Chapter One

“You wait here, Mama,” Rosaline said, stopping her mother when they reached Fleet Street. Her mother was looking up at the red brick façade of Number nine, Fleet Market with a pale face. From the outside, a passing stranger might consider it a perfectly normal building situated on the popular Fleet Market square, but any Londoner worth their salt knew the truth.

“Very well,” her mother said quietly, tugging her shawl around her shoulders and gazing up at the debtors’ prison in despair. As many months as they had been visiting, her mother could still not cross the threshold without swooning with stress. “I shall go and fetch us some ribbon then.”

“Yes, do,” Rosaline encouraged her mother kindly. “Do not worry for me, Mama, I have done this many times.”

“I only wish there was no need for you to do so,” her mother said sadly, lifting a hand to cup Rosaline’s cheek, her fingers tucking a piece of Rosaline’s fiery red hair back into place.

“One day soon, there will be no need,” Rosaline smiled softly at her mother. “Go and fetch the ribbon, Mama. I should like green if they have it.”

“Of course, dearest,” her mother said, turning her eyes from the building. Rosaline squeezed her mother’s hand and watched her cross the market square to the stall with the ribbons hanging loose and blowing in the breeze. Then, assured that her mother was comfortably browsing the day’s wares, Rosaline squared her shoulders and set her sights on the door of Number nine. As she approached, she saw a gaggle of wealthy women and their gentlemen suitors waiting outside the door.

“Oh, I hear it is much less savage than Newgate,” one of the ladies was commenting loudly, fluttering an expensive fan in the breeze. “Why, you might even see a gentleman ensconced here!”

Rosaline hated the prison tourists, the wealthy ladies and gentlemen from outside London who thought it a great excitement to tour the capital’s prisons and mock or exclaim at those unfortunate incarcerated souls. She kept her back straight and her basket held out in front of her as she brushed past them, well aware of her tattered hem and patched shawl.

“Oh, how I should like to see that!” another lady exclaimed. “We have nothing so lurid to entertain us at home!”

“Well, ’tis not free to gawk, madam,” the warden at the door said snidely to the lady as Rosaline approached. He eyed her familiarly, nodding and opening the large door as she discreetly slipped a coin into his palm. Rosaline was well versed in the procedures of the prison by now. Bribery was the name of the game.

“Well, now, how is it that the young wench should be so freely admitted?” Rosaline heard the lady behind her demand as she slipped past the door warden.

“She must be visiting a person inside,” the first lady said knowledgeably.

“Her? Such a pretty young thing?” Rosaline bristled as she heard one of the tourist gentlemen commenting behind her whilst she stood inside the door, waiting for a second warden to quickly peruse the basket of food and essentials she had brought in. She caught the warden’s eye as he wordlessly slipped one of her mother’s home baked scones into his pocket. Nothing was free in prison and Rosaline knew that.

“You’d be surprised, milord, at how many pretty young things pass through these doors,” the door warden chuckled darkly. “Either visiting or staying.”

“Well, it seems to me then, that pretty girls have no sense,” the gentlemen scoffed. Rosaline felt herself blushing deeply. As soon as the warden had cleared her to proceed she turned around to glare at the gentlemen standing on the doorstep.

“Maybe so, but at least I have enough sense to know that touring inside these walls to gape at unfortunate souls is nothing short of ghoulish,” Rosaline snapped, spinning on her heel, and marching her way down the corridor, hearing the warden’s chuckle behind her and the gentlemen and ladies exclaiming with dismay. She found she cared not what they thought about her as she stalked angrily past barred doors until she reached the next guard.

“Aye, for Mr. Arnold is it?” the guard said, looking Rosaline up and down with slightly leering eyes that made her uncomfortable.

“Yes,” Rosaline said briskly, throwing back the tea towel covering her basket so the guard could take his pick. She only hoped she would not have lost all of her mother’s famous scones by the time she got to the cell.

“Not hungry,” the guard grunted. “At least, not for that.”

“Very well,” Rosaline sighed and pulled a coin out of her purse, offering it to him. He shook his head, smiling nastily.

“What if I have something else in mind, lass?” he said lewdly, leaning forward. His rancid breath was sour on her cheeks. Rosaline tried not to show her disgust and fear. She had been visiting Number nine, Fleet Market for months now. She knew that some of the guards and wardens traded in more than favors, coins, and food with visiting ladies; she was not naive, but she would not let herself be taken advantage of. She was suddenly very glad her mother was not here to see this.

