candles cast their light over the sheen of fine silk, the glitter of sapphires and rubies, and the snap of lace fans.

It was quite the “dreadful crush” that every London hostess longed for. The dance floor was swirling with the patterns of a country dance, while thickets of people packed around its edges to laugh and chatter and stare. Their voices blurred into a high-pitched, echoing cacophony where no words could be made out at all.

Not that it mattered, Emily thought. No one came to such a gathering for rational conversation. They came to be seen, to have everyone know they were important enough to be invited to Lady Orman’s ball. They paid a great deal of money to the modiste and the hairdresser in order to pack themselves into a ballroom like a tight row of salted fish. To have their hems trod on, their ringlets wilted in the heat, their throats made raw from shouting at one another.

And for what? For the dubious pleasure of having their names in the papers? “Mr and Mrs Whos-it were seen attending Lady Orman’s ball …”

Emily sighed. There were surely many more useful, not to say more pleasant, things to do with one’s time. But her parents and her brother Robert seemed to enjoy it.

She stood on tiptoe, peering through the palms to see her brother dancing with his new wife, Amy. They were laughing as they spun around, their faces alight with pleasure. Well, Amy did love society; she was good at being sociable, and that was all the better for Rob’s fledgling political career. They were surely well matched, even if Amy’s ancient-named family had not much money.

That was what Emily’s parents, the Earl and Countess of Moreby, said anyway. Amy’s family name, as old as their own, and her outgoing personality were fine assets, and a good excuse for letting Rob marry where he chose.

Besides, they would add, with sidelong glances at Emily herself, Emily will make our fortune. She is bound to marry very well!

Except that Emily had been a terrible disappointment to them thus far. She had not come close to marrying a title or a fortune. Or marrying anyone at all. And now the Season was almost over.

She instinctively raised her hand to nervously chew at her thumbnail, before she remembered she wore silk gloves. Her hand fell back to her side, tucked into the folds of her silver-embroidered white silk skirts. When, oh, when would that floor open up already?

The whole evening, the noise, the heat, the smell of melting candles and a hundred perfumes, bore down on her like an anvil. Soon, she would have to leave her little palmy sanctuary and join her parents. They would want to find her a partner for the next dance. That was what she did at every ball, let them match her up with rich lords—both young, spotty ones and old, portly ones—let them extol her beauty and goodness while she stood there with her cheeks on fire.

It was the least she could do, after she disappointed them so greatly last summer. They had gone to the house party at the notorious Welbourne Manor with the intention of matching up Emily with the new Duke of Manning, Nicholas.

Oh, they did not say so explicitly, of course, but it was obvious in their nervous preparations for the party. In all their words to her about how handsome Nicholas was, how great a friend his father had been to the Carrolls.

And she not only had been unable to attach the duke, she had scarcely been able to talk to him. She was always shy around men, of course, but there was something about him that terrified her. He was always most kind and polite, yet every time she looked into his beautiful sky-blue eyes her throat closed, and she felt that ridiculous burning blush spread over her whole body.

And then she saw his affable smile turn puzzled, and felt him withdraw from her. That was a relief of sorts. He and his family were so very exuberant, so full of fun and frivolity, while she was so quiet and serious. They would not be a good match at all, if only her parents could see that! Such a mouse as her would never fit into such a dashing family, and it was better not to even try.

Since that house party and Rob’s marriage that autumn, her parents’ matchmaking efforts had taken on a desperate edge, even as paintings and ornaments began disappearing from their house.

“She is so very beautiful!” Emily overheard her mother wail one day. “Quite ten times prettier than any other young lady this Season. Why can she not bring us a single suitable offer?”

“There was Mr Browning,” her father tentatively suggested.

“A merchant.” Her mother sniffed. “With seven children.”

“He is a wealthy man,” her father said.

“Surely we are not in such straitened circumstances that we must bestow our daughter on a tradesman.”

“Not yet,” her father muttered, as Emily fled in order to not hear any more. The fact that Mr Browning was in trade did not bother her, but the seven children rather did. Plus he was twenty years older than her, and had such sweaty, grasping hands.

Unlike Nicholas, whose long, elegant fingers had clasped hers once to help her into a carriage. Yet they were both such unsuitable men for her, in their own ways. And surely her parents would not force her to marry someone she didn’t care for, if they knew what had happened with Mr Lofton that time….

“I don’t mean to be a disappointment,” she whispered. If not for her wretched shyness, the way her mind went all blank and her throat closed up whenever she met a stranger.

“I say, the quality of the gatherings this Season have been very poor indeed,” a man said, close enough to her hiding place that she could hear the actual words and not just an indistinct hum.

“I agree,” his companion said in a bored drawl. “Lady Orman could once be relied upon to host only the cream of the ton. Now she seems to let in anyone at all.”

Emily peered past the green fronds again to see Lord Barrington and Mr Fraser, two thoroughly useless dandies. She had once endured a dance with Lord Barrington, as he prattled on to her about a new way to tie a cravat or some such thing. She had no desire to listen to his gossip now, but she could see no way to slip past them. She was trapped.

“If this continues, I shall have to go see if there are more quality amusements to be had in Brighton,” said Mr Fraser. “Or even abroad. Even the wine tonight is most insipid.”

“I stood over there and watched the ladies pass by for an hour,” Lord Barrington said, gesturing toward one of the walls with his quizzing glass. “I counted only ten that were tolerable, and only two who were truly pretty.”

“Oh? Who were they, then?”

“Mrs Featherstone and Viscountess Granton,” said Lord Barrington, mentioning Amy.

“True, none can match Lady Granton for beauty. She is quite the Toast. But what of her sister-in-law, Lady Emily Carroll? She is reckoned to be mightily pretty at my club.”

Lord Barrington gave a contemptuous snort. “She is undoubtedly pretty, with that pale hair and white skin. But a veritable icicle. She can’t seem to bring herself to say three words to anyone, just stares at you with those cold, dismissive green eyes. At my club, she is called the Ice Princess, and we wager on which poor, desperate fool will marry her by the end of the Season. The winner thus far is Mr Rayburn. Undoubtedly, the marriage bed will mean the freezing off of his …”

Whatever crude word he was going to say dissolved into their snickers. Emily pressed her hands to her face, wishing more than ever that the floor would swallow her and she could vanish! She didn’t feel like an “ice princess” in the least. Indeed, she felt as if her whole body was on fire with shame.

She longed to cry, to curl up and disappear, never to come to a hateful ball again.

But she was not a Carroll for nothing. Her family might not be wealthy any longer, but they certainly had a long, proud history. They had faced the Tower under Henry VIII, poverty during the Civil War, riotous parties with Charles II, and her own grandfather, a terrible gambler who had to flee to France twice to avoid creditors and angry husbands. Two giggling fops could not best her, even as she ached with embarrassment.

Emily smoothed her skirts, tucked her silvery hair back into its beaded bandeau, and stiffened her shoulders. There was nothing she could do about the hot colour in her cheeks, but she held her head high as she swept out from her hiding place and past the two men.

She might have laughed about the astonished looks on their faces, if she hadn’t been so determined to get away.

Through that sheer determination, she made her way through the press of the crowd, avoiding her mother as she hurried out the double doors into the anteroom. There were still people there, drinking the “insipid” wine, but they paid her no attention as she hurried into the corridor.

Emily drew in a shaky breath, rubbing hard at her hot cheeks. Now that it was a bit quieter, her nerves not so jangled, she knew she had to get away, even if only for a moment. She needed to be alone, to breathe some fresh air.

Not sure where exactly she was going, she dashed down the curving staircase. When they arrived at the ball, that sweep of marble and gilt was packed tightly with revellers, waiting their turn to enter the ballroom, calling out greetings to each other and loudly admiring one another’s attire. Now, it was blessedly deserted; the candles sputtered low to cast dim, shifting shadows on the walls.

Gradually, the cacophony of the party faded, and Emily could hear only the whisper of her slippers on marble as she ran down the stairs. The swish of her skirt. The pounding of her heart.

So intent was she on escape that she didn’t see the man at the foot of the stairs until his silhouette suddenly shifted on the white wall. Startled by the movement, Emily lost her footing on the bottom step. Her stomach lurched as her feet slid out from under her, ripping her hem and pitching her towards the cold stone floor.

She cried out, flinging her hands in front of her to catch herself. But she didn’t collide with painful, unyielding stone.

She fell against a warm, well-muscled chest, arms wrapping around her to lift her up safely into the air. Shocked, Emily clung to her rescuer’s shoulders, her heart racing.

“Lady Emily!” he said, his voice deep, roughly out of breath. “Are you hurt?”

She stared down at him in the fading light, the redorange glow playing over his golden hair, the lean, elegant angles of his sharp cheekbones and knife-blade nose. His blue eyes, those eyes she remembered so well from last summer, were narrowed with concern.

Nicholas, the Duke of Manning. Of course. He did always seem to see her at her worst.

And being pressed so very close to him, alone in that half-light, had her far more flustered and frightened than any mean-spirited gossip. He smelled so delightful, of lemony cologne and clean starch, a faint tang of sweet smoke, as if he had sneaked away for a cigar. And how strong he was, she thought irrationally. He held her up as if she weighed no more than a snowflake—or an icicle.

Did he think her an icicle, too? A cold, unfeeling princess? That seemed to be the general consensus, and surely in his voluble family she would seem so even more.

That shouldn’t make her feel sad, yet it did.

“I am quite unhurt,” she managed to murmur. “Thanks to you, your Grace.”

He smiled up at her, a bright, merry grin that reminded her of that house party. Of his laughing, teasing, romping family, and how she so wanted to be a part of all that fun. She just didn’t know how, and she probably never would.

“Well, that’s my duty at these routs, you know,” he said. “To stand about waiting to rescue fair damsels in distress.”

