There were probably a few dozen ladies in the room, Barbara thought, who would have been delighted to be similarly unhappy and in need of rescuing. The power Hannah had over men was truly astounding, especially as she appeared to make no great effort to wield it. Of course, she had always drawn eyes wherever she went, even as a girl. She was one of the purely beautiful creatures of this world.

Finally Mr. Huxtable answered her silent plea and came striding across the floor.

He bowed first to Barbara and wished her a good evening. Then he bowed to Hannah.

“Duchess,” he said, “would you be good enough to dance the opening set with me?”

She looked sorrowful again.

“I regret that I cannot,” she said. “I have already promised it to someone else.”

What? Barbara blinked. Hannah had explained to her when they were on their way here that she never allowed any man to reserve a set in advance with her—not since the days when the duke still danced, anyway. And Barbara had not heard her friend agreeing to dance with anyone since they arrived. There was more to come.

“Perhaps the second, then?” Mr. Huxtable said. “Or the third?”

Hannah closed her fan and set the tip against her lips.

“I am sorry, Mr. Huxtable,” she said, sounding truly remorseful. “I have promised every dance. Perhaps some other time.”

He bowed and went away.

“Hannah?” Barbara said.

“I will dance every set,” Hannah said. “One must not appear too eager, Babs.”

And her court was back, vying for her attention again.

Such blatant and strange lies, Barbara thought. How could inviting a man’s attention and then spurning it when he gave it actually attract him? How could it convert him from a stranger into a lover?

Barbara hoped it would not. She truly believed that Hannah would be making a grave mistake in taking any man as a lover. And Mr. Huxtable, though he appeared to be a perfect gentleman, also looked very dangerous indeed. The sort of man who would not be content to be toyed with forever.

Barbara could only hope that his final reaction would be to ignore Hannah altogether.

And then Barbara’s thoughts were very effectively distracted when one gentleman asked Hannah to present him, and he bowed over Barbara’s hand and asked if he might lead her into the opening set.

She could barely restrain herself from looking down to make sure that she really did have one right foot and one left. Suddenly her mouth felt dry and her heart felt like a hammer and she very badly wanted Simon.

“Thank you.” She smiled serenely and set her hand on the gentleman’s sleeve. She had already forgotten his name.

Hannah meanwhile was displaying one of the most important attributes she had acquired over the past eleven years—patience. One must never appear too eager—or eager at all, in fact—when one wanted something. And she wanted Constantine Huxtable. He was even more attractive than she remembered from other years, and she had no doubt he would be a satisfactory lover. Probably a great deal more than satisfactory, in fact.

But she knew he did not believe that he wanted her for a lover. That had been obvious during their meeting in Hyde Park. He had stared rather stonily down at her from his vantage point on horseback, and she had concluded that he despised her. Many people did, of course, without ever really knowing her—which, to be fair, was largely her doing. But they flocked about her, nonetheless. They could not keep their eyes off her.

The duke had taught her how to be not only noticed, but irresistible.

No one admires timidity or modesty, my dearest love, he had told her on one occasion early in their marriage, when she had possessed an overabundance of both. My dearest love had been his name for her. He had never called her Hannah. Just as she had never called him anything but Duke.

She had learned never to be timid.

And never ever to be modest.

And to be patient.

***

THREE EVENINGS AFTER THE BALL, Hannah and Barbara were attending a private concert at the home of Lord and Lady Heaton. They were in an oval anteroom with a crowd of other early arrivals, enjoying a glass of wine before taking their places in the music room for the entertainment. As usual they were surrounded by a court of Hannah’s friends and admirers. Two of the admirers were vying with each other for the honor of sitting beside her for the evening. She might have reminded them that she had two sides, but she did not believe that would settle the argument to the satisfaction of either.

She wafted a fan before her face and noted the arrival of the Earl and Countess of Sheringford, a couple whose marriage had begun amid the most shocking scandal several years ago and then settled into what appeared to be a happy union.

