The duchess looked over her shoulder at the card. “Oh, goodness,” she said gaily, “he is smitten indeed, Lauren. He has complimented your eyes. Who is he? The name is not familiar.”

“He told me,” Lauren said, replacing the card against the vase, “that he sought an introduction to me to discover if my gown matched my eyes in color. Have you ever heard anything more absurd?”

“He does not sound like the sort of gentleman the Earl of Sutton would present to you.” Elizabeth’s voice still shook with amusement. “It must have been Joseph, the rogue.”

“It was Lady Mannering,” Lauren said. “Aunt Sadie and Wilma almost had the vapors. They told me after I had danced with him that I must cut his acquaintance if he should presume upon it again. Uncle Webster called him a black sheep. Joseph told me he was a cavalry officer until recently. He is heir to the Earl of Redfield.”

“Ah.” Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, of course. The earl’s eldest son died a year or two ago, I remember.”

“Elizabeth?” Lauren turned to look at her, and she could feel her cheeks grow hot. “He is the gentleman who was fighting in the park last week.”

“Oh, dear.” But Elizabeth, after the first moment of surprise, chose to laugh again rather than blanch with horror. “Poor Lauren. You must have felt trapped indeed when Lady Mannering presented him and good manners forced you to dance with him—to waltz with him, did you say? And now he is sending you flowers. I did notice on that infamous occasion, of course, that he is a remarkably handsome young man.”

“Not extraordinarily handsome.” Lauren flushed. “Next time I see him, if there is a next time, I shall incline my head just so, thank him for the roses, and make it perfectly clear that I desire no further acquaintance with him.”

“You depress pretension so well,” Elizabeth said, her eyes dancing with merriment. “There is no more perfect lady than Lauren Edgeworth.” She linked her arm through her niece’s. “Now, let us go for breakfast. I shall have a footman carry the vase up to your sitting room so that you may be reminded for the next few days that there is a gentleman in town who is so lost in admiration for your eyes that he searched for flowers to match them in beauty—and was forced to settle for roses instead.”

“It is no laughing matter, Elizabeth,” Lauren said reproachfully, though she smiled despite herself and then chuckled.


Kit jumped down from the high seat of his curricle in Grosvenor Square and tossed the ribbons to his tiger, who had already scrambled down from his perch behind and rushed to the horses’ heads. Kit approached the front door of the Duke of Portfrey’s town house and rapped the knocker. He had ascertained ahead of time that this was one of the afternoons on which the duchess was regularly at home to callers.

At least Lauren Edgeworth was beautiful, he thought. Extremely lovely, in fact, even if one discounted those extraordinary, almost smoky violet eyes. She was no young girl, of course, but then the dignity of extra years enhanced her good looks rather than detracting from them. He was almost thirty himself and was not remotely interested in simpering young misses. Miss Edgeworth bore herself with proud grace and wore on her face the sort of perpetual half smile he had seen on certain Greek statues. Last evening she had given the distinct impression that she was immune to charm and humor and even the mildest attempt at flirtation. He had been somewhat disconcerted by her chilly demeanor, if the truth were known.

But therein lay the challenge.

The door opened, the ducal butler bowed with such stiff hauteur that the uninitiated might have mistaken him for the duke himself, and Kit tossed his card onto the silver salver the man held.

“Viscount Ravensberg to call upon Miss Edgeworth,” he said and stepped boldly into the hall.

It was to be easier than he had expected. Perhaps so few visitors were turned away on these at-home days that it did not even occur to the butler to carry the card upstairs first to ascertain that the lady was willing to receive him. Or perhaps the butler recognized his name as the sender of roses this morning and assumed his visit in person would be welcome. Or perhaps it had not occurred to Portfrey—as it doubtless would have to Anburey—to leave instructions that he was to be denied admittance if he called.

“Follow me, if you please, my lord,” the butler said with another bow before leading the way to the staircase.

The sound of voices engaged in polite conversation wafted from the drawing room as soon as a footman opened the doors at their approach. The butler stepped into the doorway.

“Viscount Ravensberg for Miss Edgeworth, your grace,” he announced.