“You’re very good at it, I’m sure,” Emily said. What damsel wouldn’t dream of being rescued by him? If she was a different sort of female, she surely would. He was handsome and charming and Very Ducal. And such a man would never be interested in an awkward lady like herself.

“You can put me down now, your Grace,” she whispered.

Nicholas glanced down, seeming surprised to find that he still held her close to him, suspended in his arms as if he held her above the mundane, everyday world. Slowly, he lowered her to her feet, her body sliding along his. The sensation of that strange, delicious friction of silk against wool made her sway dizzily, her head spinning.

“You are hurt,” he said, his voice concerned. “Here, sit down on this step, Lady Emily. Did you turn your ankle?”

Emily let him help her sit down on the marble she had just slipped from, smiling at him weakly. “Oh, no. It was just the heat in the ballroom…”

“Wretched, isn’t it?” he said, sitting down beside her as if he had all the time in the world. “I nearly fainted myself.”

She almost laughed aloud. Surely he had never fainted in his life! He glowed with robust good health and vibrant energy, as if he could conquer all the world and still have strength for a dance and to rescue a maiden or two.

“It’s quite irrational how these hostesses cram so many people into their ballrooms,” he said. “One can scarcely even move, let alone have a good conversation with friends.”

“If you can even find your friends at all.”

“Exactly so,” he agreed. “At routs such as this, I’m sure I know scarcely a quarter of the guests.”

“Well, I’m sure they all know you,” Emily said.

He gave her a quizzical glance. “How on earth could they? I haven’t even met half of them.”

Emily laughed. Somehow, sitting beside him in the quiet and the shadows, just the two of them, she didn’t feel so paralysed with shyness. Those gossiping men mattered not at all. “Everyone knows a duke. Or at least they know of you, and in a world where gossip races around so quickly they think it’s the same thing.”

Nicholas laughed, too, a surprised chuckle. “I think you are quite right, Lady Emily. People do seem far more interested in me since my father died.”

From under the veil of her lashes, Emily studied the way the candlelight cast his handsome face in intriguing, shadowed angles. The hair that fell over his brow in unruly waves gleamed like an ancient gold coin. “Oh, I’m sure they were interested in you long before that,” she murmured.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Emily?”

“I said—why do you attend these balls, your Grace? Surely one of the advantages of being a duke should be doing what one pleases.” Unlike being an earl’s daughter, who could never do what she pleased. Unless it was in secret.

“I’m afraid being a duke means doing a great many things one would rather not,” he said, as if he read her unspoken thoughts. “There are so many expectations, obligations.”

“Including dancing at crowded London balls?”

He gave a comical sigh. “Sadly, yes, Lady Emily. I fear it was one of the duties my father failed to tell me about.”

It seemed to Emily the last duke had not been very dutiful at all, or he would not have eloped with the married Lady Linwall all those years ago! But Nicholas seemed different indeed from his father and stepmother. He wanted to do his duty the best he could—just as she did. But sometimes it was so, so hard.

Emily gave him a tentative smile. “I fear you are failing in your task then, your Grace.”

“Am I indeed?”

“Yes. For you are not dancing at all, but sitting here talking to me.”

“So I am,” he said, laughing. “And believe me, Lady Emily, it is a far more pleasant party for it. I would much rather sit somewhere in quiet conversation than be crowded into an overheated ballroom with a lot of strangers.”

“Me, too. Balls are …” Hateful things. “Most inconvenient.”

“But a necessary evil for people such as us, you were quite right about that, Lady Emily.” He rose to his feet, offering his hand to help her rise.

Emily hesitated for a moment as she studied that hand, remembering the strange, wondrous sensation of being held by him. She slowly slipped her hand into his. His fingers closed over hers, just as warm and strong as before, and she had the wild wish that they could just stand there for the rest of the night.

But they could not, of course. His touch slid away from hers. “Since I must dance, Lady Emily, would you favour me with the next set?”

“I.” Oh, how her parents would love that. Their daughter dancing with the Duke of Manning for everyone to see. But her legs still felt none too steady, and she feared that rather than inciting envy at her handsome partner and graceful movements, she would fall again and make a fool of herself.

And the last thing she wanted was for him to think her a fool. He and his family surely already thought that after last summer’s party.

“I think I need to find the ladies’ withdrawing room, your Grace,” she said. “I seem to have torn my hem when I tripped.”

He smiled at her, and bowed politely. “It is my loss, then. Perhaps we can dance at the next ball.”

And perhaps cows would take wing and fly around Berkeley Square. “That would be most pleasant.” “Shall I escort you to—?”

“Oh, no,” Emily said quickly. “No, I’m sure our hostess will be wondering where you are. I am quite well now, your Grace, thanks to your gallant rescue.”

“I hope the rest of your evening is less perilous, Lady Emily.”

Emily bobbed a hasty curtsy, and hurried away across the foyer. She knew not what direction she was going, or where. She just had to be away from him, from the way he made her head spin so confusingly, in order to think clearly again.

But she felt the warmth of his stare on the back of her neck as he watched her go.

Chapter Two

“What a charming party last night!” Emily’s mother said as she buttered her breakfast toast.

“Mmm,” Emily murmured. That was really all the response her mother ever required to her morning chatter. Fortunately so, for Emily didn’t care for mornings—especially when she was already preoccupied with other matters.

“Lady Orman is such a fine hostess,” her mother went on. “And Robert and Amy were so admired, of course. I’m sure next year they will have their own household and can give such soirées themselves. That is so essential in building a political career.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Emily. She was sure Rob and his wife would be most happy to get out of their parents’ house, to escape. It would be wonderful beyond words to have one’s own home, a place of quiet serenity and cosy little nooks for reading and thinking in peace.

Emily almost laughed aloud at her own silliness. Rob’s house would never be in the least serene—he and Amy liked noise and action and parties. Emily dreamed of her own house, a place where she could order things to her own liking and be truly comfortable at last. She might as well dream of going to live on the moon. She couldn’t afford even the tiniest cottage in the most obscure corner of the country, and even if she could her parents would never let her leave. Her only escape would be to marry. And that seemed distant as well.

Ever since childhood she had dreamed of a place where she could be useful, where she was needed. She dreamed of children, a home. She was still searching for that, but she was sure one day she would find it. Or at least she hoped she would. It would be the best thing for all.

Emily sipped at her tea, and remembered the terrible event that had led her to this place. She had always been shy as a child, and her mother had long urged her to open up, to make friends. Emily herself longed for friends, but knowing what to say to new people was never easy. Until she made her début in London and met a certain Mr Lofton, a handsome young man who seemed to like her very much. Too much, as it turned out. She agreed to walk with him in the garden at a ball one night, and he grabbed her and attempted to force his kiss on her.

In her revulsion, she trod hard on his foot and kicked him on the leg, making her escape as he howled with pain. “Teasing whore!” he called after her as she fled in tears. And thereafter he never talked to her again, though she never forgot the terrible smothering feeling of his kiss. If that was what came of letting her guard down, she would never do it again. She retreated into herself, and did not tell her parents or brother what had happened. She only wanted to forget it.

But sometimes, like now, the memory haunted her once again.

Her mother, who noticed none of Emily’s inner turmoil, gave a deep sigh, setting the ribbons on her cap to fluttering. “But they must have a proper house, of course! One large enough for entertaining. One like Devonshire House or Manning House, really. If only they had someone to help them as they deserve.”

Someone like the Duke of Manning, owner of that grand Manning House? Emily reached for her teacup with a sigh of her own, thinking of the look in his eyes when she refused to dance with him. So puzzled. Ladies surely seldom refused a duke, especially a young, handsome one. Yet how could she tell him of her awkwardness on the dance floor? She felt so silly when she thought of it all.

“Yes, Mama,” she said.

Her mother shot her a sharp glance over the toast rack. “You did not dance last night, Emily.”

Emily glimpsed the ragged edge of her thumbnail on the cup’s gilded handle, and she quickly tucked in her fist to hide it. “One must be invited to dance first, Mama.”

“I cannot believe you received not one single invitation! You are by far the loveliest girl this Season.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Mama.”

Her mother snorted. “I may be your mother and thus biased, but I am not the only one who sees your beauty. You simply do not use it to its full advantage! If you would smile once in a while when a gentleman speaks to you, show a bit of encouragement. When I was your age I had at least ten offers, and I was not half so pretty.” “And you chose Papa?”

“He was an earl.” Her voice turned wistful, as if she was caught up in old memories. “And very handsome, too, back then. I did not know …”

Emily knew what her mother’s younger self could not, that long line of feckless Carrolls who had frittered away the family fortune until there was only an old title. It merely went to show that name, title and handsome face didn’t always equal a suitable match. That men could be so deceptive, just like Mr Lofton was. But her mother couldn’t apply that hard-earned lesson to her own daughter now.

“I suppose there is Mr Rayburn,” her mother said dourly. “He is always very attentive to you.”

That was true. Mr George Rayburn was attentive whenever they met at parties or in the park, and he was handsome enough with his black hair and bright blue eyes, his slim figure and broad shoulders. But there was something in those fine eyes Emily did not quite trust when he looked at her, something not quite true in his smile when he kissed her hand and paid her compliments. She was probably just being foolish. All the other ladies seemed to like him very much. “I thought you did not like Mr Rayburn, Mama. He has no title.”

“True enough, but he does have a fortune, or so everyone says. At this point we cannot afford to be too choosy, my dear.” Her mother shook her head sadly at the prospect. “Well, there is one more grand ball left this Season, Lady Arnold’s soirée. It is the last chance before everyone dashes off to the country. I insist you dance at least three times there, Emily.” “Mama!”

“Yes, at least three. And I will hear no excuses. This is our last chance, do you hear me? Our last chance.”

