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“N ancy?” He turned away from the window where he’d been gazing out over the side lawns. Still attired in the coats he’d worn earlier, he’d loosened his neckcloth, and his curls were in their usual disarray.

He’d not donned his costume yet. That was good. That was why she was here—not to fetch sheet music, not to meet with him secretly, not to feel goosebumps traveling up and down her back. She was here to play a part, while James put the final touches to Simon’s costume.

She struck a regal pose and looked down her nose at him. “What are you doing here, your grace?”

Eyes sparkling, he moved closer, looking her up and down, hesitating over her bosom. “Is that your costume?” A smile hovered on his lips. “It’s… it’s…”

“Hideous. Feel free to say it.”

“No. Never. Anything you wear is bound to be ravishing.”

What fustian. “Ah, then, you’ll like the wig that goes with this. One could hide a whole family of dormice in it.”

She swept past him bumping him with her pannier. “Beg pardon,” she said, but when she tried to move on, he captured her elbow.

“What are you looking for? Let me fetch it before you knock over the harp with your skirts.”

Grrr. She rarely forgot her lines, but she hadn’t planned an answer to that question.

Improvise . “A reel, and I can’t remember the name, but I’ll know it when I see it.”

“I’ll just grab a stack of music sheets, shall I? Can you sit down in those hoops? Here.” He led her to the pianoforte bench.

“Oh, go away, and I’ll find it myself more quickly.”

He ignored her and she sighed, pacing while he collected music sheets, watching the descent of the late afternoon sun.

Upstairs, James was carrying out the mission in the duke’s bedchamber, while the other boys were fashioning wings for Mary, donkey ears for both Anthony and Edward, and a headpiece with horns for Benjamin.

How much time did James need? There was no clock in the music room, so she strained her ears to hear the mantel clock in the nearby drawing room strike the quarter hour.

“Ah. This one.”

The Swilling Duke returned with one music sheet and handed it to her.

Her breath quickened. Sheep May Safely Graze . “This is not a reel. It’s Bach.”

“No? Sheep may safely graze and pasture, in a watchful shepherd’s sight . It’s the piece I hummed all the way to Brussels. You played it for us when I was here at Easter in 1815. Will you play it again now for me?”

Her heart did a flip, warmth coursing through her. He remembered . He’d hummed it all the way to Brussels .

That Easter, they’d learned that Napoleon had escaped from Elba and was gathering an army to confront his enemies. Men who’d gone home on leave after so many years of fighting were called back. Simon was one of them.

She’d always thought he was the best of her brothers’ friends, but during that visit she’d fallen head over ears in love with him, as only a silly goose would do.

From the day he’d departed, she’d prayed long and hard for his safety.

Oh, how her nerves had trembled reading the casualty lists, until the news finally arrived that he’d survived.

When he’d never returned to Loughton Manor for a visit, she’d tucked away her disappointment and hoped that he’d stay single and wait for her. And then continued to pray for his safety in the many places where he went on to serve.

It hadn’t seemed foolish then. What a widgeon she’d been.

“That piece always reminded me of, well, home. I was impressed at how well you played for one so young. You were… only ten, was it?”

She nodded.

“So will you play it again now? For me?”

Now? “No.” The music might draw in another guest or worse, her mother. “Not now.”

The piece reminded him of home—but what did that mean? Loughton Manor? England? According to George, Simon had passed through England a few times during the last nine years, but he’d never returned to Loughton Manor.

She shook her head, determined she’d not fall for his charms. Oh, his kiss at Lady Chilcombe’s ball had been ravishing, but the callous words, the slap on the bottom…

“Will you play it for the party tonight?”

“Certainly not. I came to f-fetch…” Hades, she’d have to do better than this. She took in a breath. “I only came to fetch some… some country dances.”

“Let’s find some German waltzes as well.” He carried back a stack of music and led her into the drawing room where he took her hand and seated her on a sofa, plopping the music sheets on the low table before them.

He sat down next to her, or rather next to her pannier. She glanced at the clock. The minute hand had barely moved.

“Here,” he said, taking half of the stack and settling it into her lap. His hand lingered on hers for a long moment, stopping her breath, sending her heart racing and her pulse pounding.

“Do you have them?” he asked innocently. “I don’t want them to slide off. I might bump heads with you again.”

The smile that followed was brash, boyish, charming—oh, so much that, and it made her heart tumble.