“Then you’ll put it out of your mind or get nothing,” Rosaline said sharply, pulling a second coin out of her purse and offering it to the guard. “What will it be?”

He eyed her suspiciously for a moment and then pulled back, snatching the coins out of her hand, and opening the door, leading her along until they reached a familiar oak door with a tiny, barred window.

“A short time only,” the guard snarled, setting a key from his great ring of keys at his waist into the lock and turning it. “If you want longer you know what it will cost.”

Rosaline stiffened and said nothing, waiting until the door had swung all the way open to enter the room, refusing to look at the guard. She would not give him the satisfaction of thinking he had unsettled her. Over the last few months, Rosaline had developed a spine of steel. She had needed to. She was the only one keeping her family together.

“Rosie!” A thin but happy voice exclaimed. “How lovely to see you!”

“Hello, Papa,” Rosaline smiled, setting her basket down upon the threadbare bed and walking into her father’s warm embrace. He was standing by the window with his sketchbook, which he set down on the sill in order to hold her close. He felt much thinner than the last time she had visited. She pulled away, frowning at him. “You seem reduced, Papa. Have I not been bringing you enough food?”

“No, more than enough, it is only . . . well,” her father coughed, and an abashed look crossed his wan face. “I may have made some trades for art supplies.”

Rosaline shook her head at her father and bit back her reproach. After all, it was her father’s trading and borrowing in order to finance his painting and work as an artist that had sent him to Fleet Market in the first place.

“Mama sends scones,” Rosaline said, removing her shawl from around her shoulders and setting it down on the thin blanket. “I have included some scouse for you, and some fresh apples too.”

“And books?” her father asked hopefully, a mischievous smile flickering across his face.

“Yes,” Rosaline sighed, rolling her eyes. Her father was an impossible bookworm and being locked up all day had done nothing to dim his habit. “A collection of the works of Shakespeare and Marlowe.”

“Well, perhaps I can read the different parts to myself when I become lonely,” her father joked softly. For a moment, he looked distinctly forlorn, and then he reached for Rosalind’s hand. “I do miss you both so. How are you?”

Rosaline looked down at her hand in her father’s. She swallowed back the truth, that her mother seemed like a shadow of herself without her husband, and that Rosaline was always fearful now of her father’s creditor knocking on the door, or that he might send ruffians to their house to steal away more of their furniture or goods. She could not tell her father the truth, that his incarceration was the worst thing to have happened to her and kept her awake at night, worrying about the pennies in her purse, and how they would survive this. Rosaline was only two-and-twenty, with no large fortune or wealthy brother or uncle to support her. She knew there was only one way for her family to make it through this tragedy of circumstance and poor decision-making. Rosaline was determined to make it happen.

“We are well,” Rosaline said quietly, stroking the back of her father’s hand with her thumb. “Do not worry yourself, Papa. Soon you will be a free man again.”

“Oh, have you been saying your prayers, my sweet Rose?” her father chuckled. “Or perhaps someone we know has died and left you a fortune in gold to repay my debt?”

“That would surely help matters, but no,” Rosaline smiled and kissed her father’s cheek. “Do not worry, Papa. I have a plan. I shall see it through.”

*****

“I am only suggesting that the performance would have been greatly improved if more time had been given to the soprano’s talents,” Owen said, falling in step beside Henry and Matilda as they exited the opera house.

“I suppose that had nothing to do with the fact that the soprano tonight was exceptionally beautiful, did it?” Matilda asked, smiling cheekily as she slipped her arm through her husband’s.

“Not a whit, I merely appreciated her talents,” Owen said stubbornly, flicking his cane as he walked.

“I am sure you did,” Henry said drily, raising his eyebrow. “After all, in that gown her talent was more than on display.”

“She was playing the goddess Athena, so, of course the garb of Ancient Greece was perfectly appropriate,” Owen said, refusing to rise to the bait.

“You know, I heard a strange little rumor last week, husband,” Matilda began, eyes sparkling, and Owen just knew that his best friend’s wife was preparing to make fun of him.

“Oh, really, love?” Henry said, smiling at Owen evilly. Owen glared back at his friend, who never once came to his aide when his beautiful wife began to tease Owen mercilessly. Owen sometimes thought Henry enjoyed it even more than when he used to beat the stuffing out of Owen at university back at Oxford. “And what was that?”