Before Emily could answer these gloomy words, the butler mercifully arrived in the breakfast room with the morning post on his tray. Her mother seldom showed such desperation outwardly, with harsh words and eyes glittering with unshed tears. It made Emily’s stomach hurt to think she had been such a disappointment, that she could not help them. She couldn’t even help herself.

“There is a message for you from Miss Thornton, Lady Emily,” the butler said, handing her a note on pale pink stationery.

“Oh, wonderful!” Emily cried happily. She eagerly tore open the missive as her mother separated invitations from the bills. The stack of bills was always so much higher these days.

Jane Thornton was the one good friend Emily had made in London for the Season. The youngest of three daughters of a baronet, Jane was lively and fun. She could always draw Emily out of her shell and make her laugh, both at the follies of society and at her own serious ways. Jane had been gone for a fortnight, attending on a sick aunt, and Emily had missed her. Parties were no fun at all without her company.

But now it seemed Jane had returned, and was eager to hear all about the Orman ball. What little Emily could tell her, anyway, from what she observed behind her palm tree. She definitely would not tell Jane about falling into the Duke of Manning!

“Miss Thornton wants me to go driving with her in the park this afternoon, Mama,” Emily said. “May I go? I don’t think we have any other engagements today.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” her mother said impatiently with a wave of her hand. She seemed quite distracted by her letters, which was a good thing. She usually didn’t like Emily spending too much time with Jane, since the Thornton girls needed to find matches as well.

Emily took a deep breath and carefully added, “And may I go out this morning? I should visit the shops and find some new ribbon for my gown for Lady Arnold’s ball.”

“Certainly. Just don’t pay too much for it. The cost of ribbons has become quite shocking.”

“Of course not. I am always very careful about ribbon.” Emily hastily finished her tea and hurried from the breakfast room before her mother could recollect some reason to keep her at home. Or worse, decide to go with her to the shops.

Emily had very important work to do that morning, and her mother could absolutely have not a hint of it.

Emily hurried down the street, dodging around the thick crowds intent on their own business, too lost in her thoughts to notice her maid Mary, who scurried to keep up, or the displays in the shop windows. The feathered and flowered hats, the bolts of rich silks and delicate muslins, held no interest for her.

She was late, and that would never do. If only Amy hadn’t waylaid her as she headed to the door, intent on going over every detail of last night’s ball! It was nearly impossible to get away from her sister-in-law once she settled in for a coze. And Emily could hardly tell Amy and her mother why she was in such a rush to be gone.

She turned away from the busy thoroughfare, down a quieter side street. The lane was much narrower here, the cobblestones shadowed by the close-built buildings. There were no bright shop windows, only discreet little signs by dark-painted doors announcing attorneys and employment agencies. All quite respectable, but not an area her mother would want her to frequent or even know about. To Lady Moreby, London began and ended with the fine neighborhoods of the ton.

With Mary close behind her, Emily turned again, to an even quieter little square. No one was around at all, except for a maidservant sweeping one stone entryway.

It was this dwelling that was Emily’s destination. “Good morning, Nell,” she said. “How is everyone today?”

Nell gave her a wide smile of welcome beneath her mobcap. “Good morning, Miss Carroll! All is well enough here, as always. A new girl arrived yesterday. She’ll be a new pupil for you soon enough.”

Emily laughed. “Excellent! I do like security for my position. I should hate to think I wasn’t needed here any longer.”

“Oh, that will never happen, miss! You’ll always have pupils here. Everyone looks forward to Tuesdays, just to see you.”

Emily couldn’t help but smile as a warm, sweet feeling took hold of her and spread to her very fingertips and toes. After the tension of the ball and the cold weight of her mother’s disappointment, she could feel herself finally relax. Here, she could be herself, just Miss Carroll, and be accepted for it. Needed.

“I love Tuesdays as well,” she said. “Is Mrs Goddard about?”

“In the office, miss. She’s expecting you.”

Emily left Nell to finish her task and stepped through the doorway. It was a dwelling just like the others on the street, tall and narrow, red brick with plain windows curtained in heavy dark velvet. Next to the glossy black door, a polished brass plaque read “Mrs Goddard’s School For Disadvantaged Females”.

The sign did not say the “disadvantaged females” were former prostitutes seeking a new, respectable life within these quiet walls. Or that one of the school’s teachers was Lady Emily Carroll, plain Miss Carroll, as she was known here. It would be quite ruinous if anyone ever found out her association with women of low morals.

It was her secret alone, and sometimes this work was her one truly bright, worthwhile moment all week. These women needed her—and she needed them. It was only there that she knew she was useful, where she could indulge her desire to help people.

She paused next to a looking glass in the small foyer to remove her bonnet and tidy her hair. The fine, pale strands always slipped from their pins, making her look more schoolgirl than teacher. She smoothed them back and scrubbed at a smudge on her cheek, barely noticing the curve of her dimpled chin or the wide green eyes that sometimes were the only things anyone noticed.

Emily paused to stare into those eyes, bright with exercise and the excitement of her Tuesdays. Her parents had always considered her—and their—best asset to be her prettiness. They had told her that since she was very young. She knew better than to put all her hopes on something so ephemeral and empty. Looks would pass soon enough, and while they were here it wasn’t enough to gain her family what they wanted—a ducal son-in-law.

But what could she do except marry? How could she even begin to find out who she was, really, deep down inside? She was always lost and sad, seeking love and approval, a purpose to her life—until she was fourteen years old, and Miss Morris became her governess.

Emily had never known anyone like Miss Morris before. The young governess was so lively, so passionate about learning, and people and the world. She’d made Emily feel passionate about them, too, had made her see the world and herself through new eyes. She was surely not just shy, mousy, pretty Lady Emily Carroll—she was herself, smart and loyal, with a great deal of love in her heart and a lot to offer.

Miss Morris took her on nature walks in the country, teaching her about the world around them, rocks, flowers, trees. In London, she took Emily on educational walks of a different sort. She took her out of Mayfair and into the poorer streets, showed her the true desperation and sadness, and taught Emily how she could use her assets to help others.

It was a great revelation, and Emily had never completely despaired of herself after that. Perhaps she did not have the lively wit society valued, the flirtatious wiles to attract men, but she did have other things to offer. And she would never settle for less than a life—and a husband—of serious purpose and calm steadiness. The Duke of Manning was surely not that.

“Emily! There you are, my dear,” a voice called, pulling Emily out of her daydreams.

She turned to see Miss Morris, now Mrs Goddard, standing in the office doorway. Though the white cap on her brown curls and her grey silk dress were plain and austere, her dark eyes were bright with laughter, her lips creased in a smile.

“I’m so sorry to be late,” Emily said, hurrying to kiss Mrs Goddard’s pink cheek. To see her was always so wonderful, like seeing her second mother. “My sister-in-law wanted to talk, and—”

“Quite all right, my dear. I know how hard it can be to get away. Liza has got the girls started on today’s lesson.” Mrs Goddard led her up the stairs to the first floor, where all the classrooms lay. The women who came here seeking a new life under Mrs Goddard’s charity were given lessons of all sorts, beginning with reading, writing and simple sums. They moved on to deportment, sewing, cooking, elocution, whatever might help them find a new, respectable livelihood. They also lived in the house, in rooms on the second and third floors.

When Emily first came to help her former governess last year, she taught reading and a little sewing. Now she taught some French and fine embroidery to girls more advanced in their lessons who wanted to be ladies’ maids and milliners. To help them in even such small ways, to see them find a new way in the world, made her concerns about not becoming a duchess seem silly indeed! These women lived with the terror she felt when Mr Lofton tried to kiss her in the garden every day, only on a far worse scale than she could ever imagine. The women needed her help, and she was never happier than when she was here being useful.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Carroll!” her pupils called when she stepped into the classroom. A row of young ladies in fine black gowns turned to her with smiles of welcome.

Emily laughed happily. Maybe she disappointed at home, but not here. “Bonjour, mesdemoiselles! Comment allez-vous aujourd-hui? “

Chapter Three

“It’s about time you got home. I’ve been waiting an age.”

Nicholas had barely stepped into his library at Manning House, the afternoon post and various messages from his estate managers in hand, when he was brought up short by his brother Stephen’s words. Stephen lounged in an armchair by the fire, a snifter of brandy in his hand and the newspapers open on his lap and scattered across the floor.

“I see you’ve had no trouble passing the time, though,” Nicholas said. “I just got that case of brandy from the wine merchant.”

“And excellent stuff it is, too,” Stephen said with a laugh. He tossed off the last of his drink and sighed happily. “You always do have the best brandy, Nick, and the best chef, too. I had luncheon earlier, it was superb. I should visit you in town more often.”

“You come often enough as it is,” Nicholas said. He tried to sound grumpy about the unexpected invasion of his life and wine cellar, but in truth he was glad to see his brother. He was always glad to see any of his family. Life in town could be a lonely, dull affair, and their affectionate jokes and banter, their exuberant pranks, always kept that coldness away. With them, he did not have to think so very much. He did not have to remember. He could just be Nicholas, living in the here and now.

But they were all very busy of late. Stephen had inherited their mother’s estate at Fincote Park, where she had retired in quiet sadness after their father, the duke, eloped with his lover Lady Linwall. Stephen worked hard to transform it from a place of dark memories into the finest stable and racetrack in England. Their half-brother Leo helped him in that task, travelling the Continent in search of suitable horseflesh for the stable. They sometimes heard from him, but not often.

And their half-sisters, Justine, Annalise and Charlotte, were occupied with their own growing families. They wrote often, usually to gently enquire when he, too, might enter the blessed, blissful state of wedlock as they had.

But he doubted he would ever find such great matches as theirs, love pairings all. He had tried that once, and it all ended in pain and despair. He knew his duty well enough, to provide heirs for the dukedom, and he would do it. Just not quite yet.

