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“L adies hearts are aflutter. The Duke of Harle needs a wife.”

Erasmus Oliver Arthur Stace—Ras to his friends—shot his best friend Nate a hard look. “You will not print that.”

“Of course, I will. Unless you give me something better to say.”

“I do not need a wife!”

“But I need something to put in my column tomorrow. And since we are indeed headed for Almack’s, and everyone will be whispering about your attendance, I most certainly must put it in the paper.”

Ras glared at his best friend. He firmed his chin, arched a brow, and imitated his late father’s most intimidating ducal look.

Nate grinned back in the way only an irrepressible scamp could.

If only the man had been born first, then he would have had a wealthy earldom to back his charm.

But as a third son, Lord Nate was a hanger-on who wrote a gossip column to keep off the duns.

No one but Ras and the publisher knew the identity of the famous Mr. Pickleherring, which meant that Ras was in the enviable position of influencing the ton’s primary topic of conversation.

“You will not write about me,” he repeated, his voice heavy.

“Then you will give me something better to say.”

Ras grimaced. “This is beneath you,” he grumbled.

“On the contrary, it is beneath you. I, on the other hand, must pay my tailor. So out with it. What juicy morsel do you know that I do not?”

Ras was not a gossip. Indeed, he took special pains to not hear even the slightest tidbit. But knowledge comes to any man who listened more than he spoke, and in this case, he found the information reprehensible. “You swear you will not mention me at all?”

“Ras,” his friend drawled. “You know I have to mention you a little. Maybe I could say something about your waistcoat. About how it’s dreadfully dull or some such thing.”

His waistcoat was dove gray and perfectly matched the pearl swan on his cane, not to mention on his family crest. “You may say that my attire matched the purity and excellence associated with my name.”

Nate snorted. “To be sure. I’ll certainly say that.” His tone indicated he would not.

“You’ll write something entirely different.”

Nate laughed as he mimed scribbling, then reading something completely inappropriate. His expression was funny enough that Ras’s grumble came out more as a snort.

“Come, come,” Nate pressed. “Speak up. There isn’t much time before we land at Almack’s and become bored to death.”

Nate would be bored to death. Ras, on the other hand, would be pestered from every direction by hopeful misses and their greedy mamas.

“It has to do with Viscount Valpa.”

“Oh! The double V villain. What has he done now?”

“Played much too deep last night.” Ras only knew this because he’d retreated to the bowels of his club in search of solitude only to overhear the violent end of the game through the thin wall. “I believe he will bear the marks of his latest mistake on his face.”

“How deep did he play?” Nate pressed. “Deep enough to dissuade a certain heiress from her engagement to the bounder?”

Valpa wasn’t exactly a bounder in the traditional sense of being dishonest. He simply couldn’t control his gambling habit.

But Nate and Ras shared a vehement disgust of fortune hunters which was very odd since, truth be told, Nate was one.

As a third son, his only hope of a comfortable life was to catch an heiress, and yet the man was vicious in condemning any man who married purely for money.

Nate was a romantic, which meant he was steeped in self-loathing which usually expressed itself in his column.

“Ras! How deep?”

“As of last night, he owes nearly two thousand pounds to a man I’m certain is a cheat.”

“Two thousand! What a bloody idiot!”

On many levels. “I trust that is enough to fill your column without—”

“Yes, yes. Your name is safe, but not your fashion sense.”

Given that Nate wore a Prussian blue waistcoat that could be seen in the dark at a hundred paces, Ras would take the “insult.” Especially since his friend was still deep in shock.

“Two thousand pounds. Imagine what I could do with that much money. Imagine what any of us—well, not you. You already have it. But still. Two thousand pounds! What a bloody idiot.”

Ras couldn’t disagree, but as a man who famously harbored no strong feelings about anything—no ruinous habits, no mad passions, not even an intemperate item of clothing—he was not qualified to judge those who did.

So he said nothing, merely waited out his friend’s expression of horror until they arrived at Almack’s.

It was early in the Season which meant not quite every hopeful debutante was here, but those who were present were ten times more eager to catch his attention.

Every young miss wanted to make a brilliant match this season, and who was more brilliant than a wealthy duke?

Ras thought he’d gotten used to everyone looking when he entered a room, but it seemed every female salivated at the sight of him.

He nearly bolted then and there, but his mother had anticipated his reluctance.

She was waiting by the door and grabbed his arm hard enough that he felt every point of her talons through his coat.

“It’s about time you got here,” she hissed through a clenched smile. “The dancing is about to begin. People were beginning to suggest I had lied in saying you’d attend.”

“You threatened to burn every paper on my desk if I did not.”

“And I would have. You cannot hide behind those infernal things. You need a wife.”

What he needed was a drink, but he didn’t say that.

He knew that his mother thought their enormous wealth just appeared like magic in their accounts.

She had no understanding of the work in handling an estate as large as theirs.

Neither did she respect the political matters that held his attention.

Instead, she focused on his bachelor status to an obsessive degree.

“You are thirty-four years old last month. It is well past time you did your duty—”

“Mother, you are becoming tedious. I am well aware of my duties, and so I am here. Introduce me to your favorites now for I won’t tolerate this much longer.”

“Erasmus, you are beyond tedious—” She cut off her words at his dark look.

It was actually fun to see her flow through the emotions required to shift her focus to pleasantries.

Her brows narrowed in fury, her nostrils flared with aggravation, but then she pressed her lips together hard.

It was her way of swallowing down everything that annoyed her.

Then she blinked twice. Never once or three times.

Always twice. Her lips curved upward into a tight smile, her nostrils flared again as she inhaled, then she lifted her chin.

The transformation was complete when her cheeks lifted enough to display teeth in her smile.