“I heard that the lady soprano in question, I believe her name is Mademoiselle Elise, received the most fabulous bouquet last week, as well as a gentleman caller after curtain call,” Matilda tapped her gloved finger against her lips mischievously. “Tell me, husband, which young bachelor do we know who always favors giving roses to those he courts?”

“Lady Linfield, you are incorrigible,” Owen said flatly, staring between his laughing best friend and his best friend’s wife.

“She is!” Henry sighed, wiping his eyes, and squeezing his wife’s arm. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“I imagine it is more endearing when it is not directed at your affairs,” Owen said tartly.

“Oh, do not be sour, Owen,” Matilda giggled, winking at him conspiratorially. “If you do not wish to be subject to rumors, then you must try to conduct a less exceptional love-life.”

“I shall bear that in mind, my lady!” Owen sighed, shaking his head ruefully but unable to stop himself smiling. The truth was that Lady Matilda Linfield was quite exceptional. She was Henry’s oldest friend, aside from Owen, and it had been Owen’s great pleasure to watch their courtship evolve. There was an ease about their companionship that Owen longed for in a spouse. After all, here was Matilda, a fine lady of the town, teasing her husband’s best friend about his dalliances! It was certainly unorthodox, but Owen relished the friendship of Henry and his wife. And he adored being godfather to their only daughter, Iris, and, sometimes, when he saw his best friend rolling with laughter at a witty comment his wife had made, Owen was filled with crushing envy.

“So, you are acquainted with the soprano?” Henry pressed, guiding them further along the street towards the carriages.

“Can a gentleman not send a young lady of exceptional talent a bouquet to congratulate her on her performance?” Owen demanded.

“He can, but if he is the young Duke of Lennox he cannot be surprised when there are rumors about it,” Matilda said tartly.

“Or when it ends up in the scandal sheets,” Henry said warningly.

“I am scrupulous about protecting my reputation, as you well know,” Owen said airily. “And what is a bouquet sent in congratulation for a perfectly sung aria? If that is all the scandal sheets can conjure up then they are surely dragging their feet.”

The truth was that Owen had indeed had a secret dalliance with Mademoiselle Elise, which had ended in an eager tumble in her dressing room, but he had no intention of revealing that to Matilda. She saw him as a romantic flirt, as the gentleman who would dance with every lady, complement each one lavishly, and then send them all roses afterwards. Henry, however, knew the truth. Owen did not like a cold bed. Since they’d gone up to Oxford, Owen had enjoyed the company of many fine ladies, and many pretty professionals. His father’s premature death had launched him into his dukedom earlier than expected. He had imagined he would have a few more years of bachelorhood to enjoy before settling down and finding a lady to marry. Then he would have felt ready to assume his father’s title, his days of carousing fully behind him, just a part of any young man’s youthful indiscretions. Yet now, he found himself, a year from being thirty years old, a duke of substantial property and fortune . . . and still unmarried.

“Every scandal sheet I open seems obsessed with you,” Henry commented lightly, his eyes fixed on Owen.

“Oh, you open many scandal sheets, do you?” Owen teased drily.

“No, but I do, and I simply have to tell Henry all about them,” Matilda said, stepping towards the carriage. “After all, it is such a delight to be so intimately acquainted with someone so famous!”

“Oh, why is that?” Owen said sarcastically. “Are there benefits in Society to being a dear friend of the Duke of Lennox, recently branded the most flirtatious duke in the land?”

Owen had not known whether to be flattered or insulted by the title, but then had arrived at his club to raucous laughter and had sorted his feelings out quite quickly. He loathed the scandal sheets. He hated the people who published them, who sent spies into balls and parties to take notes on who he danced with, spoke to, sent flowers to. It had become practically unbearable, especially because he had gotten no closer to discerning who the spy might be. It kept him awake at night, wondering who in the ton was in the pocket of the newspaper men. It had even gotten to the point where he had become convinced he could hear footsteps following him wherever he went, as if everyone in the ton was fascinated with exactly what His Grace, the Duke of Lennox was doing at each moment. It was almost unbearable. The hair on the back of Owen’s neck rose just thinking about it, and he had the horrible feeling that a pair of eyes was following him even then. He caught Henry’s eye and saw that his friend was watching him with a thoughtful expression.