And since he had returned from Italy he had felt a strange distance from his family. He had lost the lightness of heart he once had with them, and he could sense their worry. He just didn’t know how to reassure them—or how to find the joy in life again.

For some reason, an image of Lady Emily Carroll flashed through his mind. He remembered catching her in his arms last night as she tumbled from the stairs, the soft, warm feel of her body against his. She smelled of warm summer roses, and her bright hair brushed like silk against his cheek. She felt surprisingly sweet and alive.

In that startled moment, she had laughed and blushed, clinging to him as she found her balance. They called her the “Ice Princess”, and usually he thought they must be right. She was so quiet, so watchful, her pale green eyes taking in everything around her, seeming to judge them and find them wanting.

At that house party at his family’s pleasure house, Welbourne Manor, she hadn’t joined in the games and laughter. She hadn’t chased around the gardens or played hide-and-seek in the attic. Nicholas did know his duty; it had been ingrained in him since he was a child. It struck him at that party that Emily Carroll was exactly the sort of lady to fulfil that duty—pretty, well born, well mannered. A fine hostess for a ducal estate, and a fine mother for future dukes and ladies, at least as far as looks and pedigree went. Her parents had once been friends with his father, and would surely welcome the match.

But then there would be the making of those dukes and ladies, and Nicholas didn’t relish the idea of an ice princess in his bed. He was lonely, true, yet was he that lonely? No, not yet.

At the ball, though, in that one moment, her quiet, pale mask slipped and he glimpsed a light deep in her eyes. Which was the real Emily Carroll?

It was maddeningly intriguing.

“You’re quiet today, Nick,” Stephen said, pulling Nicholas back into the present moment and away from thoughts of Emily Carroll.

“Sorry, I was just attending to some estate business and it has me distracted,” Nicholas said. He dropped the post on to his desk and sat down on its edge, crossing his arms over his chest. His valet would fuss about the crushed cravat, the wrinkled waistcoat, and cluck about how a duke should “keep up appearances”.

But Nicholas feared he couldn’t always be a proper duke. His father had been dead many years now, perished of a fever in Naples with his new wife Lady Lin-wall, and so very much had happened since then. Yet Nicholas still felt he was learning his role, still trying to fulfil all his many responsibilities.

“It was dull stuff, and I’m tired from it,” he said.

“You, Nick? Tired? Never!” Stephen cried. “You’re the one who could always swim across the lake and then ride five miles, all before breakfast. I would wager you were up playing cards and visiting wenches all night, and that’s why you’re tired. Here, have some brandy and it will revive you.”

“I will have some brandy, before you drink it all, but I think you would be surprised at what really occupied me last night.” Nicholas sat down in the chair next to Stephen’s, reaching for the bottle.

“What, no gaming hells? No house of ill repute?”

“Not unless you count Lady Orman’s ballroom.”

“You were at a society ball?” Stephen said incredulously. “I’m all astonishment. You do need a brandy.”

“Yes, I do. Our sisters are always telling me I need to do my duty and marry, so I thought Lady Orman’s was a good place to start.”

“They don’t give a fig about your duty, Nick. They just have starry romance in their eyes since they married, and they want everyone to be the same. Especially us.”

“Hmm.” Nicholas took a deep, burning drink of his brandy. “Is that why you’re in town, then? To find a wife?”

“Good gad, no! I’m much too young to marry, though Charlotte says otherwise. I’m here to inspect a sale coming up at Tattersalls. A promising-sounding mare is in the catalogue, I hear. Though I dare say it was much the same at Lady Orman’s.”

Nicholas laughed, remembering the parade of giggling, white-clad débutantes and their mamas, so eager to meet an eligible young duke. And Emily Carroll, who seemed not at all interested in giggling, parading or eligible dukes.

“So it was,” he said. “I’d forgotten what the London Season was really like—a giant horse sale. I’ve been buried in the country too long.”

“You couldn’t help it. Father’s estates were in a bit of a mess after he died, and you had to set them right again. Not a simple task, and one I do not envy.”

“Well, I wish I was still in the country now,” Nicholas muttered.

“I was just there, and it’s not much better than town.

I stopped to see Charlotte and Drew at Derrington on my way to London.”

“And how is our sister?”

“Big as a house now, and anxious for the baby to arrive. But she had plenty of energy to prate at me about the marvels of marriage and domesticity! And she had two new pugs, as well. Four is too many, I say.”

“I shall be sane and avoid Derrington, then.”

“That would be wise, at least for now.” Stephen hesitated for a moment, then said, “Did you see no lady who caught your eye at the ball, then?”

Lady Emily’s green eyes flashed through his mind again, bright and full of laughter. Not cold at all. Nicholas shoved away the image and took another drink. “Never say you’re playing matchmaker, too, Stephen.”

“Of course not. I would be absolute rubbish at it. I just thought—well, it might be a good thing if you could find someone to help you. Someone sensible and kind. And pretty, of course.”

“What lady of sense would want to put up with our family? Your pranks would drive her away in no time.”

“I could control myself, and so could Charlotte and the others, if there was someone you wanted to impress. Someone you wanted to like us.”

“There is no one at present. But I will keep your words in mind.” And indeed he would. His sisters’ concerns he was accustomed to by now, but Stephen didn’t seem to notice such things. If he thought Nicholas needed “help” with his ducal work, his worries and loneliness must be showing.

That would never do at all. He never wanted to worry his family. Maybe if he did marry they would all be content for a while—until they found something else to fret about.

“We should go out tonight,” Nicholas said. “Since you’re in town so seldom, Stephen, you must make the most of it.”

“You’re not going to drag me to some stuffy ball or musicale, are you?”

“Not unless you have some terrible urge to go to Lady Arnold’s ball, no. We could go to the club, maybe, play some cards. Visit Mrs Larkin’s house, if you’re of the inclination.”

“Excellent! And I have tickets for a masked ball at Vauxhall, as well. I’ve heard that soprano Signora Rastrelli has a fine voice, and she’ll be performing there.”

“And a fine bosom, I would wager.”

Stephen laughed. “That, too.”

Soon after, Stephen departed for his own lodgings, since he refused to stay in Manning House, and Nicholas was left with his piles of ledgers and a brandy-induced headache. It was a good thing his brother was in town, he thought as he sat down behind the desk. Maybe what he needed was some fun, some distraction. Some drinking, a card game or two, some Italian opera singers with fine bosoms. He needed to feel like Nicholas again, and not just the duke.

But first, he did have to be that duke. He sorted through the thick stack of newly arrived invitations. The Season was winding down, yet that didn’t prevent one final, frantic flurry of parties before everyone scattered their separate ways. He laid aside the few he would accept, along with bills to see to and a letter from his estate manager at Scarnlea Abbey about repairs needed. Soon enough he would be there to see to them himself.

He opened the bottom drawer of the desk to reach for more writing paper, and in the dim depths he caught a glimpse of a small gold-and-enamel case. Its deep colours, red and blue and gold, lured him to reach for it.

Usually he could ignore its call, could leave it buried in the drawer, hidden from view behind paper and boxes of sealing wax. Today, though, some deep force compelled him to take it out, to hold it in his hand.

The metal quickly warmed in his clasp, and he stared down at it for a long moment before opening it. A woman’s painted pink smile greeted him, her brown eyes soft with welcome. In the miniature portrait, her dark hair fell loose over the shoulders of her red velvet gown, and she smiled eternally.

Valentina. His lost wife.

Nicholas gently stroked his thumb over the image, feeling only the roughness of the paint and no smooth, warm skin. She smiled back, always silent. In the much-too-brief time they knew each other, she was always laughing.

He put down the painting and buried his face in his hands as he remembered. He usually would not let himself think of her; it was long ago, and to remember was much too painful. But for some reason today she seemed near him.

He met Valentina Magnani on his Grand Tour, not long after his father and stepmother died and his stepbrother Brenner arrived to help them in their loss—the first time they met this son of Nicholas’s stepmother’s first, abandoned marriage. Nicholas was young then, barely out of university, and green as grass. Brenner thought a journey across the Continent, a time to learn more of his duties while still being largely free of them, would do him good.

And it had. At first he sorely missed his family, having never really been away from them before, but then the art and culture, the beauty of nature, enthralled him. They helped him heal from his loss, and he sent home many sculptures and paintings to adorn the ducal houses. He slowly started to find himself, who he might be apart from his family.

Then he came to Verona, Romeo and Juliet’s city—and met Valentina one day at the market as she did her family’s shopping. She was tall, honey-skinned, with satiny black hair and bright, dark eyes. She laughed at his clumsy attempts to speak Italian to the merchants, and helped him buy his fruit and bread. He was enchanted by her, by everything about her—her happy laughter, the glimpse of her red, ruffled petticoat at the hem of her brown skirt, the vivid, joyful life of her. She made him feel brought back to life, too.

He walked her home that day, carrying her basket for her, listening to her musical voice teach him more words of Italian, becoming more infatuated with every step. He met her mother, took tea with them. They were a respectable family of the city, her father an attorney, but they were decidedly not nobility. Not suitable duchess material.

Nicholas opened his eyes to stare blindly out at his library, the vast, dimly lit space, shadowed by soaring shelves of leather-bound books and crowded with heavy, old furniture. In the corners lurked statues from that voyage, pale marble gods and goddesses who stared back at him with their cold eyes. He had hoped to bring home more than art, more than freezing stone. He hoped to bring back life and laughter, a wife. A family.

His courtship of Valentina was quick, passionate. After all, he came from a line of people who gave all for the sake of love—his own blood ran just as hot, and he had never felt for anyone as he did for Valentina, either before or since. He craved her presence, her smile, her kiss, wanted to be with her all the time, and she felt the same for him. They went on long walks all over the city, kissing passionately in silent alleyways, in dusty museum galleries. He sat in her family’s drawing room and listened to her play the harp while her siblings ran around them.

