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“Y our grace, what do you think of our preparations?” Fitz’s wife, Mel, had appeared at his elbow.

Simon had wandered out to the gardens hoping to find Nancy, guessing that she’d come that way after her visit to the kitchens.

She was nowhere to be seen, but footmen, maids, even grooms, hustled about under the direction of the Loughton Manor butler, setting up tables and chairs and a great canopy.

It looked like a devil of a thing to arrange, definitely the sort of thing one left to a wife. “Impressive. Will it be a large party?”

“Not so large. Two of Fitz’s brothers and two of his sisters and their families aren’t able to attend. But the local gentry will be here with their older sons and daughters. This won’t be a London masquerade.”

“I’ve never attended a London masquerade.” At least not one hosted by polite society. In his much younger days, when he was in England between military assignments, he’d gone with a friend to a party hosted by the demimonde.

“No?” She laughed. “Not a ton one, you mean. Fitz told me about the other sort.”

He looked at her, and his astonishment must have shown on his face.

“You and I have met before, your grace, though I’m sure you don’t remember, at the winter camp in Frenada. My father was Major Parker.”

He’d spent much of that winter chasing a local girl with hair and eyes as dark as this Lady Loughton’s.

“Of course, you wouldn’t remember,” she said. “My mother and I returned to England soon after.”

“You didn’t follow the drum after that?”

“Oh yes. Before and after, when my mother was… You may have heard of my mother, Lady Starling.”

“Ah.” What was one to say? Lady Starling had provided a great deal of fodder for the gossips and the scandal sheets.

“Now,” she took his arm, “I’ve heard that Miss Hazelton is looking for you. I can help you seek her out, or I can take you to Fitz’s study where he’s hiding from Cassandra.”

“I was hoping to find Nancy. We had a bit of a…” Not a row. It hadn’t come to that. “I bumped into her, and we, er, had words.”

She eyed him speculatively. “Do you know, of all of Fitz’s siblings, Nancy is the very dearest to me. I haven’t seen her all morning.”

Nancy certainly was dear if the lady was granting her a dowry from her sizeable fortune. But there’d been a hint of a warning in that tone.

“Then, by all means, I’ll take refuge in Fitz’s study, if you please.”

M el left him at the study door. It was George he found behind the desk working, while Fitz lounged in another chair. Simon had just seated himself when the dowager Lady Loughton arrived.

It was hard to believe the petite, still-attractive lady had borne such tall strapping sons, or indeed, so many healthy children. She’d raised, and was still raising, four daughters and six sons, yet there was nothing careworn about her.

“Mama,” George said, and all three men stood. “How go the plans for the party?”

“A bit chaotic at present, but all shall go well, and Cassandra shall have a triumph.” Her lips quirked. “Perhaps the next big event she’ll want to host at her own estate. Now, before you take your seat again, your grace, I’d like a few moments of your time.”

Her expression was unreadable.

George and Fitz shared amused glances.

He recalled in his many school holiday visits to Loughton Manor that he’d never heard Lady Loughton raise her voice, unlike his own mother, who’d alternated between screaming and hysterical tears to get her way.

Lady Loughton had been at Lady Chilcombe’s ball. She’d witnessed his reprehensible conduct. He was in for her quiet kind of discipline.

He, a grown man, a full foot taller, and more importantly a duke.

“Yes, of course, my lady.”

S imon followed Lady Neda Loughton into her private sitting room and took the chair she directed him to.

Back straight, hands folded in her lap, she began whatever sort of discussion this was to be. “I recall fondly your visits here when you were younger, your grace.”

“Will you not call me Simon?”

She shook her head. “We must get used to your new life. It’s a grand title you’ve inherited, and a particular sort of life you’ll be expected to lead. Great responsibilities to the Crown and those who depend upon you.”

He nodded. “I confess, despite my initial elation, it has weighed on me.”

“I’m happy to hear you’re taking your new role seriously. Now, I must ask you, what are your intentions toward my Nancy?”

Ah. It was to be that sort of a talk.

His future flashed before him: estates to manage, necessary entertainments to arrange, speeches and votes in Lords.

Visiting his estates had been damned lonely, each line of the ledgers hammering him more into a future he’d never imagined—never truly hankered after.