The countess saw Hannah and nodded and smiled at her. The earl smiled too and raised a hand in her direction. Mr. Huxtable was with them. He was related to the countess, of course. She was the Earl of Merton’s sister. He inclined his head to Hannah and Barbara without smiling.

All the other inhabitants of the room paled into insignificance beside him. And he was going to be her lover.

It was going to happen. She refused to doubt it.

If you want something, my dearest love, the duke had once told her, you will never get it. Want is a timid, abject word. It implies that you know you will be left wanting, that you know you do not deserve the object of your desire but can only hope for a miracle. You must expect that object instead, and it will be yours. There is no such thing as a miracle.

“I cannot sit with you, I am afraid, Lord Netherby,” Hannah said now to settle the argument between her two contending admirers, “though I do thank you for your kindness.” She did not need to raise her voice. All around her hushed to listen to what she said. “Nor will I be able to sit with you, Sir Bertrand. I am sorry. I am going to sit with Mr. Huxtable. I had no time, alas, a week ago to accept his very kind invitation to treat Babs and me to tea and cakes when we met him on Bond Street. And I had no free sets remaining when he asked to dance with me at the Merriwether ball a few evenings ago. I will sit with him tonight instead.”

She closed her fan and rested the tip of it against her pursed lips as she gazed at Mr. Huxtable. He showed no reaction—not surprise or disdain or gratification. He certainly did not fawn, as so many men always did, the foolish creatures. Neither did he turn and walk away.

That was a relief.

“Good evening, Duchess,” he said, strolling closer to her as her court opened up a path for him. “It is rather crowded in here, is it not? I see it is less so in the music room. Shall we stroll in there for a while?”

“That sounds pleasant,” she said, handing her empty glass to a gentleman on her right and slipping her hand through Mr. Huxtable’s arm.

Mr. and Mrs. Park, she could see, were talking with Barbara, to whom they had just been introduced. Their second son, Hannah recalled, was a clergyman.

It was a very solid arm she had taken, Hannah realized. And it was all clad in black, except for the crisp white cuff that showed at his wrist. His hand was dark-skinned and long-fingered and well manicured, though there was nothing soft about it. Quite the contrary. It looked as if it had done its fair share of work in its time. It was lightly dusted with dark hair. His shoulder was a few inches above the level of her own. He wore a cologne that wrapped itself very enticingly about her senses. She could not identify it.

The music room was indeed still half empty. Entertainments of this nature never did begin on time, of course. They began to stroll slowly about the perimeter of the room.

“And so,” he said, looking down at her, “I am to be consoled for my disappointments, am I, Duchess, by being granted the seat next to yours this evening?”

“Were you disappointed?” she asked.

“Amused,” he said.

She turned her head and looked into his very dark eyes. They were quite impossible to read.

“Amused, Mr. Huxtable?” She raised her eyebrows.

“It is amusing,” he said, “to watch a puppeteer manipulate the strings in order to make the puppet dance only to discover that the strings are not attached.”

Ah. Someone who knew the game and refused to play by its rules—her rules, that was. She liked him the better for it.

“But is it not intriguing,” she said, “when the puppet dances anyway? And proves that he is not a puppet after all, but that he does love to dance?”

“But you see, Duchess,” he said, “he does not like dancing with the chorus. It makes him feel quite … ordinary. Indeed, he quite refuses to be an insignificant part of any such group.”

Ah. He was setting out his terms, was he?

“But it can be arranged,” she said, “that he dance a solo part, Mr. Huxtable. Or perhaps a pas de deux. Very definitely a pas de deux, in fact. And if he proves to be a superior partner, as I am confident he will, then he may be offered the security of exclusive rights to the part for the whole of a Season. There will be no need for any chorus at all. It may be dispensed with.”

They turned to walk along the front of the room, between the shallow dais where the orchestra’s instruments lay and the front row of gilt, velvet-seated chairs.

“He is to be on trial, then, at the start?” he said. “At a sort of audition?”