It was surely the most startlingly glorious first kiss anyone had ever experienced. Not that she was interested in anyone else for the moment.

It had been the very best experience of her life. She could not imagine that anything in her life could exceed it. Ever. Except that she had wanted it to go on and on forever, and of course it had not.

And the dear man had apologized afterward.

As if he had somehow taken advantage of her. As if he had somehow compromised her. He had even said so. A lady’s honor could not be compromised if there was no one there to see, could it?

Indeed it could, said Miss Pratt’s voice in her head, at its most severe. A lady must always be a perfect lady, even in the privacy of her own boudoir.

Which was about the most stupid of many stupid pronouncements Miss Pratt had made.

She had told him it was her first kiss. She had told him it was wonderful. Perhaps she ought not to have said either thing. She must have sounded very naive. But why not? Why pretend to be worldly-wise and jaded when one was not? She had begged him to tell her he was not really sorry, and he had admitted it was a lovely evening.

Lovely was an understatement. For she had made perhaps the most wonderful discovery of all last night. Lord Heyward was a very proper, serious-minded gentleman to whom courtesy and reason and good sense were more important than posturing and violence. But it could always be said that such men were dull. Tresham called him a dry old stick.

But it was not so.

She now knew from personal experience that such a man could also be passionate in his private dealings with the woman he loved. Very passionate indeed.

With the woman he loved.

Angeline’s eyes were still closed. She wiggled her toes and opened her eyes at last. Was that who she was? The woman he loved? She must be. He could not possibly have kissed her like that if she was not. Could he?

She would see him again this evening. At least, she hoped she would. There was Lady Hicks’s ball to attend, and apparently it was always one of the great squeezes of the Season.

Oh, surely he would be there too.

She threw back the bedcovers and swung her legs over the side of the bed to the floor. She had planned to walk in the park this morning with Martha and Maria—she had so much to tell them. It was still raining, of course, so that idea must be abandoned. But there were always shops just waiting to be shopped at, and there were tearooms where one might sit and talk with friends. She had far too much energy to remain at home merely waiting for this evening to come.


WHEN EDWARD ARRIVED at Dudley House later the same afternoon, he was shown into the library on the main floor while the butler went off to see if the Duke of Tresham was at home. Edward could not even allow himself the luxury of hoping he was not. Besides, he was almost sure Tresham would be here. He had been at the House earlier, as had Edward himself. He would certainly have returned home before going out for the evening.

Edward looked around at the shelves of books that lined the walls and wondered if Tresham ever as much as opened the cover of any of them. The large oak desk was clear apart from an inkpot and some quill pens on a blotter. Comfortable-looking leather winged chairs flanked the fireplace. A chaise longue was set at the other side of the room. One could not imagine Tresham spending much of his time in a library of all places.

He walked closer to the fireplace for the simple reason that he did not want to be found hovering just inside the door, looking as uncomfortable as he felt. But a man stood in front of his own hearth, not someone else’s. He changed direction and crossed to the window instead. He stood looking out.

He did not believe he had ever felt more depressed in his life. Or more purely embarrassed. He wished he were anywhere else on earth but where he actually was. On the opposite side of Grosvenor Square he could see a maid cleaning off the boot scraper outside one door and found himself envying her her quiet, uncomplicated existence. Which was nonsense, of course. No one’s life was all quietness or lack of complications. It just seemed sometimes that someone else’s life—everyone else’s in this case—was preferable to one’s own.

As luck would have it, his mother and Lorraine had just been returning from a visit as he was leaving the house, bringing with them both his grandmother and Juliana, and they had all, of course, wanted to know where he was going all spruced up and freshly shaven.

“Oh, out,” he had said vaguely, kissing his mother and grandmother on the cheek.

“Take my word for it, Adelaide,” his grandmother had said, “there is a lady involved. Lady Angeline Dudley, I trust.”

“She was at Vauxhall with us last evening,” Juliana had said, smiling. Just as if his mother and grandmother had not already known that.

