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T he next day Robert waited for the rumors to circulate, so convinced was he that Lannister would not be able to keep his mouth shut.

The question was, had Lannister recognized Miss Watson as he had himself?

If not, the story was probably not worth much.

Catching the duke in a mask with an unknown damsel at Vauxhall might cause a minor ripple, it was after all out of character, but if the identity of the damsel became known.

.. Therein lay the main issue, for it would ruin Sarah’s reputation instantly.

However, two days later there was not so much as a murmur as far as he could tell, and he had Ravenshaw, Ashford, and Caro all keeping an ear out.

Nothing. And nothing in the gossip columns of the papers, either.

No veiled hints of the activities of a certain duke with a Miss W or anything of that nature.

So, he must conclude that Lannister was choosing to remain mum.

But why? What could he stand to gain by not spreading such a provocative rumor?

The man lived for the salacious tales and delicious gossip that greased the wheels of his precarious career.

It made no sense. Robert could only conclude that he hadn’t recognized Sarah and saw no point in antagonizing the duke over a minor indiscretion.

Lannister’s peculiar behavior notwithstanding, the results of the night at Vauxhall were mixed at best. He had achieved his aim of testing the physical attraction he felt for Miss Watson and established that he did indeed find her alluring, damn near irresistible in fact.

But her flight from him argued that she didn’t feel the same.

If she hadn’t run into Lannister, he might have been able to salvage something from the evening, but as it was, the encounter had ruined all the ground he thought he had gained with her, and he was back at the starting line again.

Never had a knight struggled so much to win the hand of a fair lady, he thought gloomily.

Buttonholing Ashford at the club over a late breakfast, he gave him a summary of the situation and said, “What do I do now?”

“What makes you think I can advise you?” Ashford cocked an eyebrow at him as he cut into his eggs.

“You’re married—how did you persuade Caro to marry you?”

“We were in love; she didn’t need persuading.”

“So how did you make her fall in love with you?”

“I didn’t make her do anything. She just did.”

The duke sighed with frustration and sipped his ale.

“It ever occur to you, old chap, that you might be coming at this all wrong?” asked the viscount.

“Well, I’m certainly doing something wrong, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Tried talking to her?”

“What do you mean? Of course I’ve talked to her.” Confused, Robert stopped with the forkful of ham halfway to his mouth.

“No, I mean really talked to her—about the things that matter. Your dreams and aspirations. Have you tried to find out what she wants? What she is interested in?”

“Oh.” Robert frowned, chewing that over with the ham.

Ashford shoveled in some sausage and egg and watched him thoughtfully. When he’d swallowed his mouthful he said, “She’s an interesting young woman. Have you talked to her about her family?”

“Not a great deal, no,” Robert admitted.

“She’s the eldest of eight. That ought to be something you have in common, eldest children and all that.”

Robert nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. I’ve not been thinking enough about her, have I? I mean, I’ve done nothing but think about her, but not in the way you mean—from her perspective.”

Ashford nodded. “Try to get off your high horse. Stop being a duke.”

“I told you—”

“Yes, and I told you—be Robert, not Troubridge, when you talk to her. She’ll be marrying you , not your bloody title.”

Robert swallowed. That was the trouble, wasn’t it?

This was to be a marriage of convenience; it was his bloody title he was offering.

Yet he desperately wanted to make it something else.

But could he? Did she want that? He had to admit to himself that he hadn’t a clue.

He didn’t know what she wanted, and he didn’t know how to ask.

But I’ll bloody well have to learn, won’t I? If I want a hope in hell of persuading her to view this as something more than a business transaction.

“I’ll take her for a drive in the park, talk to her. You’re right, I’m an idiot.”

“No just a duke,” said Ashford with a smile. “You’re not so bad when you forget your dignity.”

*

Sarah had spent two days in a quake, waiting to be branded a harlot and chastising herself roundly for her behavior.

She had not confided what had happened to Daphne, who seemed rather more taken with Ravenshaw than a respectable widow ought to be.

Particularly remarkable considering the marquess was ten years her junior.

