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Despite his reluctance, he’d rigged himself out in a new suit of evening clothes—on credit, of course—and found his way to Lady Chilcombe’s ball in Grosvenor Square.

It promised to be dazzling, filled with young virgins eager to wear a duchess’s coronet.

Two of them were particularly wealthy, one the daughter of an industrialist, the other the daughter of a colonial planter who’d made a fortune in the sugar trade. All he had to do was pick one.

So, he’d looked at the account books, swallowed his misgivings, and gone. He’d stopped at White’s for some bottled courage, and then moved on to Boodle’s for a bit more. There’d been another stop at a private gentleman’s party, and then his arrival at Lady Chilcombe’s.

And there, he’d been rude. He’d been careless. But mostly he’d been drunk; blind drunk, falling down drunk, passing out drunk. Plus, he’d apparently bashed his head in his meeting with the floor—whilst knocking over a young lady.

This young lady, the one spearing him with her icy glare.

The wits had christened him The Swilling Duke.

When he was finally able to crawl from his bed two days later, the caricature reached him. He’d called for the traveling chaise he’d inherited and the efficient valet, also inherited, and fled London, flat on his back in the conveyance’s rigged up bed and still with a throbbing head.

He’d needed to tour his estates anyway. And in the weeks since the party, he had—every blessed one of them, except for the castle in Scotland and the villa in the south of France.

It was a whirlwind of short visits, mere days to review the books, tour the properties, and meet with the estate managers. Too short to say yes to the invitations to dinners and local assemblies. Not that there were many of those, given the reputation that followed him.

On the second week of his estate tour, after a day spent going over the accounts at Routheston Abbey, he’d got up the nerve to pull out the caricature and study it.

It was a farce in two parts. In the first square, two ladies with shocked expressions looked at a third figure, a grotesque version of himself.

On the left, a dark-haired young lady stood covering her mouth, her eyes wide.

On the right, a blonde-haired young lady held up her hands, warding him off.

In the second square, the grotesque jackanapes was sprawled atop the blonde.

A face like his victim’s had registered somewhere in his boggy brain.

The cartoonist identified her as Miss N.

L., but he couldn’t dredge up an N. L. from the females he’d met in London, and the only blonde baggage he did vaguely remember from that night…

well, she hadn’t been an N. L. Her name had been something like Katie, Tilly, Bessy.

Fetching, well-dressed, pretty, even, and completely available for the right price.

By the time he’d left Routheston, he’d laid hands on a scandal sheet and discovered that Miss N.L was the youngest sister of Lord L from Leicestershire.

The Lord L. who owned this bit of paradise where Simon had found a home.

That same day, he’d posted a letter of apology to Fitzhenry Lovelace, Lord Loughton.

No reply had reached him on his travels, not even a forwarded letter. Fitz, instead, sent an emissary. George Lovelace, one of Fitz’s many younger brothers, and Simon’s best friend from school, arrived unexpectedly at Simon’s last stop, his property near Marston Green.

Nancy brushed her skirts again, and his mouth watered.

The caricaturist had caught the basics—a slim figure, trim ankles, abundant fair hair. There was no look of shock in her eyes now, only the sort of fierce disdain he’d received from a few of the aristocratic officers among the higherups.

The shy little girl had grown into a beautiful woman.

“Miss Nancy,” Simon said, bowing, “it is I, Simon Clayding. Surely you remember me.”

She watched him, unsmiling, and after a long pause, dipped her head and said, “Your grace. Children, make your bow and curtsy to the duke.”

They each sent her a look, eyed him curiously, and did as they were told.

Then nothing.

“I’m here for the Midsummer Night’s party,” he said, filling the silence.

She tilted her head, still observing him.

“George, invited me.”

“Are you a friend of my stepfather, George Lovelace?” the little boy asked. “I am Benjamin Halverton. My brother is the Earl of Glanford.”

“And I am the Honorable Mary Anastasia Lovelace,” the little girl said. “My father is Lord Loughton.”

Simon bowed. “I’m very pleased to meet both of you, and to see you again, Miss Nancy.”

Nancy looked away.

Mary tugged at her skirt. “Why are you angry with him?” she said in a stage whisper.

“Angry with whom?” Nancy sounded bored. She turned away again, shaded her eyes, and a grin lit her face. “Do excuse me.”

Picking up her skirts, she ran, her ankles and legs distracting Simon, until he noticed a male figure hurrying to meet her, his loose neckcloth flapping.

“Excuse us too,” Benjamin said, running off.

“Good day to you, your grace.” Mary wobbled another curtsy and hurried after them.

When Nancy hugged the vagabond fellow, a spurt of jealousy hit Simon so fiercely he would have punched him if he’d been standing with them.

And he just might anyway. He swallowed his pride and his sudden anger and hurried to join the group.