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The last thing Beatrice could recall was speaking with Sir Reginald…

and now she was blinking up into another man’s handsome face.

Her bleary eyes danced from one feature to the next, darting along the hard line of his jaw to the small cleft in his chin, the sensuous curve of his lips to the shape of his aquiline nose, the bold slashes of his dark blond brows, until finally landing upon eyes greener than the lushest fields in Ireland—not that she’d ever been, but she’d heard tell that those were quite the greenest fields in the world, so the metaphor suited.

The man’s lips moved and it took her a moment to realize he spoke to her.

It took yet another for her to notice that she was most certainly cradled against the hardest body in creation.

Her heart began to pound for an entirely new reason.

“How do you feel?” the man repeated kindly, a pleasing huskiness to his voice like warmed brandy.

The corners of his eyes crinkled and she realized he wasn’t quite as young as she’d first believed…

but he was somehow even more handsome because of it.

Mature. Refined. The glitter in his eyes was knowing instead of merely cocky; the crease between his brows and bracketing his wide mouth spoke of someone who was both thoughtful and grinned easily; the way he held her so steadily was somehow simultaneously comforting and exciting.

“A bit odd, to tell the truth,” she said faintly, her eyes immediately drawn to the way his lips twitched down with concern. “And foolish,” she added, realizing they were not alone. Lady Bart and a footman stood nearby. “Did I faint?” She attempted to sit up, but the man held her fast.

“Do not move too quickly. You were overcome by the heat.” Perhaps she should have minded this stranger holding her captive, but it was difficult when he smelled so pleasantly of juniper and cedar and made her feel so safe.

She peered around their hostess’s skirts and noticed the crowd subtly attempting to peer out onto the veranda.

Her mother was going to slaughter her for creating such a scene.

This time, Beatrice struggled to her feet in earnest, pressing a hand to the center of the man’s solid chest to hold him at bay.

“I assure you I am much improved. Thank you.” He stood as she spoke and kept a hand so near to the low of her back that she could feel the heat of it through the layers of her gown.

“His Grace was quick enough to catch you before you hit the ground,” said Lady Bart as she fluttered around her.

Beatrice’s savior stepped a respectable distance away. She nearly shivered at the loss of his body’s strength surrounding her, which was utterly absurd because hadn’t she just lamented the heat of the ballroom?

In her heart, she knew this was a different kind of heat.

Her sluggish mind snagged on their hostess’s words. “His Grace?” Her eyes flew to his distinguished features wrought, she now knew, from generations of aristocratic breeding.

A sardonic smile twisted his beautiful mouth. “The Duke of Foxton, at your service.”

She hadn’t recognized his face up close, but taking him in as a whole, he lived up to his reputation.

Sinfully handsome, rakishly charming…but, perhaps the most dangerous thing about him was how he cared for her.

His reputation preceded him, as did the warnings her mother had poured into her ears from the time she’d begun to prepare for her debut.

Words like “dangerous”, “silver-tongued”, and “rogue” danced through her mind like a script.

This was not a man with whom a young girl trifled; nor was he known to waste his time on debutantes.

So why did he seem so earnestly interested in her? And had he truly called her darling ?

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said suddenly as her years of training took over. She attempted to dip into a curtsey, but his large, warm hand held her elbow to prevent it.

“You just recovered from a faint. There is no need to tempt fate with all this unnecessary bobbing and curtseying.”

“But—”

“Despite what your mama may have told you, concessions to propriety can be made when needs arise.” As if catching himself, he abruptly removed his hand from her arm.

Did he feel the inexplicable static shock of the loss as keenly as she?

The subtle darkening of his eyes told her he may just have.

She opened her mouth to speak again when she was interrupted by a commotion at the door to the ballroom.

“Beatrice!” came her mother’s shrill voice, causing her shoulders to rise to her ears in a flinch. “Beatrice, are you well?”

She was immediately subjected to a smothering embrace and frantic searching hands. The effect was dimmed when she felt the duke’s eyes watching the interaction, as tangible as his body had been against hers only moments earlier.

“Did you strike your head? No? Aunt Mary should have been keeping better watch over you. I heard a girl had fainted, but I didn’t know it was you until I returned to the ballroom. It took me an age to fight my way through that crush in there.”

“I am well,” she replied stiffly. “His Grace caught me after I overheated.”

Her mother reared back as she took notice of the duke.

“O—Oh! I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she stammered, dipping into a very quick curtsey just this side of sufficient.

Beatrice raised a brow, knowing her mother would have reprimanded her for executing such a gesture toward a duke.

“Thank you for taking care of my daughter.” Her mother’s hand closed around her upper arm and none-too-subtly tugged her away from the duke’s side.

Beatrice flushed with embarrassment when she noticed his intelligent eyes latch onto the motion.

“I should bring her home.” As if the man had something catching, Beatrice was already being ushered away from him before the conclusion of the sentence

“I should like to call upon Miss Beatrice tomorrow,” he said, and the cool words nearly caused her mother to trip over her own feet.

“That is quite unnecessary!” the viscountess squealed, making Beatrice cringe. “You have already done enough.”

“I insist.” The finality of his tone was like a boulder dropping into a lake. She watched with a little thrill as her mother’s lips snapped shut like a fish’s. The older woman issued a curt nod and—her fingers like a manacle around Beatrice’s wrist—dragged her away.

Beatrice couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder at the duke who had saved her, and her heart skipped several beats at the simmering heat in his gaze.