“I do hope you are not planning to take her driving in the park, though, Edward,” his mother had said, glancing out the hall window. “It is not actually raining again, but it is going to be at any moment. I do not at all like the look of those clouds. What a gloomy day it has been.”

“Perhaps,” his grandmother had said, waving her lorgnette in his direction as though conducting a symphony, “he is going to Dudley House to propose marriage to her, Adelaide. Did he dance with her at Vauxhall, Lorraine? Did he steal a kiss from her? Vauxhall is the very best place in London for stolen kisses. I still remember that. Ah, the memories.”

They had all laughed, and Lorraine’s face had turned an interesting shade of pink.

And they had forgotten to demand an answer to the question. Or had there been a question? Edward had escaped before any of them could remember it—or remember to ask it.

They would know soon enough.

He was dreading hearing the library door open behind him. He would hate it even more, though, if it were the butler who opened it with the news that His Grace was indeed from home. He would not have been shown into the library, though, if that were the case, would he?

Did the man always keep guests waiting so long? How long had he been waiting? It felt like an hour. It was probably no more than five or ten minutes. And then the door opened and he turned.

Tresham was looking very black-eyed. Why was it his eyes that one always noticed first? His eyebrows were also raised. His long fingers were curled about the handle of a quizzing glass. If he had the effrontery to lift it to his eyes …

He did not.

“Heyward,” he said, the hint of a sigh in his voice. “For a moment I was propelled back in time when my butler handed me your card. But then I remembered, alas, that that Heyward is no more. To what do I owe the pleasure? I hope my guess is not correct.”

Of course it was correct. And he could hardly have been more insolent if he had tried.

“I have come to ask for the hand of Lady Angeline Dudley,” he said.

This time the sigh was not hinted at. It was quite explicit. And it was not immediately accompanied by words.

“Have you?” Tresham said. “In marriage, I presume you mean. How very tedious of you. She will say no, you know.”

“Perhaps,” Edward said stiffly, “we may allow her to say it, Tresham. Or yes, as the case may be. I merely need your permission to pay my addresses to her. I would imagine my eligibility is self-evident, but I am quite prepared to give you details should you feel obliged to hear them.”

Tresham regarded him silently for a few moments before dropping his quizzing glass on its ribbon and making his way across the room to sit behind the empty desk.

“I do indeed insist that Lady Angeline say no for herself on such occasions,” he said. “One would not wish to develop a reputation for being a tyrant of a brother, would one? But you would not have had the experience. Both your sisters were married before you inherited your title.”

He was not the first to offer for her, then, Edward thought. Of course, she had mentioned Exwich proposing to her, had she not? It was a great pity she had not accepted one of her other suitors, even if he could not in all conscience wish Exwich upon her. But such a thought was pointless.

“Do take a seat,” Tresham said, indicating a chair across the desk from his own with one indolent hand. “You will indeed convince me that you are an eligible suitor for Lady Angeline’s hand before I allow you to speak to her, Heyward.”

He was quite within his rights, of course. But surely almost any father or brother but Tresham would have left details of a marriage settlement to be worked out after the lady had said yes. Very well. Marriage settlements worked both ways. She must bring an acceptable dowry to the marriage. They would discuss that too.

Edward seated himself, quite determined not to appear an abject supplicant.

He looked the Duke of Tresham in the eye and raised his own eyebrows.


ANGELINE HAD READ the same page of the same book half a dozen times in the last half hour, and she still had not absorbed a word of it. It was Mr. Milton’s Paradise Lost and needed her full attention. It was a work of literature of which she believed Miss Goddard would approve. Not that she had seen that lady at all since her first visit to the library. If she had a chance to talk to the Earl of Heyward this evening—if?—she would mention it to him. She had already read six of the twelve books that comprised the work and had enjoyed them immensely. Miss Pratt had never let her read it because someone had once said in the governess’s hearing that Mr. Milton had made Satan far more attractive than God. Angeline had been relieved at the time for it was a very long poem and she had never enjoyed reading poetry. But it was turning out to be fascinating.