Her home reminded him of his own at Welbourne Manor, where his brothers and sisters dashed about amid the ring of laughter. They would love Valentina, he knew, even if society wasn’t so accepting. They would help him make her happy even in grey, damp England, he was sure of that. So he married her in a little Verona chapel. He raised her lace veil and kissed her in the glow of stained glass, and had never been happier than in that one perfect moment.

Happiness was not to last, though. They went to a country villa for their honeymoon: long days of golden sun; warm, dusty nights of passion. Even before they returned to Verona, Valentina was pregnant. There could be no question of returning to England until she and the child could travel, so Nicholas waited to write to his family until he could announce both the marriage and the baby. Otherwise they would come rushing to him, and he wanted Valentina to himself awhile longer.

Thirteen months he was a husband, barely more than a year. One hour he was a father, to a tiny son who lived such a brief life. Then both the baby and Valentina were gone. The laughter and light were vanished as quickly as they began, and he was alone.

Well, not entirely alone. He had his family, his duty, his cursed title. After his wife and child were buried, he left Italy for home once again, his heart left behind under that cemetery cypress tree outside Verona, and he devoted himself to his family. He kept that brief marriage a secret, for he could not bear to speak of it, even to his sisters. He couldn’t bear the pity he would have seen in their eyes.

Over the years, the pain faded. He learned to cherish the memory of Valentina without despairing of what might have been. Only once in a while, on days like this, did he take out her portrait and try to imagine her near him again.

It became harder all the time. She moved further into the past. Yet a vivid fear remained, especially when he was told yet again he should do his duty, marry and produce children. How could he put another woman through the pain and fear Valentina suffered when their son was born, the agony when the baby died in her arms? How could he hurt a woman like that, watching her suffer and knowing it was his fault?

He would surely never love another as he had Valentina, but he would not marry without at least liking and respecting a lady. And he could not inflict that on someone he considered a friend.

Perhaps Stephen would marry, despite his protestations, and have children who could inherit the title. Yet that seemed unlikely. He was too busy with his racetrack scheme to consider a proper marriage.

Nicholas carefully put the portrait back into its case and hid it once more in the dark drawer. That past was gone, and he had to remember that.

But that did not mean he was quite ready to face answering all those invitations just yet. He left them on his desk and went to the window to stare down at the windswept street, at all the passers-by hurrying on their busy way. Nicholas always wondered where they were going, what purpose drove them onwards during their day.

Sometimes they stopped to peer past his wrought-iron gates, no doubt wondering the same thing about him. What did a duke do behind his grand walls? Manning House was one of the largest houses in London, a vast, impractical edifice of pale stone and copious windows his grandfather had built and which they were now stuck with for ever. It was grand and impressive, surrounded by gardens, crowned by a large ballroom and a dining room large enough for a state dinner. But it was impossible to heat, and right now it was good only for nieces and nephews to chase each other down the wide corridors, once they were old enough.

It needed a mistress, a hostess to redecorate the fusty old chambers and arrange for parties to suit its grandeur. Yet another reason to put the past away and think of that blasted, ever-present Duty.

Nicholas reached for the edge of the velvet drapery to draw it across the window. Maybe if he couldn’t see outside he couldn’t be distracted by what was happening on the street. As he tugged it closer, he glimpsed an open carriage rolling slowly past on the street, carrying two stylishly dressed ladies whispering together. One of them turned her head slightly, and a ray of pale sunshine caught on a blonde curl, a soft white cheek. It was Lady Emily Carroll.

She laughed at whatever her friend was saying, her pale cheeks flushed pink. She swept back that errant curl with her gloved hand.

How beautiful she is, Nicholas thought with bemusement. Oh, he had always known Lady Emily was beautiful; she was famous for it, and it was easy to see in the perfect symmetry of her heart-shaped face. He was struck by it last summer at Welbourne, but then forgot when she seemed not to like him.

Now, with her face alight with laughter, the sun on her hair, he saw it all over again. What could make her laugh like that? What could he possibly say to make her smile?

It was a challenge indeed. And a Manning was never one to back away from a challenge.

The carriage turned the corner, seeming to head toward the park. It was nearly the fashionable hour, when all the ton piled on to their horses and into their carriages and paraded past each other yet again.

Nicholas turned away from the window, and from the work that waited at his desk, and strode out of the library. All that could wait. “I need my horse saddled! “ he called. “Quickly!”

Chapter Four

“Look, Emily! It’s Manning House. Isn’t it lovely?” Jane cried, gesturing at the vast mansion as their carriage bounced past. “Like a palace in a fairy story.”

Emily laughed as she studied the gleaming windows, laid out like endless rows of diamonds in white stone expressly to show off wealth great enough to counter any window tax. She remembered a line she learned once in lessons on Tudor history—’Hardwick Hall, more glass than wall.’ Somehow, it was hard to imagine the duke living there in that chilly mausoleum.

“If the fairy story is about the Snow Queen, bringing down winter from her mountain fortress,” she said. “It looks mightily uncomfortable.”

“But excellent for grand balls,” Jane declared, her gaze still fastened on the house. “Can’t you just imagine being the hostess of such a gathering? Being a duchess?”

“I can imagine it,” Emily said, still laughing. “It sounds horrid. Everyone staring all the time, everyone pestering for invitations to those grand balls …”

“Exactly! The Duchess of Manning would utterly rule society. She could set every fashion. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Jane sighed deeply, glancing back over her shoulder as they turned a corner and Manning House disappeared from view.

Emily’s laughter faded, a sneaking suspicion setting in as she studied her friend’s narrowed eyes. “Jane, have you set your cap at the Duke of Manning?”

“Oh, la, no!” Jane cried. The brief glint of calculation faded as she giggled. She straightened her feathered bonnet on her auburn curls and sat back against the carriage cushions. “I’m not such a fool as that. I’m too harum-scarum to ever be duchess material. That’s your department, Em.”

“Mine?” Emily said, shocked. “Of course not. I would make a wretched duchess.”

“Nonsense. You seem born to royalty, with your looks and your quiet grace. And since there is no eligible prince at present, a duke would be the next best thing. Especially one as handsome as Manning.” Jane leaned closer and whispered, “Don’t his blue eyes just make you want to melt?”

Well—they did, actually. Whenever he looked at Emily she longed to sink down through the floor, robbed of any powers of speech she might once have possessed. But she would never admit that, not even to Jane. Not even to herself.

“He is quite fine-looking,” she said carefully.

“Fine-looking?” Jane scoffed. “He is a veritable Greek god. My parents would be in alt if I could catch him, of course, but it would never happen. I shall have to settle for some country baronet, I suppose, like William Jameson. He seems on the verge of making an offer. What about you?”

Emily laughed. “I’m not in the least bit interested in Sir William!”

“Certainly not, who would be? That nose! But there must be someone you like?” “No, there’s no one.” “I cannot believe that.”

“Believe it, my dear Jane. I have met no one this Season I could be really fond of. Perhaps I shall have to find a country squire, too. Maybe a nice curate?”

She spoke in jest, but really a curate would be just right. An earnest, sincere young man who would read to her by the fire in the evenings. Who would ask for her help with his sermons, and praise her charity work in the neighbourhood and never grab her suddenly as Mr Lofton had. It would be perfect—if he had a roguish smile like the duke …

Emily gave her head a hard shake. “That is what I need.”

“A curate? Your parents would never allow it. You are the beautiful daughter of an earl!”

The shy daughter of an impoverished earl. “We’ll see what happens.”

The carriage turned through the gates of Hyde Park, joining the flow of vehicles and horses parading for the fashionable hour. “Don’t worry, Em, the Season is not done yet. We have time to find someone better than the Sir Williams of the world,” Jane said. She reached into her reticule and drew out a small square of vellum. “Maybe here?”

“What is that, Jane? Some sort of love letter?”

Jane giggled. “No, silly! Tickets to a masked ball at Vauxhall. My sister, Mrs Barnes, procured them for me, and she has agreed to chaperon us there. She’s terribly easy to distract, though—she won’t get in the way of our fun.”

“Vauxhall?” Despite herself, Emily was terribly intrigued. She had heard of the infamous masked balls held in the pleasure gardens, of romantic assignations in dark walkways and glorious illuminations that transformed the night. She had laughed at some of the wilder tales, sure they could not be true.

But—what if they were true? What if she went and saw them for herself?

She glanced down at the tickets. A concert by Signora Rastrelli, they read in scrolling script. Fireworks and illuminations grander than anything yet seen in London!

Music, fireworks. It did sound wondrous. But … “Jane, I’m not sure we should.”

“We’ll be wearing masks ! No one will even know we’re there.”

“My parents would never allow it.”

“Then just tell them you’re staying with me at my sister’s house that night. Tell them—oh, I don’t know! That her relation, a curate, has come to visit and has promised to read us some fine sermons.”

Emily laughed, torn between her duty and the promise of a little fun. Surely an evening of music could not be harmful? She didn’t plan to go off along the Dark Walk, after all.

Something deep inside of her, some tiny, terrible imp of mischief that seldom dared show itself, pushed at her. Go on, it whispered, soft and alluring. Be a little daring. What harm could it do? You have been working so hard.

But it could do a great deal of harm, she feared. Yet still the temptation was there.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I think—”

“Good afternoon, ladies!” someone called, interrupting her words. “Very pleasant weather we’re having, are we not?”

Emily looked up to see Mr George Rayburn approaching on his horse. He had been the only suitor to really appear this Season, dancing with her at her first ball and being attentive since then. He sent flowers, fetched her lemonade at parties, things of that nature—if that could really be called a suitor. He had not made an offer, and her parents would have refused him anyway. His fortune was respectable enough, from all reports, but he had no title.

Now, though, at the end of the Season, if he were to come forward, they might be more amenable. If Emily liked him, she could probably persuade them Mr Ray-burn was a reasonable match.