It wouldn’t be the sort of future he’d dreamed of—a settled home like Loughton Manor, a sprawling family like the Lovelaces had.

Nor would it be the sort of life he’d expected: a career in the army, traveling the world, ending his days in some far-flung battle, or if he was lucky, coming back to England and retiring.

He’d thought that, perhaps, when he was too old to gad about bedding widows, he’d find some comfortable lady to marry.

Now, he’d need a son by a wife . Society expected her to be well-bred. His estates needed someone wealthy.

He’d tossed and turned all night after his conversation with George and Fitz, seeing the future as more than just a vague dreaded outline of bedding a wife until he had an heir and a spare, and then going their separate ways.

He’d thought of Nancy; Nancy managing dinners and parties; Nancy organizing the servants at all their estates; Nancy, chasing away the loneliness of country evenings.

Nancy in his bed, her golden hair spilling across the pillows, her curves filling his hands.

He shook himself out of his woolgathering to find Lady Loughton watching him.

Nancy must have learned much from the lady before him who’d been so good to his orphaned self.

She and Nancy were, he suspected, much alike in disposition and character—kind, gentle, abiding, and it seemed Nancy had at least some of her mother’s strength.

Depths of stubbornness, George had called it.

He mustered his courage. “I wish to court her. And if she will have me, marry her.”

“Yes. My sons have told me as much.”

He nodded, uncertain what to say. Her tone was kind, her gaze implacable.

“Why, your grace?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“Why Nancy? Because I must say in all honesty, as a duke, you might find a substantial dowry with a lady such as Miss Hazelton, and perhaps she’ll be willing to endure a society marriage where, after the succession is ensured, you both go your separate ways. My daughter deserves better than that.”

He could do nothing about the rush of heat to his cheeks but he held his hands still to keep them from clenching. This was the sort of declaration he’d expect from Fitz or George.

Lady Loughton leaned closer. “The words must be said, your grace. What does a parent want for his or her child’s marriage?

A stable home, a comfortable income, healthy children.

And more. My daughter deserves to be loved.

She deserves to be treated well. It is my wish that she find a husband, a man of honor, who will fulfill both of those requirements, as well as the practical ones.

So,” tilting her head, she studied him. “Tell me why you wish to court her.”

The kindly tone was disarming, and he damped down the urge to squirm. Why hadn’t George and Fitz asked these questions? Why leave it to their mother?

He thought of their humorous glances earlier in the study.

They hadn’t asked because they knew their mother would, and because it was far more daunting speaking with her .

Being a woman, she would think about things like love.

But also being a woman of strong character, she’d care about his character more than his title.

“She’s beautiful,” he said.

And drat, that was the superficiality he ought to avoid. He cleared his throat. “Of course there’s that, but I remember her as a child. She was gentle, and serious, and as I recall, though she’d follow us around, she’d leave when her brothers sent her away.”

Unless Cassandra was leading them into mischief.

“You’re saying she was biddable.”

“Er, I suppose.” Did he want a biddable wife? “George said it was because she, er, had a tendre for me.”

“Biddable,” Lady Loughton, said thoughtfully. “Yes, she was, but not without spirit. And what she felt for you was mere calf love. Did you return her affections?”

He drew in a breath, remembering. He wouldn’t lie to this lady. “Well, I liked her of course, but in truth, I found it a bit annoying.”

She nodded, as if that had been the correct answer.

“What role does her new dowry play in your wooing?”

His breath whooshed. He ought to have expected that question. What to answer?

“No role.” He swiped at his jaw. “No, I suppose that’s not entirely true. I’ve had a tour of the ducal properties, and though I believe I can bring things into order in a few years…” Perhaps twenty or thirty. “An influx of money would help greatly.”

Lady Loughton gazed at the cold fireplace.

“I didn’t agree with Mel increasing Nancy’s dowry.

My dear husband arranged dowries for our four girls.

Not substantial, perhaps, but none of them would go into marriage penniless.

Nancy might have found a clergyman or a member of the local gentry, someone who would appreciate her intelligence and quiet good humor.

She had offers of marriage in the spring, you know, but now, it will be worse.

Every handsome, charming man with pockets to let will flock to her. ”

She gave him a steely eyed look. He’d been called handsome before he was called the Duke of Swillingstone, he’d charmed a few women into his bed, and he’d been more or less pockets to let his whole life.