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“Ye don’t,” the Duke of Montgomery told the servant flatly.

The last thing he needed was for all these painted peacocks and their manipulative mothers to realize that an unattached duke had entered the battlefield they called a ballroom. He would get in, find a suitable bride—if such a thing existed among English lasses, of which he had sincere doubts—and get out. Then he’d wed her, bed her, get his heir, and send her back to London if she chose.

Which she probably would.

The servant’s icy composure cracked. “But, my lord—” he protested.

Caleb brushed past him. He was not here for niceties.

Not that his efforts were rewarded. He’d scarcely taken three steps into the crowded room when a woman stopped him. She was a matron of theton, clearly, at least a decade or two Caleb’s senior. This advanced age had not stopped her, however, fromcorseting herself so aggressively that her sizeable bosom swelled alarmingly above the neckline of her gown.

“Doexcuse my forwardness, my lord,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes in time with the rapid movements of her fan. “But I’m certain I’ve not seenyouat such events before, and I attendpositivelyevery party thetonhas to offer.” She extended a hand like she expected him to kiss it. “I am, of course, Lady Arabella-Celestine Heatherington-Smythe.”

Whoever named the woman, Caleb thought grimly, ought to be in gaol. At the very least, they should be stripped of their title and fortune, as a warning against to any future generations of English aristocrats getting ideas.

Caleb was Scottish. He’d been raised with a well-deserved horror of any time the English gotideas.

“Caleb Gulliver,” he grunted, hoping she’d be put off by either his tone, his Scottishness, or his lack of reference to a title.

Instead, her eyes grew wide and her fan fluttering grew even more emphatic.

“The Duke of Montgomery?”she asked, voice pitched high—and loud enough that everyone within ten feet of them snapped around to look.

Saint Margaret’s left hand,Caleb swore inwardly. How did sheknowthat?

Lady Heatherington-Smythe’s announcement had approximately the same effect that Caleb would have expected from dropping a chunk of prime meat into a pack of starving hounds. Only instead of fighting with claws and teeth, this group battled with cutting words and flashing fans.

“Oh, dear me,” said one such doe-eyed lass, gazing sidelong at Caleb. “But I cannot help but have overheard, Lady Heatherington-Smythe. Did you say this was the Duke of Montgomery? I would beeverso honored if you might give me an introduction.”

Lady Heatherington-Smythe scoffed. “He doesn’t want to talk toyouLady Eleanora. You’re old.”

Lady Eleanora’s glance went from simpering to vicious in an instant. “I’m five and twenty,” she countered.

“Precisely,” the older woman said smugly. “Ancient. On the shelf. Shoo, now.”

Christ. Caleb had been inliteral warsless vicious than this.

He might have tried to sidle away from this whole affair while the two women were distracted with sniping at one another, except he was attacked from behind. He looked to find a diminutive, dark-haired beauty blinking up at him innocently.

“I do beg your pardon,” she gasped, a hand flying theatrically to her chest. “That wassoclumsy of me. Do let me apologize…” She tilted her head expectantly, waiting for him to provide his name.

“No need,” he grunted instead.

He practically had to shove people away to get through the crowd. He had to credit these women their bravery if nothing else; he was a big man, unfashionably so, broad and brawny from his time with the army. He was tall, too, topping even the most statuesque of the lasses by six inches or more.

And it was easy to compare, as they all seemed determined to press in on him at once.

Again, Caleb wondered if this was a mistake—not the whole project; that part couldn’t be avoided. But he was a military man. He ought to know better than to talk into an ambush unprepared.

On the far side of the room, Caleb saw a small cluster of men standing together, watching the proceedings with undisguised amusement. Caleb would not have considered himself, generally speaking, the kind of fellow who made friends easily, but for a moment he was seized with a ferventneedto make the acquittances of those men, for the mere fact that they were not likely to flutter their eyelashes at him.

What was it with English lasses and eyelashes?he wondered. They were forever acting like they had a speck of dirt or something stuck in there.

His focus was quickly pulled to the gaggle of women standing adjacent to the men. Three of them had their heads bent together, laughing about something. But the fourth…

The fourth was staring at him with something like triumph in her gaze.

That was odd, but in an interesting way—certainly more interesting than the mob cawing for his attention. He held her gaze for a moment, assessing her, until a tug at his elbow caught his attention.