He drew in his horse next to their carriage and tipped his hat, smiling down at them. She should like him, Emily thought as she smiled back at him. He was terribly handsome, with waving, glossy dark hair and hazel eyes, a strong jaw and straight nose. He was tall and lean, athletic, much admired. He read poetry, had travelled widely, had correct opinions and impeccable manners.

And he did seem to like her. He wasn’t put off by her shyness or her lack of dancing skills. Why could she not really like him? Perhaps it was that way he had of looking at her.

But maybe she was wrong. Everyone else seemed charmed by him, even Jane. Her friend held out her hand to Mr Rayburn with a happy trill of laughter.

“Mr Rayburn! We have not seen you out and about this week,” Jane said.

“I fear I had to attend some business on my estate that could not wait,” he answered. He seemed to speak to Jane, but his gaze lingered on Emily. “I am sure I could not have been much missed in all the flurry of the end of the Season.”

“Oh, but I vow you were!” Jane said. “There were not enough gentlemen to dance with at Lady Orman’s, were there, Emily?”

Emily smiled, remembering how she herself had not danced at all, no matter how many men there were. “No, I suppose there weren’t. No gentlemen who were good dancers, anyway.”

Mr Rayburn arched his brow. “You think me a good dancer, Lady Emily?”

“You managed to avoid getting your foot stomped on when we danced, Mr Rayburn, and you prevented me from tripping more than once. To me, that makes you an expert.”

“I am glad I impressed you with something, Lady Emily,” he answered.

Jane glanced between the two of them, her head tilted as if she puzzled something out. “Shall we all walk for a bit? I feel in need of some exercise.”

Emily nodded eagerly. Perhaps if they were walking, in the midst of the crowd, she could more easily avoid Mr Rayburn’s steady hazel stare. He did always seem to watch her, expect something from her when she could not fathom what it was. She only knew it made her feel fidgety, uncomfortable—and not in the same way the Duke of Manning did.

They left the carriage and set out along one of the pedestrian pathways. Emily loved coming to the park in the mornings, when the walkways were sparsely filled with nannies out with their charges and footmen walking the employers’ dogs. She loved watching the children with their hoops and dolls, enjoying the light and fresh air, the freedom. It made her yearn for the day when she would have a child of her own to walk with in the park, to love and nurture. But the park was such a very different place late in the afternoon, when it was taken over by stylishly dressed society figures, intent on seeing and being seen.

A couple, laughing raucously together, brushed past, jostling Emily. She stumbled, and Mr Rayburn caught her arm in a hard grasp.

“Are you quite all right, Lady Emily?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Emily said. She tried to ease her arm away, but he held on, leading her along the pathway to a more open spot.

“It is shockingly crowded today,” Jane declared, quite as if it wasn’t exactly this crowded every day. “How fortunate we have you to protect us, Mr Rayburn.”

“And how fortunate I am to escort two such lovely ladies. I’m the envy of every man here,” Mr Rayburn answered with a charming smile. “Now, Miss Thornton, Lady Emily, perhaps you could tell me all I missed while I was sadly away from town. Was Lady Orman’s as great a crush as everyone predicted?”

“Oh, even more so!” Jane said. “One could scarcely even move without being trod upon.”

As her friend chattered on about the ball, Emily half-listened, her mind drifting away from the gossip, the crowded park, even from Mr Rayburn’s clasp still on her arm. She thought of next week’s planned lesson at Mrs Goddard’s, her favourite pupil Sally who showed such promise and how well they were all progressing. They needed more challenging material in their lessons to keep up with them. Perhaps she could teach them a bit of Italian? Some of them might even be able to go for governesses soon.

She was so distracted by her plans she didn’t notice the tree root in her path until she tripped right over it.

“Oh!” she cried, as pain shot through her thin halfboot and up her foot. Mr Rayburn’s hand tightened on her arm, holding her upright yet again. “Thank you, Mr Rayburn. You are very kind.”

“It is entirely my pleasure, Lady Emily,” he said hoarsely, staring into her eyes. “You do seem to need someone to look after you.”

A sudden jolt of anger sizzled through her, and she finally shook her arm free of his touch. That was exactly what she did not want any longer, people always telling her where to go and what to do! “Looking after” always seemed to mean “telling what to do”. She never got to do what she wanted, or to make up her own mind about anything.

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr Rayburn. I am very well now.” Emily hurried ahead of Jane and Mr Rayburn, not knowing where she was going, only that she had to get away and shake free of that sudden, unaccountable anger. It made her feel ridiculously out of control.

She found herself near the Serpentine, its banks lined with yet more people, laughing, talking, seemingly so very pleasant and light-hearted. Underneath, though, Emily knew they were always watching, always— judging.

She walked on at a slower pace, making herself smile politely. Jane and Mr Rayburn followed her, still chattering together about that blasted ball.

In the distance, just at the edge of the clearing near the river, Emily glimpsed the Duke of Manning himself, seated on a white horse that contrasted dramatically with his well-cut dark blue coat and fine doeskin breeches. She stopped short, nearly tripping yet again as she stared in sudden dazzlement.

She just couldn’t seem to help herself. It was as if all the light of the day gathered directly on him, and he was all shimmering gold.

She remembered myths of Apollo, called “Ever Bright” by the Muses, and she was sure this was what they meant. Despite the swirling crowds, he appeared to be alone in a glowing pool of serenity and light. He wore no hat, and his golden hair was windblown, falling over his brow and the collar of his fine coat. He held the reins lightly in one gloved hand, answering greetings with a faint smile on his face.

It was almost as if he was bemused to find himself in such a cacophonous scene.

“Whatever is Manning doing here?” she heard Mr Rayburn say behind her. “No one in his family ever deigns to come among the crowds here.”

Emily could not blame him for that. If she was a duchess, she would never do what she didn’t want to, either. But why was he here? She had never seen him in the park before.

“Should we say hello to him?” Jane asked. She sounded uncharacteristically indecisive. Jane always seemed to know exactly what she should do.

“And stand in line with everyone else eager to pay court? I don’t think so,” Mr Rayburn said dismissively. He took Jane’s arm and the two of them turned away. “I thought we were going to walk. Lady Emily?”

“Yes, of course,” Emily said. She started to turn away, as well, to follow them back down the path. To her astonishment, though, the duke caught sight of her and smiled.

He tugged on his horse’s reins and headed straight toward her.

“My goodness ! The Duke of Manning is coming here,” Jane cried.

“So he is,” Mr Rayburn muttered. Emily looked back at him just in time to catch a glimpse of a frown on his face, before it was covered in his usual sociable, practised smile. It seemed perhaps he did not much care for the Duke of Manning.

Emily wondered if he knew something the rest of society did not. Otherwise she could not account for such a reaction. What could it be?

“I think—oh, my!” Jane said. “I think he means to talk to us.”

And indeed he did. He reined in his horse right next to Emily and politely nodded to her, smiling. “Good afternoon, Lady Emily. I trust you have recovered from the dreadful crush of the Orman ball?” he said. His smile widened, more of a grin really, wide and white and full of gentle, teasing humour. As if they shared some secret, as if he remembered all too well when she slipped on the stairs and fell into his arms.

A hot blush touched her cheeks, and she ducked her head to try to hide under her bonnet’s straw brim. “I am quite recovered, thank you, your Grace,” she said with a curtsy. “Though I am definitely enjoying the fresh air today much more!”

He laughed, and shifted easily in his saddle, as if he was born on horseback. He looked so right there, Emily thought, comfortable and elegantly powerful, while she was terrified of the huge beasts.

Horses, of course—not dukes. Though she was also rather terrified of him, when he looked at her so intently, as if he was seeing her for the first time. It was a very different sort of terror than that she felt when Mr Lofton grabbed her in the garden, though. It was a temptation inside her own heart.

“I definitely agree with you on that, Lady Emily,” he said. “A sunny day outdoors is much to be preferred.”

Jane gave a delicate cough, and Emily suddenly recalled that she was not, in fact, alone at the park with the duke. “Your Grace, I believe you know my friends, Miss Thornton and Mr Rayburn?”

“Of course I do. How do you do, Miss Thornton, Mr Rayburn? “ he said.

“Very well indeed, your Grace,” Jane said cheerfully. “We were just going for a stroll. Perhaps you would care to join us?”

Emily shot Jane a hard glance, but Jane blithely ignored her. What if she said something foolish to him as he walked right beside her, or, heaven forbid, tripped and fell again?

“I would be happy to join you,” he said. “If you are sure I would not be intruding on your confidences?”

“The path is rather narrow for four, your Grace,” Mr Rayburn said in a hard voice.

Jane tugged sharply at his arm. “Nonsense! Every party is merrier with more, and there is plenty of room near the river. You and I shall just walk ahead, Mr Ray-burn, and his Grace can walk with Lady Emily.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” the duke said. He dismounted and handed the reins over to his groom before offering Emily his arm. Jane had already fulfilled her promise—or threat—and led Mr Rayburn ahead. She tossed a triumphant smile back over her shoulder at Emily.

Emily had no choice. She slid her gloved fingers into the crook of his elbow and allowed him to walk beside her along the path. The other strollers watched them avidly as they went by, but she tried her hardest to ignore them. She watched the path under her feet, wary of every possible obstacle waiting to trip her.

The gossip she would just have to worry about later.

“I hope I am not interrupting important confidences between you and your friends, Lady Emily,” he said quietly.

She glanced up at him, then wished she had not. His eyes really were terribly, terribly blue. “No, of course not, your Grace. Miss Thornton and I were able to confide on the way here. And Mr Rayburn is—well, he is not that sort of friend.”

“Perhaps he is more of a suitor than a friend?” he said teasingly.

But Emily was not accustomed to being teased. She felt that blush flame even hotter. “I—no, of course not.

I just—I. No.”