Her next words would be high with pretend delight as her expression warmed in all the appropriate ways.

“My son, may I introduce you to the daughter of my old school friend. Her name is…”

Good lord, there were dozens of them, all daughters of his mother’s friends.

Nevertheless, Ras did his duty. He bowed over the girls’ hands.

He inquired as to their delight in London, their excitement about the coming Season, and their interest in anything beyond the usual balls, theater, and horses.

The last came merely because everyone knew he enjoyed his morning rides, so suddenly every lady was horse mad.

He then asked for a dance, was granted whatever he wanted, and then moved on to the next female.

He’d thought that arriving late would limit the number of dances he’d be forced to endure.

If he was busy dancing the first set, his mother couldn’t introduce him to more women, could she?

Unfortunately, his mother and the patronesses of Almack’s had an answer to that.

They delayed the orchestra until he’d been presented to countless women who all merged together in his mind.

All, that is, except one.

The lady who doused him in the face with a glass of perfumed water.

He’d been bowing over a woman’s hand. She registered as fresh-faced (young) and an earl’s daughter with the Greek name Zoe, though she looked as blond and fair as any English rose.

He wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t been looking down after kissing her hand.

Even so, the gesture was quick and well hidden.

But he did see it, and so the ruse was exposed.

Zoe tripped a woman coming for them. A quick thrust of her slippered foot at the right moment, and the other lady—who carried a glass of something—stumbled just as she was joining the group.

He reacted as quickly as he could. He reached out to catch the falling woman, grabbing her elbow long before he could see her face.

But that meant he had no hand to block the splash of her full glass of water.

It flooded his eyes, dripped from his hair, and tasted…

herbal? Not then the bland Almack’s lemonade but something like cold tea.

Either way, it was entirely unpleasant as it dripped into his shirt points.

“Oh my God!” the woman gasped.

“Oh no!” Lady Zoe cried. “Kynthea, how could you be so clumsy?”

“I…I’m so sorry. I do apologize, Your Grace.

” The lady—Miss Kynthea somebody—was quick to offer her handkerchief.

Indeed, so were any number of ladies nearby as they all hastily pulled out slips of fabric for his use.

He disdained them all, choosing to use his own inadequate square of linen. Lord, even his eyebrows dripped.

“It’s all right,” he said as he mopped up as best he could. He smiled at Miss Kynthea to let her know that he held no ill will toward her. Lady Zoe, on the other hand, was about to get a firm tongue-lashing—

“My goodness, Lady Zoe,” interrupted Nate as he swept forward. “Are you quite well? Did any of that disaster fall upon you?” Nate was solicitous as he offered his handkerchief. Obviously, the man had not seen who the true perpetrator of the crime was.

“Lady Zoe should be careful where she puts her foot,” said Ras coldly. “I saw—”

“It was all my fault,” Miss Kynthea interrupted, her cheeks bright red.

“I was nervous to meet you and…well, you must get people making a cake of themselves around you all the time. Please forgive me.” She sunk into a deep curtsey.

She could not have prostrated herself more if he were the king himself.

“It was not your fault, miss,” he began, but Lady Zoe interrupted.

“It was an accident, Kynthea. We all know that. And his lordship is rather intimidating. Stand up, stand up. All is forgiven.” She looked up at him, her eyes a startling shade of cornflower blue. “All is forgiven, yes? She meant no harm.”

Ras was unmoved. The woman was a beauty, but it apparently hid a calculating heart.

Unfortunately, he could not make an issue of it now.

There’d already been too much of a scene.

So he leaned down and pulled the still-prostrate Miss Kynthea up.

She rose gracefully, for all that she was a bit of a long meg.

It didn’t bother him, of course, because he was also unusually tall.

In fact, he liked the way she stood at a close level to him.

Maybe four inches shorter? A good distance for him such that he did not have to crick his neck to look her in the eye.

“I take no offense at all,” he said. “Miss…?”

“Miss Kynthea Petrelli, Your Grace. I am Lady Zoe’s cousin and companion, and I must say, she has been very excited to meet you.”

His brows narrowed, beginning to form an ugly picture of the two women.

The English beauty was the titled, rich girl, no doubt spoiled and used to taking out her peeves on her poorer relation.

She obviously had no idea that she was much too young for him.

Worse, she thought she could elevate herself by making Miss Petrelli look foolish.

“Actually, Your Grace,” Lady Zoe rushed to say, “I have some questions I’d love to ask you about your horses. I’ve learned that—”

“May I have the pleasure of a dance, Miss Petrelli?” he interrupted.

Which forced Nate, the poor bastard, to request the same of the shrew.

“And I should be in alt if I could have the same of you, Lady Zoe,” Nate said with every appearance of eagerness.

“Me? Well, of course,” said Miss Petrelli, as she offered up her card.

“I should be happy as well,” said Lady Zoe, her eyes glossing straight over Nate to wait for Ras to turn her direction.

He did not. Indeed, he did everything but turn his back on her in the cut direct. And then—thank God—the orchestra finally began the music. He took his leave with a short bow and a reassuring smile.

“I shall look forward to returning for our dance, Miss Petrelli—”

“And I shall count the minutes until we can speak again, Lady Zoe,” continued Nate.

“Your Grace,” said Miss Petrelli as she curtseyed again. This time it was a very proper, very elegant dip of her chin.

“My lord,” said Lady Zoe to Nate. Then she stretched her hand out to Ras. “Your Grace, if I could but ask a quick question…”

At last. It was with great satisfaction that Ras was able to give the woman the cut direct. Unfortunately, it was Miss Petrelli’s voice that followed him, making him wonder if his action would cost her more than it would punish the shrew.

“Oh dear,” she said. “Don’t worry, Zoe. I’ll fix it.”