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S imon eyed the group of early arrivals seated around the table for luncheon.

Miss Marietta Hazelton and her elderly chaperone had arrived around noon, as had Cassandra’s husband, Saulsfield.

Sir Percy Nacton had also appeared early, though he was a near enough neighbor that he wasn’t spending the night. He might have waited to impose himself on the company.

A cold collation had been laid for luncheon, the servants being busy elsewhere preparing for the evening’s events. Nancy and her brother James were missing, as were the younger children, who must be taking their meal in the nursery.

Lucky children. Simon would have appreciated being elsewhere, or at least having the nursery brigade’s antics distracting the cloying Miss Hazelton.

As the meal ended, Cassandra announced a short meeting about the evening’s festivities. She fussed about the absence of Nancy and James until Fitz told her to pack it in and get on with what she really wanted to say.

While Cassandra assigned roles—they would merely present a Midsummer Night’s Dream tableau for the rest of the guests at the midnight unmasking, not act out the entire play, there being no time for rehearsals—Miss Hazelton sent Simon coy looks from the seat she’d taken next to him.

Dark-haired and blue-eyed, she was a tolerable looking girl with good teeth and a fine bosom on display.

He didn’t truly remember her, but apparently, he’d danced with her twice at Lady Chilcombe’s ball before passing out while leading her into supper.

“Sir Percy,” Cassandra said, “you’re to be Demetrius.”

Miss Hazelton reached for her teacup and brushed Simon’s hand with a twittering laugh of faux embarrassment.

Ignoring her, he bit back a smile, reminded of last night’s wine spilling. Where was that challenging minx?

“And Miss Hazelton, you’ll be Helena. Your grace will take the role of Lysander, and Nancy will be Hermia, if I can find her.”

Miss Hazelton exclaimed that she’d be willing to take Hermia’s role. But with a smile directed at Simon, Fitz’s mother, Lady Neda Loughton, said amiably that there was no need, as Nancy knew the plans for the party and her role, and was busy in the garden where servants were setting up.

Simon eyed the doorway wondering how quickly he could escape. Dukes were expected to be polite, yet they were also free to be rude, weren’t they?

A flash of white skirts and blonde hair moved past the door clutching a basket, and he resolved to do just what he wished.

“Do excuse me.” He rose from the table, determined to shake himself free of the heiress’s attentions. “I must go and find my partner for the evening.”

“I’ll come along,” Percy called from his end of the table.

“No, you will not,” Simon said.

“You must all stay,” Cassandra called.

Simon had already reached the door and he continued out of it, ignoring the clamor.

Sometimes it was good to be a duke.

The figure in white slipped through a baize door at the end of the passage. He hurried to catch up.

N ancy heard the door close softly behind her, then heard it open again, the footsteps growing louder. She hastily rearranged the cloth covering her basket and quickened her steps.

There was much to do, and she’d spent an inordinate amount of time getting to the folly and back.

“Nancy.”

Her heart stuttered, recognizing the voice. The Swilling Duke touched her elbow.

She stayed perfectly still then made the tiniest of curtsies to the empty space next to him.

“A moment of your time,” he said smoothly.

He wouldn’t be nervous of course. Not like her. Of course not, the arrogant toad. A touch, a command in that rich baritone voice, and one must fall at his feet and obey.

She mustered her anger and courage. “What is it?

“Will you not look at me?”

When she locked in her heels, he moved in front of her, presenting her with an eyeful of the white linen of his neckcloth. The touch of his hand cradling her jaw sent a wild flurry of heat through her. When she lifted her gaze, she found him studying her, his emotions—if he had any—veiled.

Anger pounded through her. Of course, he had no emotions. All those years, she’d remembered Simon as a kind young man, but in truth, he was heartless.

She must answer in kind.

“I’m busy,” she said, infusing her tone with boredom.

He blinked as if coming out of a trance.

“Of course—the party. To be expected.”

So condescending of you.

“However…” his thumb moved a fraction and her nerves leaped. “Cassandra was looking for you. You’re to play Hermia to my Lysander. She’s going over the plan for the evening’s tableau.”

A tableau ? Cassandra was relishing her power. She’d always been jealous of Nancy’s abilities to organize a family dramatic presentation. Well, so be it.

“To take place just before the unmasking, she said.”

By then, Nancy would have made her escape to the folly where her valise was waiting. “And?”

