Page 3

G abriel, the Duke of Nomansland, checked his watch as his carriage came to a stop in front of Abingdon House.

Relieved to see he was on time, he tucked the watch back into his pocket.

He hated to be late, no matter his destination, and an overturned cart had required his coachman to perform some delicate maneuvers to continue on their way.

Thompson, the butler, awaited him at the door to the elegant town house and greeted him with a deferential bow. “Good evening, Your Grace. His Grace is expecting you in his study.”

Nomansland nodded, handing off his hat and gloves. “Thank you, Thompson. I’ll see myself there.”

As he made his way through the familiar hall, his thoughts drifted to the evening ahead. He looked forward to a pleasant supper with his friends and business partners and their wives, perhaps followed by a game of cards and some fine brandy.

Passing the morning room, however, he was brought up short by a feminine voice that drifted through the partially open door.

“But Dinah, I don’t understand. How could anyone possibly bend that way?”

Nomansland froze, recognizing the sweet, lilting tones of Miss Chrissy Westfall, Abingdon’s young sister-in-law. His brow furrowed in confusion at her words.

“Well,” came Dinah’s patient reply, “it does require a fair bit of limberness. But I assure you, it’s quite pleasurable when done correctly.”

Nomansland’s eyes widened in shock. Surely they couldn’t be discussing…

“I see,” Chrissy said, her voice filled with innocent curiosity. “It’s so shocking reading Grandpapa’s description of some of his… er, passions. I didn’t know such things were even possible!”

A low chuckle escaped him before he could stop it.

He quickly stifled the sound, not wishing to alert the ladies to his presence outside the door.

His mind reeled at the unexpected turn of events.

Sweet, naive little Chrissy Westfall, inquiring about bedchamber activities?

The thought sent a jolt of heat through his body.

Shaking his head to clear it of such improper musings, he continued on his way to the study. He couldn’t help the small smile that played about his lips, however. It seemed Miss Westfall was full of surprises.

As he knocked on the study door, he resolved to pay closer attention to the young woman at supper. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as innocent as he’d always assumed.

He entered Abingdon’s study, his mind still picturing Miss Westfall in some of his own preferred positions.

As he settled into an armchair across from his friend, unbidden thoughts were causing him to harden.

He imagined her soft, naked body beneath his, teaching her the very acts she’d been so innocently inquiring about.

“Blast,” Nomansland muttered under his breath, shifting uncomfortably. He couldn’t entertain such notions about Abingdon’s sister-in-law. It was entirely inappropriate, not to mention dangerous territory.

“Is something amiss?” Abingdon asked, raising an eyebrow.

Nomansland cleared his throat. “No, no. Where is Dainsfield? Are he and Milly running late?”

“They won’t be coming. It will just be the four of us.”

He nodded, sitting in the chair opposite his host. “Now, what’s this concern Dinah has about Sutcliffe’s?”

Abingdon leaned forward, his expression grave. “It’s young Allen Penbrook. The fool’s run up debts of over five thousand pounds in the last month alone.”

“Good God,” Nomansland exclaimed. “His father will have his hide.”

“If he finds out. The question is, do we cut him off now or give him a chance to recoup his losses?”

He considered this, absently running a hand through his hair. His business instincts urged caution, but he also remembered his own youthful indiscretions. “Perhaps a warning first? Cut him off if he doesn’t heed it?”

As they debated the merits of each approach, Nomansland found his thoughts continuously straying to Miss Westfall. He wondered what other surprises the seemingly innocent miss might hide beneath her proper exterior.

The butler’s discreet cough interrupted their discussion. “Dinner is served, my lords.”

Nomansland rose, his muscular frame unfolding from the chair. As he followed Abingdon to the dining room, he steeled himself for the encounter ahead, given the visions he’d been enjoying. The moment he entered, his eyes were drawn to Miss Westfall like a moth to a flame.

She sat across from his assigned seat, her golden curls framing a face that seemed to have matured since he’d last seen her. Was that only four or five months ago? Her blue eyes sparkled with an intelligence he hadn’t noticed before, and the gentle curve of her neck drew his gaze lower.

“Good evening, Your Grace. I trust you’re well?” she asked, her voice melodious.

He took his seat. “Quite well, Miss Westfall. And yourself?”

As she answered, he hung on her every word, imagining those lips wrapped around his erection.