But she knew it was false. The clever, clever Swilling Duke was simply trying to woo her into forgiving him.

A wave of sadness swept over her. He didn’t truly care for her, not a bit; he only wanted to stay on good terms with his best friend’s family.

A chit he’d called her at Lady Chilcombe’s ball—the least of his insults—and he’d been right about that.

She’d been young and silly to think that he’d have any interest in her for herself.

He’d remembered the Bach piece but so what? It had merely stuck in his mind, a last memory of his friend’s peaceful home, because of the fierce battle at Waterloo that followed.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him pick up the rest of the music sheets and look through them.

“Ah, here’s one,” he said. “Wilson’s Waltz suite.”

She’d watched him dance that waltz with Miss Hazelton at Lady Chilcombe’s ball after her mother had fetched her back from the lady’s retiring room for the third time that night.

“I’ll give it to the musicians. Will you not dance it with me tonight, Nancy?”

“Do you not think, your grace, that Miss Hazelton will want to dance it with you again?”

He blinked.

“No,” he said. “If I’ve ever danced with her, I’ve completely forgotten it. I want to dance it with you.”

How shallow men could be. How little attention they paid to a lady’s feelings.

Not that she felt any bond with Miss Hazelton. They hadn’t become friends.

Surely James had completed his mission by now. She flipped through her stack and found a Playford edition of country dances so old that the pages were slipping out. “These will do.”

She started to stand, but he grabbed her free hand and, wedging himself awkwardly between the table and sofa, went down on one knee.

Heart pounding, she plopped onto the sofa again, hugging the music book one-handed to her heart like a shield.

“Nancy,” he said. “Would you make me the happiest of men. Would you?—”

“Stop.” She hissed, her breath shaky. “Go no further. I know what this is about. Blasted Fitz and blasted George have told you of that blasted dowry.”

“No,” he said. “I mean, yes, but your mother explained?—”

“ My mother ? My mother as well? How could she think…” Tears pricked the corners of her eyes and clogged her throat. Mama was betraying her—she’d not indulge in any more guilty feelings about the valise she’d stowed at the folly or her escape to Birmingham in the morning.

She blinked back the tears. “My mother doesn’t know what you did , what you said . Perhaps no one else saw you or heard you either. But I can’t forget.”

“What, Nancy? What did I do. What did I say?”

She gulped back another rush of moisture. “First… first, in the hallway when you k-kissed me. And then later, on the edge of the dance floor. Simon Clayding, you… you despicable, loathsome, vile reprobate. You… you called me a whore . You may go to the devil. Let me stand.”

His mouth had dropped open. His suave condescension, his facade of charm, vanished, and she saw a world of shame in his eyes.

He didn’t remember?

She’d worried that if he remembered what he’d done, he would boast about it when he was in his cups again, make her even more of a laughingstock. Because what did she really know about the kind of man Simon had grown to be?

She ought to have lashed him with the truth sooner.

“I called you… Oh, Nancy.” He squeezed her hand.

The charming rogue was temporarily silenced. The Swilling Duke had disappeared.

Yet he still gripped her hand and she couldn’t escape, and she desperately needed to before she burst into tears.

“Nancy, I’m so… very sorry.” Then he frowned, and she saw the doubt creeping in. “I’m mortified. I was… I was…”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I do, but?—”

“Hah. Don’t claim drunkenness as your defense, Swilling Duke. You were not that fuddled. You managed to stand up with several ladies. It was not until the supper dance that you were so potted you could no longer stand.”

His brows drew together in a frown. “I… I kissed you?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, shoving down the memory. “Yes. And it was no mere peck on the cheek.”

When she opened her eyes, he’d leaned closer and his gaze had darkened, sending a flood of remembered sensation, the feel of his lips, the press of his big body.

Must. Not. Think. About that .

What came after that passionate embrace was so unforgiveable it ought to have made the kiss seem loathsome. Instead, his scent, his nearness, his sheer masculinity and the memory of his lips pressed to hers, his tongue searching her mouth, were like magnets tugging her closer.

And she must not allow it.

She cleared her throat. “You told me Percy could pay me. Your friend, Sir Percy, I suppose? And then you slapped me on my bottom and told me to get out.”

His thumb swept across the back of her hand, sending an unwelcome shiver through her.

She smacked him on the head with the Playford collection. “Let go of my hand.”

His eyes widened, and she smacked him again. Pages flew everywhere.