An unnatural silence fell as Kit strode into the room. He recognized Sutton and Attingsborough in one swift glance about the room. And he saw too that Lauren Edgeworth, seated in the middle of a group close to the window, was rising to her feet, a look of astonishment on her face. A handsome lady of regal bearing—despite the visible evidence that she was breeding—was hurrying toward him, her right hand outstretched, a smile of polite welcome on her face. Kit bowed to her.

“Your grace,” he said and took her offered hand in his.

“Lord Ravensberg. How delightful.” If she was shocked at his appearance in her drawing room or chagrined with her butler for allowing him up without question, she was too well bred to show it.

“Ravensberg?” The Duke of Portfrey, whom Kit knew by sight, had come to stand beside his duchess. He was rather more poker-faced than she.

“I have come to pay my respects to Miss Edgeworth. She was gracious enough to dance with me last evening,” Kit explained. The room, he was aware, was half filled with visitors. Most of them were still gaping at him rather as if Portfrey’s butler had just committed the faux pas of ushering the chimney sweep into their presence. This moment, he suspected, would be discussed with some relish in a few more drawing rooms before the afternoon was out.

Miss Edgeworth came toward him herself, then, and the duke and duchess returned their attention to their other visitors. Those same guests had recovered their manners and were resuming their interrupted conversations.

“How kind of you to call, my lord,” she said. “Thank you for the roses. They are exquisite.”

If the roses were in front of her face at that particular moment, he thought, they would surely freeze upon their stems, her gaze was so cold.

“It was not merely the reflection of your gown, then,” he said softly, dipping his head a little closer to hers. “Today you wear green, but your eyes are still unmistakably violet.” She looked every bit as lovely as she had last evening even though her dark, glossy hair was dressed with a great deal more simplicity today.

She showed not the slightest pleasure in the implied compliment.

“Do have a seat, my lord,” she said with gracious condescension—a stranger would surely have mistaken her for the duchess. She turned and indicated an empty chair in the midst of the crowd of young people among whom she had been sitting. “I shall fetch you a cup of tea.”

When she took her place again, he noticed that she sat very straight, her spine not quite touching the back of her chair. She launched into conversation about music, and a spirited discussion of various composers and the relative merits of different solo musical instruments followed.

Kit did not attempt to participate but amused himself by observing the other members of the group. His appearance had obviously discomposed several of them. The red-haired Lady Wilma Fawcitt was looking prunish, Sutton haughty, Attingsborough watchful and faintly amused. The skeletal young man whose name had escaped Kit for the moment was looking irritated, George Stennson openly hostile. Miss Edgeworth seemed the only one who was serenely unaware of his very existence. Kit sipped his tea.

“Miss Edgeworth,” he said at last, taking advantage of a brief lull in the conversation, “would you allow me the honor of driving you to the park in my curricle later this afternoon?”

He was gazing directly at her and so was fully aware of the momentary widening of her lovely eyes and parting of her lips. The next moment she was looking coolly back at him, her expression politely bland. He was sure she was about to refuse him. Perhaps he had proceeded too precipitously. How would he win his wager if she said no?

“Oh, I say,” the skeletal, still unidentified young man said indignantly, “I came to ask the same favor, Miss Edgeworth, but thought to do the correct thing and wait until I could speak privately with you when I took my leave. I was here before Viscount Ravensberg,” he added feebly.

Kit raised his eyebrows. “I do beg your pardon,” he said. “Did I do the incorrect thing? Having spent so many years of my adult life away from England, I must confess myself unsure of the finer points of etiquette.” With his eyes he laughed at Lauren Edgeworth.

“Oh, I say!” The anonymous gentleman sounded distinctly uncomfortable. “I did not mean to imply—”

“I believe,” Attingsborough said smoothly, “it might have been for this afternoon that you and I made our appointment to drive to the library together, Lauren. You will refresh my memory if I am wrong.”

“Sutton has quite set his heart on taking you and me for a turn in his new barouche after tea, Lauren,” Lady Wilma said with a toss of her red curls. She tittered. “I am quite counting on you to act as my chaperone.”

Kit continued to smile into Lauren Edgeworth’s violet eyes, which had not wavered from his own. There was not the faintest suggestion of an answering smile there.