When the duke called late in the afternoon on the third day to take her driving in the park, she was in two minds about refusing, but Daphne didn’t give her a chance, accepting on her behalf and chasing her away to get her cloak, for there was a breeze out, and “It would not do for you to take a chill, my dear.”

Returning back downstairs in her cloak and bonnet, she let the duke help her step up into his high perch phaeton, and when she was settled with a rug tucked round her legs he leaped up into the driver’s seat, gave his groom the office to let go the horses’ heads, and they were off.

The pair he was driving were elegant greys, and he explained he had another pair for longer trips where four horses were required.

“I trust you have recovered from the other night?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes, I should thank you because I am sure it was your idea, wasn’t it, not Lady Ashford’s?”

“It was,” he admitted.

“The fireworks were spectacular.”

“Even though your peace had been cut by what occurred earlier?”

She looked up at him, startled that he would so bluntly refer to what she had hoped to forget.

“Yes, I can only apologize for my silliness.”

“Please don’t, the fault was mine. We seem to have come off clean, however. Lannister must have taken my warning seriously.” He looked a trifle grim at that.

“All the same, I should not have let you take me into that temple.” She worried at her reticule, still uncomfortable with her own behavior. It must have been the champagne and the masks.

“Perhaps not, but in spite of everything, I cannot regret it.”

Her heart skipped at the implications of that.

“You have mentioned to me that you are the eldest of eight. Would you care to tell me about your siblings?”

His abrupt change of subject took her further by surprise. “Why?”

“Is it such a stretch to believe I might be interested?” he asked, negotiating round a parked carriage.

She smiled thoughtfully. “No, I suppose not. You know, Your Grace, you are constantly surprising me. I’m not sure that I know you at all.”

“I’d like to remedy that, and get to know you better, too,” he responded. “Do you think we might start over?”

“And contrive not to insult each other?” she asked with a rueful smile.

“Something like that,” he said, turning into Hyde Park.

“I don’t know that I can,” she said. “My tongue is disastrously blunt.”

“Yes, I was warned about that. Perhaps I shall have to grow a thicker skin if I wish to pursue your society?”

Suddenly she was breathless and blushing. Can I trust a word he says, or is it all my fortune? She had fancied for a few giddy moments the other night that he was interested in more than her inheritance. But would he be so persistent as this if she weren’t wealthy? She knew the answer to that.

“What have I said to put you out of countenance?” he asked, easing his team to a gentle walk.

What could she possibly say that wouldn’t make her sound like an idiot?

She couldn’t admit that the mere notion that he might want her for more than her money reduced her to a puddle of longing.

I’m not even sure that I like him, yet I am prepared to let him drag me into temples and kiss me. More than prepared—I wanted him to.

If she reviewed her suitors objectively, she liked Lannister more than the duke, and while Lannister flustered her a little, he didn’t turn her inside out like the duke did.

“Who has been mortifying my character?” she asked after a moment, deciding attack was the best form of defense.

“Lady Sefton said you have a reputation for being direct.”

She lifted her chin. “I suppose that is accurate. Mama is of a softer disposition; the children would run roughshod over her if I didn’t intervene. Especially the boys. They all mind Papa of course.”

“Your father is a strict disciplinarian?”

“No, not in the least. But he has high moral standards, and we have all been taught to value them. Papa places much more value on character, integrity, and hard work than on wealth, titles, or privilege.”

“And he has taught you to value those things,” he said quietly.

“Yes, he has.” She looked down at her gloved hands clasped in her lap, her throat tight. She missed Papa’s guidance and quiet common sense.

“Such sentiments do you a great deal of credit, Miss Watson, and I sincerely admire you for them. As a person of privilege, it is perilously easy to lose sight of what is truly important. Yet I have often wished my title and its obligations and privileges to the devil, for I know it separates me from much of what is of true value in life.”

“That is an easy thing to do from your position, Your Grace.”

“I know. It is a fantasy, no more. Take away my privileges and I would soon sing a different tune.”

“You have probably not seen a great deal of what is like to live in a state of privation, have you?”

“I have not. Have you?”