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Stephen turned to look at his friend and decipher that weirdly intoned word, only to find Frederick studying him with a knowing smirk.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just good to have you back,” Frederick said earnestly and patted him on the shoulder.

Stephen took his seat at the head of the table and looked upon the lively company. He wouldn’t admit it even under duress, but this was tastefully done. The shade from the ancient oaks made shadows dance across the long table. Draped inlilaclinen that shimmered in the soft breeze, the surface was adorned with polished silver, delicate china, and wildflower arrangements that looked as if they had been plucked straight from a sunlit meadow.

She was right. The wildflowers do look better.

His eyes drifted to Victoria. Seated between Annabelle and Penelope, the other member of their unbreakable trio, she looked radiant. There was grace in the way she sat, but not that poised, reserved one that most gently bred ladies had. No. She was fire even in this idyllic setting, her laughter too bright, her gestures too unrestrained. Too real.

And at the slightest breeze, one stray curl bounced on her neck. Stephen stiffened, his hand going to the hairpin in the pocket of his waistcoat.

Stop this!

He decided to stay focused on his mission. Once Victoria was married, those unwelcome thoughts would be gone along with her. So, he decided to focus on the pool of possible suitors among his guests.

The Duke and Duchess of Huntington, Victoria’s invites brought two of their family members that Stephen didn’t know. His mother had invited her neighborhood friends, the same ones who had turned his house into an illegal gambling hall, and in turn, they had brought their unmarried sons.

Lady Weatherby, the smoking pianist, had brought both of her unmarried sons. Reginald was famously good-looking and, with his military bearing and proper demeanor, was perhaps on the top of Stephen’s list. But his conversation skills were limited to hunting and horses, and Victoria would yawn within minutes.

Theodore was the scholar, his nose always buried in books. Seeing how Victoria practically lives in the library, he might have a chance. Though Stephen was almost guilty of even thinking of unleashing Victoria on the timid man. As for Edward, Lady Hardwick’s son, he was dull as dishwater but financially secure.

“You can’t possibly mean that, Miss Victoria,” a voice said over the clutter and chatter.

And then there’s that damned Blackwell.

Stephen’s fingers tightened around his knife, which he was seriously thinking of using for more malicious intent than cutting his meat. Of all the gentlemen of the ton, Edwin Murden, the Duke of Blackwell, was the last one he would invite. But he was Frederick’s friend, and good manners dictated that he treated him as an esteemed guest. Bad manners were taking a very different approach.

“I never say things I do not mean, Your Grace,” Victoria said.

“How refreshing, Miss Victoria,” Blackwell purred.

Stephen’s good manners were to be tested, especially if Blackwell kept looking at Victoria with that wolfish smile and practiced charm.

The infamous Duke of Blackwell was everything Stephen despised in a titled man. Extravagant where he should be restrained, reckless where he should be measured, and worst of all, irresistible where he should be forgettable.

“Mathematics!” Blackwell exclaimed. “Surely, a lady of your spirit must pursue more… stimulating pursuits.”

Stephen’s jaw tightened so much that he was sure his teeth would crack.

“Perhaps you should try immersing yourself.” Victoria smiled that fake smile of hers. “It might help you lose less in faro.”

Blackwell’s polished smirk widened as he swirled his wine. His look was predatory, the same one a wolf might have while assessing its prey. Stephen didn’t need to have deduction skills to read what was going through the man’s mind. He was doing a lousy job of veiling it.

“Are you offering to tutor me, Miss Victoria?”

Oh, hell no.

Stephen set down his knife with deliberate care, the clinking of silver against china cutting through the conversation.

“I commend your self-awareness, Blackwell.” His voice was a blade wrapped in silk. “Recognizing one’s deficiencies is the first step toward improvement.”

A beat of silence. The two men looked at each other.

“You must try the syllabub.” Dorothy’s voice cut through the heavy silence. “Our cook insists that his is the best in London.”

The guests got up to go to the dessert tent, which was set near the dining table. Blackwell nodded with a polite, mocking smile at Stephen and got up to accompany Dorothy to the tent. Stephen answered with a cold nod.