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N ancy smiled sweetly at the man seated to her left, the circumspect, middle-aged Mr. Smith.

The dear man had been inherited by Nancy’s sister-in-law And Fitz’s wife.

Mary Elizabeth, Lady Loughton, known as Mel to the family, had acquired Mr. Smith upon the death of her grandfather, Gregory Sawley, along with the Sawley Bank and a tremendous personal fortune.

Mr. Smith was a safe and pleasant dining companion. Nancy had, so far, completely ignored the man to her right.

The pompous prig.

Seated further down the table, Nancy’s mother, the dowager Lady Loughton, was sending meaningful looks whenever she happened to glance her way. Sooner or later, she would have to allow herself to be spoken to by the Swilling Duke, or God forbid, speak words to him herself.

Mama didn’t agree with holding grudges. Mama thought that problems between two people ought to be discussed and resolved. But there was no “between two people” with her and the Swilling Duke. He’d utterly ruined her first season.

Oh, how she’d looked forward to finally seeing London. She would tolerate the balls, routs and picnics for Mama’s sake, and relish the museums, musicales, shopping and especially the theater.

She’d looked forward to seeing her school friend, Sally Simpkins. But Mama had been so angry about Nancy’s lack of enthusiasm, she’d claimed there’d been some whispering about Sally’s mother, a famous, successful, and generally respectable actress. Mama had absolutely refused any visits with Sally.

Fortunately, she’d run into Sally one day at Hatchard’s. They’d been able to arrange a clandestine correspondence via Nancy’s maid, Meg.

Now, Sally was in Birmingham, where her mother was whiling away the summer at the Theatre Royal, before traveling on to France and Italy for a European tour.

Birmingham was not so far away, and there was even a chance, Sally said, that Nancy might be able to accompany them on their upcoming travels.

Mrs. Simpkins had written to Mama in early June, inviting her and Nancy for a visit.

Mama had written back declining the invitation.

Nancy had begged her to reconsider, but not even Mel had been supportive. And George’s wife, Sophie? She was a female version of practical George.

Running away was the only option—which Nancy knew would not be the act of a dutiful daughter, would probably hurt Mama’s feelings, and would ruin her own reputation.

As if her reputation would matter if she could join the world of the theater.

“I say, your grace,” Cassandra said, “are you looking forward to taking your place on the London stage as the newest young eligible duke?”

Trust her sister, Simon’s loud dining companion on the other side, to find a way to chide Nancy.

Cassandra knew Sally as well. They’d all met at Mrs. Thomas’s school, which was open to respectable girls of all classes.

Cass’s best friend there had been Charlotte Cartwright, whose father was in trade.

Nancy’s best friend had been Sally, who’d been her champion in overcoming her shyness by walking the boards, at least at school and in the Lovelace home theatricals.

Nancy had dreamed of an introduction to the theater world during her season. The prospect of meeting eligible suitors in London had been last on her list, until she’d learned that Simon would be in town.

And look how that had turned out.

A loud laugh came from the juvenile end of the table where her brother James and George’s stepson, Arthur, Earl of Glanford, were regaling the others about their trip to Lancashire and the plans for the railway that would cut through Arthur’s property.

She had wanted to accompany them on that visit and spend time with Sophie, George’s wife and Arthur’s mother.

But Fitz and Mel had needed to travel to London for a meeting of the bank’s board, their nursery maid had been down with a bad summer cold, and Mother had needed Nancy’s help with the children.

She sighed, listening to Mr. Smith’s tale of his visit to the new National Gallery, which she hadn’t had a chance to visit. She had no more than an average interest in art, but she’d love to return to London and see the sights without the social pressure of the Season.

When Jeffrey, their footman, brought around the next course, she caught her mother’s steady gaze. Good manners would require her to turn and speak to the Swilling Duke.

Gritting her teeth, she studied her plate. Despite this being a family dinner, Mama had brought out the best chinaware for her illustrious guest.

Let him make the first move.

“Are you interested in art, Miss Nancy?”

As his deep baritone rolled through her, she sensed , rather than saw him looking at her. Heat crept up her neck. He’d been eavesdropping.

She shrugged. “As one is, your grace.”

The footman filled his wine glass and he sipped. “A good burgundy,” he said, “though I’m no expert on wines.”

“Who counts quality, when one goes for quantity?” she murmured.