“Forgive me, Lady Emily. I am so used to teasing my sisters and cousins about their admirers I sometimes forget how to behave in polite society.”

His family—of course. What a prig he must think her after them. “Mr Rayburn does not admire me, your Grace.”

“Does he not? Very foolish of him, I would say.”

“I …” She hardly knew how to answer that. She could scarcely say she actually had no admirers to be teased about, by him or anyone! “How is your family, your Grace? I have not seen any of them since that house party at Welbourne Manor last summer.”

“All disgustingly healthy, thank you. My sister Charlotte is expecting her first child very soon.”

“Indeed?” Emily was astonished. She remembered Charlotte Fitzmanning, with her wild hair and untidy gowns, always with a pack of pug dogs at her heels. Emily knew she had married Andrew Bassington soon after that party, of course—and now she was to be a mother. She would have her very own family. Emily couldn’t help but envy her for that.

“You must send her my best wishes, your Grace,” she said. “Are you hoping for a niece or a nephew?”

“Either, as long as the child—and my sister—are healthy.” He glanced towards the sun-dappled, blue-green river, where children sailed their toy boats and laughed in innocent delight. A shadow seemed to pass over his eyes, and he frowned.

“I am sure they will both be quite safe,” Emily said softly. “Your sister did seem to have a most robust constitution.”

That strange shadow lifted from his face, and he laughed. “That she does. I already have one niece, little Katherine, my sister Justine’s child. I am sure she would like a little girl for her playmate.”

“I should like to have a niece, too,” she said. She gestured toward a pretty, tiny redhead toddling by the water’s edge as her nurse flirted with a footman nearby. The child waved her hands and laughed in sheer pleasure. “Perhaps one like that girl?”

“A fine choice, Lady Emily.” He led her again along the path, closer to the river. “I do hope you are quite well after the ball? That fall you took …”

A group of children ran across the path in front of them, distracting her and making her laugh. “It was nothing at all, your Grace. I fear it could have been worse, though, if you had not been there to assist me.” “That is my task at balls, to rescue fair maidens.” “You should not let that be known widely, then, or ladies would be fainting at your feet in droves in hopes of rescue.”

He gave a startled laugh. “Why, Lady Emily! Was that a joke?”

Emily thought about it for a moment. “I think it might have been.”

“A joke with an unfortunate grain of truth, I fear.”

“You probably don’t need to worry, your Grace. Most society ladies are not so clumsy as I am and could not fall if they tried.”

“I am glad to hear it. I can’t spend all my time saving fainting ladies. But I can’t believe anyone could ever call you clumsy, Lady Emily.”

“Oh, they could,” she said with a sigh. “And I think—”

From the corner of her eye, Emily caught a glimpse of flashing movement, dark and strange in the bright day. She spun around, and to her horror saw a runaway curricle barrelling down the roadway—and straight toward the red-haired child. The driver, a terrified-looking young man, had lost the reins. Pedestrians dived out of its wild path, shrieking, but the little girl was terribly oblivious.

“No!” Emily screamed. She ran towards the child, but her skirt hem wrapped around her ankles and tripped her.

The duke had no such constraints. He dashed past Emily, swift on his long, powerful legs, and dived for the child as the carriage crashed ever nearer. Everyone else ran the other way, but not him. He took a diving leap for the girl and caught her up in his arms a split second before the curricle would have run over her.

His momentum carried them both over the embankment and straight into the placid waters of the river.

Terrified, Emily lifted her wretched hems and dashed towards the river, along with everyone else. The carriage had finally ground to a halt some distance away, but she didn’t notice. All she could see were the waves washing over the spot where he had disappeared.

The duke leaped up, the girl held tightly against him. They were both completely soaked, but the child laughed delightedly in his arms as Nicholas sputtered for breath. A clump of weeds clung to his wet hair, now more green than gold with sludge.

To Emily, though, he did not look so very comical.

“Kitty!” a nursemaid shrieked as she ran past Emily, that flirtation with the footman forgotten. “Oh, is she hurt? Is she?”

The duke spat out a mouthful of water, wading towards shore. “I don’t think so, miss,” he said. “Though she is making a deuced lot of noise.”

He slowly climbed up the embankment, the child clinging to his neck as she chortled with sheer joy. His fine clothes were utterly ruined, but he didn’t seem to notice. He carefully handed the girl to her nurse.

“Keep a closer eye on her, yes?” he said hoarsely.

“Oh, yes, sir! Of course,” the maid cried. “Thank you so much, how can I thank you? I turned my back for one moment and—”

“One moment is all it takes, I fear,” he said. He sat down heavily on the grass, his head in his hands as the maid carried the child away and the crowd slowly dispersed as the drama seemed over. “One moment and they’re gone.”

“Oh, your Grace,” Emily said. She knelt beside him, only to find she trembled violently. How close that poor child had come to disaster! If not for him, the duke … “Are you hurt at all?”

He shook his head, and he trembled, too. “Of course not, Lady Emily. I’ve been dunked in far worse.” He slowly lowered his hands, and she saw that his face was a bit pale, but completely expressionless. He took off his boots, one after the other, and emptied out the water. He removed his coat and wrung out the sleeves.

“I did not think they would start so young,” he muttered.

“Your Grace?” Emily said, bewildered. Had he hit his head on the embankment? What was he talking about?

“Seeking rescue,” he said. “You did warn me.”

She laughed. “Indeed. But I fear you will be the one in need of rescue if you don’t get home and into some dry clothes as soon as possible.”

“I am fine, Lady Emily. We should find your friends first.”

Of course! She had completely forgotten about them, about everyone. Emily glanced up to find Jane hurrying towards them, her eyes bright with excitement. Mr Rayburn followed, looking considerably put out by the whole scene.

“No need, for here they are already,” she said.

“Oh, your Grace! That was utterly amazing,” Jane cried. “So very heroic.”

“Not heroic at all, Miss Thornton,” he answered as he rose to his feet and held out his hand to help Emily. “I merely acted out of instinct, as anyone would.”

Yet no one else had acted at all, Emily thought. Only him. Would she now have to revise her opinion of him as merely a pleasure-seeking, shallow duke? That would be most inconvenient.

“I heard you were at the park today, Em, when the Duke of Manning performed a most daring rescue.”

Emily looked up from her book as her brother bounded into the drawing room. “So I was, Rob, along with half of London.”

Her mother turned eagerly from her embroidery. “The Duke of Manning? And you were there, Emily? Why did you not say something!”

Because Emily did not know what to say. She knew her mother would become terribly excited at the knowledge she had even seen the duke today. Her mother would be sure to blow the whole incident entirely out of proportion and make it all something it was not. Emily was just too tired for all that right now, and much too confused.

And she also just wanted to keep what she had seen to herself for a while, to try to decipher what it all meant. She couldn’t do that with her family chattering on about it all, as they had a tendency to do. Yet it seemed keeping quiet was no longer an option.

“Emily!” her mother said. “Did you hear me? Why did you not tell me you saw the Duke of Manning at the park? Did he speak to you?”

Emily carefully closed her book. “I suppose it all just slipped my mind.”

“Slipped your mind?” her mother cried.

“You are a strange girl indeed, Sister,” Rob said. He leaned over her chair to examine her book, his light brown hair flopping over his brow. He didn’t look quite like an important up-and-coming politician when he did that, she thought, but like the brother of her youth. “I’m sure anyone else would definitely remember seeing the duke rescue a child from a runaway carriage. And then walking away on his arm when it was all over.”

“What!” Emily’s mother screamed. She tossed her sewing on to the floor. “Emily, you will tell me everything this moment.”

“It did not happen quite like that,” Emily protested. “And how do you know of it, Rob?”

“Amy saw Jane Thornton’s sister at the milliner. But it doesn’t matter how I know. Everyone in town knows by now. Nothing so dashing has happened at the park in ages.” Rob tugged at one of her curls. “They say you wept and mopped at his sweated brow.”

“He was too wet from falling in the river to sweat,” Emily muttered. “And I did not weep. Though I was naturally frightened for the poor child.”

“I wouldn’t be too sorry for her—she’s Lord and Lady Hampton’s brat. It seems they’re proclaiming Manning the great hero of the age.”

“Already?” said Emily. “And how do you know that?”

“Amy saw Lady Hampton’s aunt on the way home from the milliner’s. Amy is amazing at discovering information,” Rob said admiringly.

“You mean she is a great gossip,” said Emily.

“Whatever you call it, Sister, it’s immensely useful and one of the many reasons I married her. It would do you good to talk to people yourself more often.”

“Enough of this arguing, you two!” their mother cried. “Emily, tell me what happened immediately.”

Emily quickly related the tale of the child’s rescue—a short version of it, anyway—leaving out most of her own involvement and all her emotions. Even that abbreviated account had her mother sighing.

“What a heroic tale!” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “How proud our old friend, the late duke, would be. And to think you were there, Emily!”

“So was everyone else, Mama,” Emily protested again.

“But no one else went to his assistance, only you, my dear. And now your name is linked with his.”

“Well done, Em,” Rob said.

“I did nothing at all! He scarcely even noticed me,” Emily said, to no avail.

“Perhaps we should allow you to go to Vauxhall with Miss Thornton and her sister after all,” her mother said. “I wasn’t sure about the outing at first, but such a good deed deserves a reward. And there can be no harm if you are with respectable friends.”

“Really? You are allowing me to go to Vauxhall?” Emily said, astonished. Her mother had hesitated when Emily first relayed Jane’s invitation, but now she seemed quite happy to allow it.

“Of course, my dear. The duke might be there, after all. You must see what you can make of it.”

Emily departed the drawing room soon after, leaving her mother and brother to their happy conversation of the doings in the park and what it might mean. They seemed to think it meant the duke had noticed Emily at last, or some such nonsense.

