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She might be quite pretty, but it was hard to tell because she had her head bent over a book and a pair of spectacles on her nose. Maria coughed and the young lady started, dropped the book, snatched the spectacles off her nose and blushed furiously, the expression of a startled hare on her face.

“Lady Sefton!” her voice was soft and slightly husky and sent a shiver through him that went straight to his groin. Promising?

Something vaguely familiar about her teased his memory, but he couldn’t recall actually meeting her. Yet he may very well have done so, as Maria had indicated. But he met hundreds of people a year in his role as a peer and dozens of young ladies. They tended to all blend together after a while.

“Miss Watson, I would like to introduce you to someone who is eager to meet you,” said Maria smoothly, ignoring the book which had fallen at the lady’s feet and was sitting up on its end. He longed to know what it was.

The lady clasped her hands nervously, the spectacles still clutched in her fingers, and dipped a curtsy, her eyes widening at the sight of him. Her high color fled and for a moment he thought she would faint. What is there about my appearance to cause such a violent reaction?

“Miss Sarah Watson, may I present the Duke of Troubridge?”

The lady gulped and dropped a deeper curtsy, her eyes on the floor. “Your Grace.”

He offered her a bow in return. “Miss Watson, I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

This was greeted by silence and the continued view of the top of the lady’s head.

Maria faded away with a mouthed, “Come and find me.” He nodded and turned back to Miss Watson.

He bent and picked up the dropped book and glanced at the spine.

Volume three of Glenarvon, Lady Caro Lambs’ roman-à-clef.

He grinned. So the lady is a bluestocking?

“I believe this is yours?” he said gently, holding it out.

“Yes! Um, thank you.” She took it back and stuffed it and the spectacles in her reticule.

The country dance was finishing up, and he said, “Would you care to dance, Miss Watson?”

“Are you asking me to dance?” came the peculiar reply. Really, is the woman mentally deficient? Surely not. Just shy perhaps? Or overcome by my title? It does do odd things to people.

“Well, yes, it is generally customary,” he said with a slight smile. She glared at him for a moment. At least he thought it was a glare, but then her lids dropped, and he wondered if he had imagined it. She smoothed her hands down over her dress. A nervous gesture?

The lady is an original, I’ll give her that.

*

You didn’t think it was customary two years ago!

fumed Sarah. But she didn’t say it out loud, because she longed to dance with him.

Had longed to do so since the first time she’d clapped eyes on him in her first season.

The Marquess of Thornbury he was then, and the handsomest man in the room.

He was tall but not too tall and was blessed with a fine pair of shoulders and trim waistline.

His handsome features were enhanced with slightly wavy brown hair and devastatingly blue eyes.

And a smile that would melt the coldest of hearts. She had lost hers to him on sight.

She might have gotten over her girlish infatuation, for that was all it was, smitten by a handsome face and elegance of manner, if she hadn’t encountered him on two more occasions where he’d come gallantly to her rescue.

The first time was toward the end of her first season. She was in Hatchards bookshop and trying to reach a book on the top shelf just out of reach. Being so much taller, it was the easiest thing in the world for him to reach it down for her.

“Here, let me,” he’d said, pulling the book off the shelf and offering it to her with a smile and an elegant bow.

Like an idiot, she had blushed and stammered something unintelligible, and he had turned and continued on his way down to the ground floor. By the time she had recovered her countenance, he had left the shop.

The second time was in her second season.

She was just leaving Hyde Park where she had been taking her daily walk with Esme her maid, when she had been caught in a sudden squall of rain.

In moments she was drenched, as the wind turned her umbrella inside out and whipped it out of her hands.

The umbrella, turning end over end, had scooted down the sidewalk away from her, as she had given chase.

Another gust of wind picked it up and, much to her mortification, hit the gentleman in front of her squarely in the back.

He’d turned, and through the drenching rain she recognized him, Thornbury!

Oh, if it had been anyone else. How humiliating!

His great coat flapped in the wind and his hat flew off before he could catch it.

Despite that, he had grabbed her broken umbrella as the wind threatened to whip it away again, just as she reached him full of apologies.

“I’m so sorry! The wind took it out of my hand!” she’d said, breathless. She had blinked up at him through the rain.

“Perfectly all right, ma’am,” he had said politely, straightening it out and shutting it to prevent it flying off again. “Let me hail you a cab!” he’d said over the rush of the wind and rain. In the next moment a cab appeared at the curb, and he handed her up into it with Esme.

“Your direction, ma’am?” he’d asked.

She had given it, and he had paid the jarvey and waved the equipage off, standing in the rain until he was sure they were safely on their way, his coat running with rivulets of water, bareheaded in the downpour, his brown hair plastered to his head.

On neither occasion had he introduced himself or enquired after her name.

And when he had been finally introduced to her formally in this very room in her last season by Countess Lieven, he neither evinced any sign of recognizing her, nor asked her to dance.

And now here he is, promoted to the dukedom and asking me to dance?

Why? Why has he sought me out now? There was only one answer, and it smote her in the chest with an ache that turned her stomach.

Because he knows about my fortune and suddenly that makes me, a mere vicar’s daughter, worthy of his notice.

She had never felt so conflicted in her life.

Part of her wanted to slap his face and storm off, part of her wanted to flee, and a treacherous third part ached to accept his offer.

Just once, to be held in his arms ...

Her desire to fulfil her fantasy won out.

After all, was it not her goal to snare a titled gentleman?

All the same, she could not but be conscious of the disparity in their social standing.

A vicar’s daughter and a duke? Not likely.

She did not harbor any real illusions that the duke had matrimony in mind where she was concerned.

But then what has prompted him to seek me out at all?

It is a mystery, perhaps if I dance with him, I can find out why.

So she dropped another curtsy and said with becoming humility, “Thank you, Your Grace,” and held out a gloved hand.

*

Robert tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her onto the dance floor.

He had been almost certain she was going to refuse him there for a moment.

He had caught a flash in her sherry-brown eyes before she lowered her lashes that slashed him with fury.

Is she angry with me? What have I done? Is she mad? Is that why she is a wallflower?

Taking her hand preparatory to bringing her into his embrace, he said, “Forgive me, Miss Watson, but have I done something to upset you?”

She glanced up at him as a pink stain spread over her face and his memory kicked him.

“We’ve met before!” he blurted with less than his usual sangfroid.

“We have,” she admitted.

“I apologize for not recalling the event,” he said, flushing faintly. He prided himself on his good manners, and clearly, he had been remiss here. Try as he might, he couldn’t recall the exact circumstances of their meeting, but that blush tickled his memory.

“Several times, actually,” she said. Damn, why couldn’t he remember her? She was pretty enough. But then a vicar’s daughter would be beneath his notice in normal circumstances, wouldn’t she?

“Then I do most deeply apologize,” he said, bowing to her as she curtsied to him.

He slipped an arm round her waist and drew her into his embrace.

A waft of rose water and lavender enveloped his senses as he brought her closer to his body and an unexpected rush of heat threw him off balance. That was a surprise!

She had a deliciously trim figure that fit neatly in his arms. Her head reached his chin... which is a nice height for kissing... Good God, where did that come from?

Although, it had been months since he had been with a woman.

Knowing he was going to have to seek a wife this season, he had broken off his arrangement with his long-time mistress before Christmas.

He might not be able to make the kind of love match he had been hoping for, but he intended to make every effort toward that endeavor; keeping a mistress in those circumstances he felt would be unfair to both ladies.

Consequently, his natural needs were beginning to make themselves felt.

It must be that circumstance that has prompted me to think such things so precipitously.

He led off and she followed with ease, her eyes fixed resolutely on his cravat.