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Josephine raised a dark eyebrow. “To Lady Scarlett—or should I say, Her Grace? I have enough awareness of my meager capabilities to know that I cannot possibly measure up to such standards.”

Just what the hell does she mean by that?

Hudson frowned darkly. “It would be best if you choose your next words carefully.”

The opera singer simply rolled her eyes at him. “Calm your horses down, Your Grace. I meant no disrespect towards your lady wife. In fact, I only have the utmost respect for her.” Her eyes narrowed as a mischievous smile spread across her face. “It cannot be so easy, being your Duchess.”

Now, she was insulting him? He must have given the woman far too many concessions in the past for her to be this bold.

“Barely a day into your marriage and you are snapping the reins,” she continued, laughter threading through every word. “Perhaps I should bid Her Grace good luck. Not that she would need it. To marry the Wolf himself…” she trailed off, and her smile widened. “She is a far stronger woman than most of us.”

She regarded him with a raised eyebrow as if to inform him that he was Scarlett’s problem now.

Really, he had been far too lenient with this woman for her to be so free with her words.

“Just… stay away from her,” he warned her.

This day was for Scarlett, after all. He did not want it ruined just because she crossed paths with a woman with whom he had been… intimate.

“Of course, Your Grace.” She curtsied, the movement graceful, elegant, yet undeniably seductive. “And if I might be so bold?—”

“You already have been.”

She smiled. “Yes, but allow me to say this—she suits you. I could not have imagined a more perfect match for you. In every way.” She dipped her head. “A most joyful day, Your Grace. To you and your bride.”

It was a most disorienting thing, to receive felicitations on one’s wedding from one’s past lover.

Hudson tipped his head back and downed the rest of his drink. He needed to get himself another glass if he intended to make it to the end of the wedding breakfast.

And then, after that, there would be just the two of them.

Alone.

Scarlett watched the dark-haired woman walk away from Hudson with slightly narrowed eyes. There was nothing inappropriate about their interaction, but the bold familiarity with which the lady regarded her new husband made her insides squirm most uncomfortably.

“You know who she is?”

She turned slightly to Phoebe, who was looking at the woman with open curiosity.

Scarlett smiled coldly. Who did not know who she was?

“I am not so uncultured that I would fail to recognize Miss Josephine Lambert,” she replied softly.

“Yes,” Phoebe said. “But do you know who she is to him?”

Of course, Scarlett knew. In fact, the whole of London knew that the most famous opera singer of that age frequently warmed the Duke of Wolverton’s bed. Still, the knowledge did not rid her of her queasiness.

Miss Josephine was beautiful. Hair as dark as a raven’s wing, eyes the color of emeralds, and curves that would tempt even a monk to sin. She had a graceful gait, yet the sway of her hips whispered of seduction. When she smiled, her lips curled in mischief and playfulness and forbidden promise.

Hudson had excellent taste in paramours—and she told Phoebe precisely that.

Her friend paled slightly. “And you are certain you are…?”

“Perfectly fine,” Scarlett replied quickly, adding a smile to reassure her. “He is kind enough not to press me for his husbandly rights. I suppose I should be considerate enough to allow him to seek comfort elsewhere.”

“Considerate?” Phoebe’s voice rose along with her eyebrows. She shook her head. “I could never be as calm as you are. Why, when Ethan absconded to that townhouse of his early in our marriage, I was despondent.”

Scarlett bit back her smile. So despondent her friend was that she managed to pen a wildly popular—and highly scandalous—book that finally brought her wayward husband to heel. Phoebe might be the gentlest of their group, but she was not as helpless as most would perceive her to be.