“Oh, no, merely that I get the opportunity to correct public opinion of you at every turn,” Matilda said lightly, with a beautiful smile. “After all, most people seem wrongfully convinced that you are some kind of charmer. And as we all know, you are a perfectly hopeless dunderhead in real life.”

“How dare you!” Owen laughed, shaking off the sensation of being watched from the shadows. “Just because your sister-in-law refers to me as such does not give you leave to go repeating it in company!”

Henry’s sister, Althea, was never short of playful insults for Owen, which he never hesitated to return in kind. Althea was a friend with whom Owen could always be freely himself, as much family to him as Henry and Matilda.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Henry said, smiling as he helped his wife into the carriage. “Get comfortable, my love, I must catch a word with our resident dunderhead, if you do not mind.”

“I shall bear it,” Matilda chuckled, smiling as Henry closed the door. Then he gestured for Owen to join him in a side alley, his eyes full of understanding.

“Again?” Henry asked quietly. Owen nodded curtly.

“It’s the fourth time this week,” Owen sighed in frustration, running his hands through his hair. “I feel as if I am going mad, always imagining footsteps at my back and eyes on the back of my head.”

“You are not going mad, do not worry,” Henry squeezed his arm affectionately. He knew how hard being thrust into the sudden spotlight had been for Owen. “We will find the answer to it soon enough.”

“Thank you,” Owen said, breathing a sigh of relief. It was good to have a friend on his side. But for some reason, he had the unnerving feeling that they were only just beginning to unravel the mystery of who was watching him and why, and it would only get more complicated the more questions they asked. “I am glad you are with me.”

“I always shall be, my friend,” Henry said.

Chapter Two

“Come, Mama, we cannot dally!” Rosaline said firmly, tugging on her mother’s hand as they walked through the art gallery. Rosaline ran her eyes over the crowds of gentlemen and ladies bustling around before paintings and holding glasses of champagne. She could practically taste her heartbeat in her throat. For her plan to work, she needed to blend in as best she could with the other members of the ton, who were milling around and gossiping. She had deliberately worn her best gown, a soft, pearly satin of pale green, adorned under the bust and at the edge of the cap sleeves with the green ribbon her mother had purchased yesterday at the market. Whilst she never expected to be the most beautiful girl in the room, Rosaline prided herself that she could at least appear to be a respectable member of the ton. No one here would look twice at her or her mother and find them wanting.

“I do not know why we have to rush,” her mother mumbled and then, casting her fearful eyes around the gallery, sucked in a sharp breath. “Goodness, I have not been in the company of some of these people for more than twenty years.”

Rosaline slowed her feet. For a moment, her quest went entirely out of her head. She stared at her mother, at the slight lines around her beautiful eyes and her sad expression; her face was a picture of mourning.

“I am sorry,” Rosaline said quietly, slipping her hand into her mother’s. “I can do this alone, Mama. You can go home.”

“No,” her mother breathed out slowly, closing her eyes and then opening them again. “If twenty years has not made me strong, then nothing will.”

Rosaline said nothing and watched as her mother glanced forlornly around the room, her eyes lingering on a beautiful painting three times the size of Rosaline.

“Do you see the brushwork there?” her mother said softly, her eyes becoming gentle with affection.

“Yes?” Rosaline said, looking at the painting.

“That is one of your father’s,” her mother whispered so that no one else could hear.

“Papa’s?” Rosaline whispered in astonishment, looking up at the enormous painting surrounded by fine people. Why, the cost of the frame alone would surely be enough to settle a large part of her father’s debt!

“Yes, one of his earliest,” her mother mused quietly, looking at the painting with fondness. “One of his first big sales. In the days when he was still the talk of the ton, and I was just a young slip of a thing at her first ball.”

Rosaline watched as her mother drifted into memories. She was doing that more often these days. With a soft smile on her face, wearing a beautiful blue gown, and her head tilted to properly examine the painting, Rosaline caught a glimpse of the type of fine lady her mother would have become if she had never met Mr. Arnold, the new and exciting landscape painter, who had burst upon the ton twenty-five years ago. Rosaline had heard the story of their love many times as a child; it had been her favorite bedtime tale. Rosaline knew how her father had been invited to the seat of the Earl of Edgecombe to paint a landscape of the grounds, how her mother had caught sight of him . . . and instantly fallen in love with his perception and gentleness.