He shook himself mentally. What had gotten into him?

This was Miss Westfall, for heaven’s sake—the same girl who’d tripped over her own feet at Abingdon’s wedding.

She was the younger sister, he knew, so probably not older than three-and-twenty, but she had a naivete about her that made her seem younger.

As their eyes met across the table, he felt a spark of attraction. Her cheeks flushed a becoming pink as if she felt it too, and she quickly looked away. He blinked, surprised by the intensity of the moment.

Dinah’s voice drew him back into the conversation happening around him.

“Abingdon insists on serving clear turtle for the opening course, though it’s frightfully out of favor since that incident with Lord Spatterfield’s chef.

” Her eyes twinkled with mischief as she set aside her spoon in favor of her glass.

Abingdon looked up from his methodical dissection of a bread roll. “I maintain that nothing fortifies the nerves for an evening of Polite Society like turtle soup. Particularly when one’s younger sister is about to be unleashed upon said society in a matter of days.”

The comment drew a flush to Miss Westfall’s cheeks.

She reached for her own glass, nearly knocked it over, and then composed herself with a forced laugh.

“I suppose I ought to thank you for your confidence, sir.” Her voice quavered with an odd mixture of dread and delight, the tremor barely perceptible unless, like Nomansland, one watched her as if she were the rarest specimen in the room.

He did. Every line of tension in her neck, the gentle twist she gave to the corner of her linen napkin, was mapped in his mind with the thoroughness of a cartographer. He felt the slow burn of something sweet and deeply protective ignite within his chest.

“Don’t let my husband intimidate you, Chrissy,” Dinah said, but the protest was largely performative.

Her tone suggested nothing on earth delighted her so much as a little intimidation.

“It’s the nature of these things to seem monstrous until the night itself.

Afterward, it will all be anecdotes and handshakes, and you’ll wonder why you ever worried. ”

Miss Westfall sighed. “But will anyone even notice me? What if—what if I fail to make an impression? Or worse, what if I make the wrong sort of impression?”

“I assure you, my dear, you are wholly unforgettable,” Nomansland said, unable to restrain the warmth that crept into his tone. “And as for impressions, I’d wager at least half of Mayfair will be in attendance for the express purpose of being impressed by you.”

Dinah cackled. “Ha! See, Chrissy? Even the duke is reduced to empty flattery in the face of your nervousness.” She reached over and patted her sister’s hand, which was, at present, in the midst of wringing her napkin into a noose.

A liveried servant appeared at Nomansland’s elbow, exchanging the soup course for plates gleaming with a fan of thinly sliced salmon, garnished with sprigs of dill and the daintiest triangles of buttered toast.

Dinah ate a bite before continuing. “I have completed the list for the assembly. There are precisely one hundred and twenty-four names, not counting the necessary additions for chaperones and the handful of country cousins Abingdon insists upon for balance.”

“Who’s on the list?” Miss Westfall asked, eyes wide as she speared a morsel but seemed too nervous to actually eat it.

Dinah clasped her hands. “Let us see. Lady Rivenhurst, naturally, and her dreadful twins. The Duke and Duchess of Carroway. Lord and Lady Pembrooke. The Munsterleys, the Cordings, the entire Scarrington set, though I debated whether to leave out Lady Arabella—her penchant for inappropriate limericks is legendary.”

Nomansland watched with rapt interest as each name landed like a pebble in Miss Westfall’s composure.

With the mention of Lady Rivenhurst, she only nodded.

At “the Munsterleys,” her hand hovered a fraction higher above her plate, and at “Lady Arabella,” she stifled a giggle that sounded more like a hiccup.

“I expect Carroway to be a model of decorum, if only to counteract the duchess’s reputation,” Abingdon mused. He dabbed at his lips and said, “And Lady Rivenhurst’s twins are rumored to have sworn off capers this season. Or so she claims.”

“She claims a great many things,” Dinah replied dryly.

Miss Westfall was quiet for a moment, her gaze fixed on her glass. “It’s so many people,” she said finally. “I feel as if I’ll forget all their names by the end of the first dance.”

Nomansland leaned forward, as if there wasn’t a table between them. “If you forget every one of their names, simply remember you are Miss Westfall, the brightest ornament of the night. No one will mind.”

“But what if?—”

“Then you may rely on me to keep you afloat. I shall be at your side,” he said.