Once she was safe in the silence of her own chamber, she locked the door and went to stare out the window at the gathering evening. Her room looked down on their tiny back garden and the mews behind. All was quiet now, as everyone was at home preparing for their nights, their parties and dinners and theatre outings. The sky was the palest of pinks, shading slowly into grey.

What was he doing tonight? she wondered. Was he getting ready to go out and enjoy his hero-dom? She hoped he was staying home to rest by a warm fire, as he would surely catch a chill after his—what did he call it? His dunking?

She had a sudden vision of the duke, Nicholas, by his fire, cosy with books and supper on a tray. That was her favourite sort of evening. What if she was there, too? What if she could sit by him as they toasted cheese in the fire and laughed about the follies of gossip? He would reach for her hand and.

“No!” she said aloud, and laughed at her fancies. He did not seem a man to relish a quiet evening at home. Dukes were very busy and always sought after, even ones who weren’t the hero of the day. His family seemed to love parties above all else, dancing and music and jokes.

And yet—yet she had glimpsed something different in him today, ever so briefly. She had known he was brave, of course, always riding hell for leather and racing carriages at Welbourne Manor, swimming in the lake there, climbing the hills. Dancing all night. But today’s bravery was of another sort. He had put himself in danger to save a child, a person unknown to him, without an instant’s hesitation while everyone else fled or froze in horror. As she had.

Only after did he seem at all shaken, as if the true danger to that little girl had only just come to him. And that girl had been most reluctant to part with her rescuer—as all ladies seemed to be with him.

Emily bit at the edge of her thumbnail as she watched the sky slide into indigo twilight. Teaching at Mrs Goddard’s meant that not only did she teach the women writing and French, they taught her things as well. They were careful never to tell lurid tales in her hearing, but she did hear some things. She heard stories of how men, especially wealthy and titled men, were not to be trusted. They used people, particularly women, for selfish ends and discarded them without a care. That was why she worked at Mrs Goddard’s, to help women recover from such terrible experiences. She wanted to help however she could.

The Duke of Manning was about as wealthy and titled as a man could be, and he was the son of a famous libertine, a man who had abandoned his wife, the mother of his heir, and married his mistress as soon as that poor wife died. Yet today Emily had seen not a shred of selfishness or carelessness.

Was it only the rush of the moment that made him act thus? Perhaps tomorrow he would go back to the careless, scandalous ways of the Mannings. Or maybe—maybe that was simply how he really was, deep inside.

Emily was very confused, and she did not like that feeling at all. Maybe her mother was right, and the duke would be at Vauxhall for the masked ball. If she met him in disguise, not as Lady Emily Carroll, perhaps she could glimpse that true self, not just the face he showed society.

It seemed a harebrained scheme at best, but for now it was all she had.

Chapter Five

“You’ve been very quiet all day, Nick. Is something amiss?”

“What did you say, Stephen?” Nicholas said. He tore his gaze from the night-dark streets flashing past the carriage window and glanced over at his brother. Stephen was running one of his many ‘lucky charms’ between his fingers, back and forth, and that was seldom a good sign. But maybe Nicholas should find some kind of charm as well. It seemed he needed one.

“I said you are being strangely quiet, which is not like you. Usually no one can get you to shut up.”

Nicholas threw his black satin mask at his brother’s head. Stephen batted it away, laughing, but in the process dropped his charm. Nicholas scooped it up and held it to the moonlight. It was a tiny gold horseshoe, as bright as Emily Carroll’s hair. “I have a great deal to think about, you know.”

“Ducal things, I suppose?”

“Indeed. And if you’re going to twit me about my work, I’d just like to see you take it on. You’re the heir, anyway. You be the duke, and I’ll go off and live on a sunny island somewhere, with no estates to run and no siblings to corral.”

Nicholas closed his fist tightly around the charm. He was being churlish, he knew, and he was sorry for it. It wasn’t Stephen’s fault he was in such a strange mood. He hadn’t been able to shake it away all day. He kept seeing that child, so close to danger, kept reliving it over and over in his mind.

And he kept seeing that look in Emily Carroll’s green eyes as she knelt beside him, so full of horror and shock—and confusion. She had seen him at his worst, damn it all, seen him at his most vulnerable. He didn’t like that, and he couldn’t decipher why that would be.

Stephen sat back on his seat, his hands up in mock surrender. “Certainly not! I have not the least desire to be a duke. It’s a blasted great nuisance, and apparently it makes a man surly as well. And I’m only the heir until you marry and have horrid little Mannings of your own.”

Which would never happen, not after Valentina and their poor little son. Nicholas rubbed his hands hard over his face and through his hair, messing his valet’s careful arrangement. “I’m sorry, Stephen. I don’t know what’s come over me today.”

“I suppose the hero of the day is entitled to a foul mood now and then.”

“I’ve told you before—I only did what anyone would do when a child is in danger.”

“Tell that to the Hamptons. They’ve blanketed the whole drawing room at Manning House with bouquets in their profuse thanks. And I hear they’ve been proclaiming your name all over town.”

“I wish they would stop, then.” It seemed absurd for Lord and Lady Hampton to thank him so ardently for saving their child, when he could do nothing to save his own. He did not feel heroic in the least.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to turn modest, Nick. All the ladies will be even more in love with you than before.” Stephen gave him a grin. “Maybe one in particular?”

Nicholas answered that grin with a scowl, which did not put off his brother in the least. “Who on earth do you mean?”

“I was at the club this afternoon, and heard tell that Lady Emily Carroll seemed enormously concerned for you when you took that tumble into the Serpentine. They said she cradled your head in her lap and wept.”

“Oh, damn it all.” Nicholas tightened his fist on the charm, the golden corners biting into his skin. That was all the blasted situation needed—rumours about him and Lady Emily. “It was not like that at all. We happened to be walking together when it happened, that is all.”

“You were walking with Lady Emily Carroll?” Stephen said, sitting up straight in interest. “But she did not like you at all last summer at Welbourne! Despite all her parents’ efforts at matchmaking.”

“She did seem less than enthused about me,” Nicholas answered. “Our family is probably not serious enough for her.”

Stephen gave a snort. “Socrates would not be serious enough for her! Has she ever smiled?”

Yes, indeed she did smile—and it was like the sun came out when she did. But then it always vanished all too quickly. “I met with her at the park and did the polite thing for an acquaintance and walked with her for a time.” Nicholas saw no need to mention he had actually followed her to Hyde Park, foolishly following something elusive in that smile. “I’m sorry to be the cause of any gossip about her.”

“I had assumed those stories were made up out of whole cloth. I didn’t realise you actually were with her at the park. Did her touch freeze when she took your arm, Nick?”

Her hand had been quite warm. Warm and delicate, trembling slightly as she took his arm. And she smelled like summer roses. “Don’t be a fool, Stephen. She is not actually an ice princess, no matter what those bacon-brains at the club say.”

“It seems she’s called that with good reason, though. I’ve never seen a lady so quiet and still. They say—”

“Enough!” Nicholas shouted. “I do not want to hear any more about Lady Emily. Surely we know well enough what it’s like to be the objects of idle gossip. We shouldn’t subject an innocent lady to unfair slurs.”

“I—yes, of course. You’re very right, Nick,” Stephen said, looking nonplussed and quite sorry. “I certainly don’t want to be unfair to Lady Emily, especially if you like her.”

“I don’t like her. I’m just sick of the gossip. It never ends.”

“And you’ve been working too hard, Brother. We’ll have a merry time at Vauxhall tonight, it is just what you need. Some wine, some music, some pretty women—you’ll be yourself again in no time. And I will help you more, I promise.”

“Just make your racetrack scheme a great success. And perhaps you’re right, I just need some fun,” Nicholas said. But deep inside he was not so sure. His family thought a bit of fun would solve any trouble, but maybe that wasn’t so true any longer. Another night out, among noise and crowds, seemed the last thing he wanted. There was never a moment to think, to understand.

Then again, maybe thinking was the last thing he needed.

He tossed the charm back to Stephen, who caught it neatly, and reached for his discarded mask. The bright lights of Vauxhall were drawing nearer as they crossed the bridge, the press of carriages thicker around them as everyone headed for the masquerade.

Nicholas tied the mask over his face, and drew the hood of his black cloak closer. He would drink some of Vauxhall’s excellent arrack punch and find a pretty woman, as Stephen suggested. Maybe a plump, soft redhead, someone very different from a delicate, porcelain-doll blonde, and forget himself with her. It had been much too long since he did that.

And then tomorrow, he would no longer be haunted by a pair of solemn green eyes.

“Oh, Emily, isn’t it terribly exciting?” Jane whispered as they stepped through the turnstile into Vauxhall, the dense line of revellers dispersing on to the walkways.

Emily twisted her head about, taking in her surroundings. It was exciting, strangely so. She hadn’t expected very much from this outing—she had heard and read so much about the pleasure gardens she was quite sure she knew what it would be like. She’d thought it would be a mere curiosity, something to see once and be done with, since she could not get away from Jane’s invitation once her mother gave her permission.

But reading and seeing were two different matters. The gardens were astonishing, like something in a dream. It was a different world from her day-to-day existence of duty and sense. Here she didn’t have to be Emily. Here she could be anyone at all.

Maybe that was the real point of any masquerade. To escape for a time.

She held on to Jane’s arm as they followed her sister down the entrance pathway, and tried not to stare open-mouthed like some green country girl. Off to their right was the Grand Quadrangle, their destination, and she could glimpse it through the carefully spaced trees. Thousands of glass lamps, their globes faceted to make the light sparkle, shimmered from the branches, casting an amber glow on the costumed crowds as they passed beneath them.

“It’s like something from the Arabian Nights,” Emily murmured. “It can’t be quite real.”

“I can’t believe we’re here,” said Jane, tugging the folds of her Greek-goddess costume into place. “However did you persuade your parents to let you come?”

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