As a child, she had begged over and over to hear the romantic tale of how her parents had fallen into a secret love affair and, afraid of the earl’s disapproval, eloped. The infant Rosaline had considered it the pinnacle of romance, but now she knew romance was not without its sacrifices. Rosaline had never met her grandfather, the Earl of Edgecombe. She had never come out into Society or gone to balls or afternoon tea with other young ladies of the ton. Her mother had married out of Society, throwing her lot in with a talented but scatter-brained painter with no head for numbers or finances. She had never once complained, but Rosaline knew it must be hard for her mother to stand in these halls with these people again and not think about the family she had lost and the life she might have had.

“Do you ever regret it?” Rosaline asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“No,” her mother looked at her fiercely, her voice suddenly low and powerful. “How could I regret the greatest love of my life? The love that brought me my own little Rosie?”

“Thank you, Mama,” Rosaline said, smiling as she squeezed her mother’s hand. “And you do not regret all you lost in leaving the ton?”

“There is nothing to regret here,” her mother said, sniffing disapprovingly as she looked around at the surrounding ladies and gentlemen, all traces of nostalgia vanished. “I still have not the faintest idea why you insist upon this reintroduction.”

“I have my reasons,” Rosaline said, twisting a curl by her ear. Her mother watched her shrewdly.

“You are as much a gambler as your father,” her mother said, shaking her head. “Don’t you realize, precious one, that if there is so much of a whiff of the debtor’s prison about us, then this reintroduction shall all be for nothing? Less than nothing.”

“Well, it cannot be less than nothing,” Rosaline said glibly.

“It can,” her mother said firmly. “Nothing is what we are to them, Rosaline. They care naught for us; they do not know our names or our circumstances. It is worse, much worse, that they should know us and despise us. Then, we shall be in an even more terrible situation than when your father and I eloped.”

“Mother,” Rosaline said in a soothing tone. “You shall have to trust me. I have our family’s best intentions in mind. I am going to free father and make sure that we are all happy again.”

“I suppose you shall also end all wars and fill every hungry belly in the city?” her mother joked sarcastically, shaking her head at her daughter. “Really, Rosaline. You cannot expect miracles.”

“I do not. I only need you to trust me,” Rosaline said, staring into her mother’s eyes. “Can you please trust me, Mother?”

Her mother looked at her for a long minute, eyes tired, but then she sighed, her shoulders slumping for a moment before she rolled them back, her face becoming firmer by the second.

“I shall trust you, sweet Rose,” her mother whispered, tucking her daughter’s hand into her elbow. “Besides, for you to appear as a proper lady of the ton you must be appropriately chaperoned. Come. Let me show you some other pieces of interest.”

Rosaline allowed her mother to guide her around the gallery, talking in a level voice about the pieces of art on display with such clarity and an informed manner that Rosaline could feel some of the other ladies and gentlemen looking at her with approval and interest. It amazed Rosaline to see how these people of the ton communicated so often with nothing more than sideways glances, significant looks, and whispers behind fans. It was a world that ran on gossip and intrigue.

“You know, Mama, I think Marc would have loved to have joined us here,” Rosaline mused, thinking of her lifelong friend, Marc, the son of an Italian artist with whom her father had worked many times.

“I have never known Marc to enjoy art,” her mother commented. “Perhaps a life of over-exposure to his father’s work has ruined him.”

It was true, Marc’s father was a much more successful painter in Italy than Rosaline’s father had ever been in England. Perhaps to spite his father and his consistent criticism of Marc’s life, Marc had permanently relocated to England and declared himself finished with Rome. Consequently, he spent a lot of time with the Arnold family. Now, unlike some other fair-weather friends, he had become an even more ardent supporter following the incarceration of her father. He was a true friend.

“No, but you know he would revel in the intrigue,” Rosaline whispered. Marc had taken a job working at the local newspaper preferred by the ton, working in the gossip and scandal section. It suited him well. The only benefit, he always said, to living inside the art world for so long with his father was the plethora of delicious titbits about Society he gleaned whenever the painters gossiped together. He and his father had not spoken since Marc took on work at the newspaper, but where other Society folk might judge Marc for his profession, Rosaline would never dare. After all, she thought darkly for a moment, am I not benefiting from his profession too?

“Oh, yes!” Her mother laughed, throwing back her head. “My, how Marc has a talent for always knowing exactly what is going on, everywhere!”

“Helena? Helena Arnold, is that you?”