He blinked again, and she caught a twinkle of humor. She shifted her basket and lifted his hand away, but he quickly twisted his wrist and captured her hand in a warm, dry grasp that had butterflies chasing up her arm, across her shoulders, and down her spine.

“Please,” he said. “Just listen. I’m sorry. I apologize for my atrocious behavior at Lady Chilcombe’s ball. It was abominable of me to… to insult you that way. Will you forgive me?”

Eyes still twinkling, he’d stumbled over his abominableness.

Not because he thought what he did was so terrible, but because Nancy was too insignificant, too unimportant for him to have remembered the details.

And because anyway, he was a duke and nothing he did was so awful that it couldn’t be forgiven.

“In what way did you insult me?” she asked.

The twinkle disappeared and he transformed into a naughty schoolboy caught out in mischief. “I’m told that I cast up my accounts, ruining your gown, and then I knocked you down and fell on you when I, er, collapsed.”

“You remember nothing else?”

He frowned and squeezed his eyes shut a moment. Seeking her sympathy, probably, poor confused duke .

“Will you not tell me? I was so thoroughly foxed that the night is a blur.”

“Thoroughly foxed, yet you managed to dance several dances.”

His eyes lit. “Was that it? I didn’t ask you to dance?” He squeezed her hand. “I’ll make it up to you tonight. We’ll dance every dance together, if you wish.”

She scoffed. To dance every dance together would be a declaration of pending nuptials, and he would know that.

Though if it was James who partnered him through the evening, and then was revealed at the unmasking, how could anyone expect her and Simon to marry?

No… no. She would not dance with Simon, nor would James in his Hermia disguise. Simon didn’t deserve the courtesy.

“Please forgive me, Nancy.”

Though he was clear-eyed today and steadier on his feet, he had the same confident male swagger he’d had the night of the ball. He’d had that swagger all his life, really, as long as she’d known him. What a little fool she’d been to follow him around like a puppy and spin dreams of romance.

Like her brothers, he’d shooed her away and ignored her often enough. That night at Lady Chilcombe’s, she’d been an idiot to think he’d be any different now, that he’d be kind because it was her first ball, and she was nervous. She’d been an idiot to imagine he’d even know who she was.

The memory of that night swept over her, and his face blurred.

That kiss. And then the slap on her bottom. Mother had forced her to leave the retiring room and dance with an old friend of her father’s.

After that, she’d been separated from Mother on the edge of the dance floor when a man bumped into her again. She’d looked up into Simon’s blurry eyes. Though her tongue twisted into angry knots, she finally managed to speak.

“Your grace. You don’t remember me. I’m George’s sister.”

“Still here, little bird? Every Covent Garden dove has a brother named George. Told you, you shouldn’t be here. They’ll toss you out on your shapely arse. You’re a pretty enough baggage, but you’re in my way.” He wagged a finger. “Heiresses waiting for me over there.”

She shook off the nightmarish memory and drew in a tight breath. “You’re a duke. You don’t need my forgiveness.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but she spoke first.

“Nor shall you have it,” she said mustering a calm tone. “Nor will I grant you a dance. Ever.”

His eyes flashed and color rose in his firm jaws and into his cheeks.

She tugged her hand away, jarring her basket, and the cloth slipped, spilling the shriveled roses she’d collected from the folly rose garden.

When she bent to retrieve them, her head bumped something hard.

“ Fustian ,” she said rubbing her forehead. Simon was grinning, his hand at his jaw.

“I’m sorry. Allow me.” He took the basket from her and began scooping flowers into it.

“That was clumsy of me, and I am sorry. Though I’ll probably be concussed again from bonking against your hard head.

And don’t tell me I’m a duke and I don’t need your forgiveness.

Apparently, I’m a gauche, rude, ill-mannered duke, but I’ve known you since you were a brat in the nursery, so I’ll keep asking. ”

She huffed out a breath. “You… you oaf. Give me that.”

“An oaf, am I?”

His amused voice spiked her anger.

“Yes. An arrogant, pompous, spoiled oaf.” She grabbed the basket, pricked her finger on an errant thorn, and winced.

“Serves you right. What are those shriveled flowers for?”

She had wanted to use something else, but James said the dried rose hips would be more effective.

“For the party,” she said. “You’ll see.”

She hurried down the stairs to the kitchens. She had more items to retrieve from the larder and still room.

When she reached the bottom landing, she couldn’t help herself; she glanced back. He was still there, watching her, a thoughtful look on his face.

A short while later, Nancy met James in her room, having sent Meg off to the attics with the younger children to search the trunks for costumes.