A moment she could only describe as stunned silence passed, compelling her to look.

Her throat tightened, her heart thrummed, and she felt the onset of the awkwardness she’d suffered as a child. Simon looked even more polished than he had that afternoon in the open field. He looked like a duke , as if he’d been born to it, which she supposed he had been.

His brown curls—natural, she remembered—lay artlessly at his temples and tickled the top of his elegantly tied neckcloth at the back. His eyes glowed a dark silver as he looked down the high bridge of his nose. Squint lines fanned from the corners of his eyes and an old scar traced one cheek.

She was not attracted to him. She was not, not, not.

She wasn’t a child anymore.

Another loud guffaw resounded. “That’s enough, James,” said her brother Fitz. He had arranged the boys near his place at the head of the table, the better to keep them in line. “Save that rowdiness for the officers’ mess.”

The duke’s lips quirked. “I was surprised this afternoon to see how much James had grown. I remember him toddling around in an infant dress. He’s as tall as you.”

A reminder of her great height .

“Is James going into the army?”

“Yes, your grace.”

He winced. Was he uncomfortable with the title? She’d use it more often then. “Though what they’ll do with such a nodcock, I have no idea. Your grace.”

He sighed. “If he’s a nodcock, he’ll fit right in.”

She bristled at that. If her little brother ever humiliated a girl the way the duke had her, she’d thrash him to within an inch of his life.

“Though we vanquished Napoleon,” he said, “good men are still needed. We’re fighting right now in Burma and Africa. There are always wars.”

A shadow had passed over him, and she remembered he had fought in the Peninsular campaign.

Then, after his last visit nine years ago, he’d gone straight from Loughton Manor to Deal, and from there to Ostend and Brussels.

She’d worried herself sick and waited on pins and needles until the Waterloo casualty lists were posted.

“So, Miss Nancy, tell me about your first season.”

Her heart lurched. He’d been plucking her heart strings, churning up reminders that he’d been a soldier. He’d been at war. The poor, suffering, Swilling Duke.

The ass. The absolute ass .

On the other side of him, Cassandra leaned over her plate and flashed Nancy a warning look.

Cassandra’s season that spring had been great fun for her.

Having met and married a viscount the autumn before—in somewhat scandalous circumstances, though no one would discuss it—Cass had all the freedom of a new bride and none of the nerves of an unsettled girl.

Marriage, though, had made her bossier and more overbearing than ever.

Nancy signaled to Biggs, their butler, who came and filled her wine glass. As she moved to set the glass on the table, an opportune guffaw came from the juvenile section, distracting the diners. She fumbled with the glass, it tipped, and the good vintage spilled all over the Swilling Duke.

“Y ou ought to go and change that coat, Swillingstone.” Fitzhenry Lovelace, Lord Loughton, held out his tumbler for George to refill.

While a servant sponged the coat, Simon made a quick change of shirt, neck cloth, and waist coat, and returned to the table before dessert.

When it was time for the ladies to withdraw, Fitz’s wife suggested that since there were only four gentlemen, Saulsfield not arriving until the morrow, that they might wish to withdraw to the library for their port.

There was no reason to rush; the ladies would not be waiting in the drawing room.

They’d be shuffling the younger members off to bed and otherwise making plans for the party the following night.

Smith had begged off, needing to see to some work, but Simon and his old school friends gathered in front of the hearth in the small masculine room crammed with books.

Simon covered his own glass and shook his head. He’d resolved to stay within limits.

“I only brought one set of evening clothes.” He only owned one set of evening clothes and he hadn’t yet paid off that tailor’s bill, a worry that fitted well with his farmer grandfather’s inclinations.

George took the chair next to his. “Then we’d best tell Mother not to seat you next to Nancy again.

” He laughed. “Did you see Mother’s face?

She’ll no doubt pull James aside—a regular occurrence as many times as he’s been sent down from school.

But his lecture will be shorter tonight, thanks to Nancy and her clumsiness . ”

Clumsiness indeed. Simon had caught the look of satisfaction on her face, and despite a moment’s irritation, he’d almost laughed.

“What did you say to her, your grace?” Fitz asked.

“Spare me the your-gracing, your lordship.” Simon wrinkled his nose, dodging the question. “I don’t know what’s worse: being called Swillingstone or your grace .”

“I suspect Swilling Duke is worse,” George said.