Both Rosaline and her mother turned towards the voice. Rosaline felt her mother’s hand tighten on her arm in fear. Rosaline knew her mother had been most dismayed by the prospect that someone might recognize her from her younger days and bring up her elopement. However, as soon as they looked into the face of the smiling woman in front of them, Rosaline felt her mother relax.

“Your Grace, how wonderful to see you,” Rosaline’s mother said, relief in her voice as she dropped into a curtsey. “Your Grace, might I introduce my daughter, Rosaline? Rosaline, this is the Duchess of Sinclair.”

“Lovely to meet you, Your Grace,” Rosaline said, copying her mother’s respectful curtsey before the beautiful older woman. Rosaline knew her mother had kept one friend from her younger days, the only friend who still kept up correspondence with her and had never judged her. But Rosaline had never imagined that such a friend would be none other than the Duchess of Sinclair, the most fashionable duchess of the ton!

“Now, none of that,” the duchess said firmly, reaching out to take hold of her mother’s hands. “You must call me Frances, if I may still call you Helena?”

“Of course,” her mother said, smiling broadly with slightly wet eyes.

“As for you, you beautiful child,” the duchess said, reaching out to take Rosaline’s hand, “you may call me Frances also. I have known your mother such a long time.”

“Thank you, Your Grace . . . Frances,” Rosaline said, feeling humbled but also a little anxious. For her plan to work, she needed to blend in and be as inconspicuous as possible. That was hardly a possibility with the Duchess of Sinclair around. She was known for her excellent sense of style, her talent for rooting out gossip, and her knowledge of everything to do with the ton. Rosaline thought it best to distance herself a little from her mother and the gracious duchess, and so she carefully attempted to move away. She gazed at a painting with feigned interest, hoping to hear some whispers about the gentleman who was the real focus of her attention, the only reason she had come at all to the event. Then, as she gazed at a portrait of a stern-faced admiral, she heard none other than the Duchess of Sinclair mention his name.

“Mrs. Arnold, please meet one of my son-in-law’s closest friends, the Duke of Lennox.”

Rosaline whirled around, unable to stop staring at the man who, at that moment, was bowing so formally and respectfully to her own mother. The Duke of Lennox. The very man she had come to the gallery to find, whose footsteps she had been haunting for days now but had never seen face to face, being always hidden around corners and away from prying eyes. And yet here he was!

She swallowed hard, feeling terror pooling in her belly. She did not know whether to run and hide or brave it out, but for the plan to work effectively it would be so much safer if she was not known to the Duke of Lennox. Perhaps she should simply duck into another room of the gallery? But, unfortunately, her mother was already looking over in her direction. Rosaline tried not to hold her breath as the faces of her mother, the Duchess of Sinclair, the lovely looking couple whom Rosaline recognized as the Duke of Lennox’s friends, and that of the man himself, turned towards her expectantly.

“Darling do come over here,” her mother called, and Rosaline walked forward reluctantly, her head in a daze as her mother slipped an arm through hers.

“Allow me to make introductions,” the duchess said smoothly. “Miss Rosaline Arnold, please meet my daughter and her husband, Lord Henry Linfield and Lady Matilda Linfield—”

Rosaline curtsied before the tall blond gentleman and his dark-haired, very beautiful wife. Lady Linfield smiled at her courteously, but Rosaline was sure she spied a glimmer of excitement cross the lady’s face as she looked significantly at the Duke of Lennox.

“—and this is a great friend of our family, Owen Barton, the Duke of Lennox.”

He was taller than Rosaline had noticed before, always capturing sight of him at night, from behind or far away. He towered above her. She took in the dark hair that curled close to his head, the strong, masculine jaw, and the rather unhelpfully beautiful pale-blue eyes that reminded her of forget-me-nots and were twinkling with a roguish type of mischief. Rosaline couldn’t help it. She stared into them, feeling tingles run up and down her body. There was no other word for it; he was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Arnold,” the duke said, bowing low.

“And yours, Your Grace,” Rosaline whispered, watching as the duke straightened up. There was a distinctive note of playfulness in his eyes, and she was sure, just for a second, that he had winked at her. Against every part of her mind crying out that she absolutely must feel nothing for this man, Rosaline felt a flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach. Her heart began to race, thumping furiously in her breast. Her hands felt sticky as she was mesmerized by those forget-me-not eyes.

Oh, bother! Rosaline thought to herself. This is going to make everything so much harder.