Hadrian took the hint and introduced her as Lady Elizabeth, the Marchioness of Wrenbury. “I must warn you,” he told her, “that Miss Fanshawe is too egalitarian to embrace the custom of curtsying.”

“Egal-what?” She playfully swatted his arm. “Conceited prig, you use big words on purpose since you know I was never very attentive at my studies.”

“It means ’Merica doesn’t have dukes and kings,” Leo spoke up. “Miss Fanshawe told me that.”

Lady Wrenbury leaned down to address him. “Why, aren’t you a clever fellow! Do you know, I’ve a son about your age. We call him Finny. Perhaps once you’ve settled in, you’d care to play with him sometime?”

Leo considered it. “Can Miss Fanshawe and Mr. Duke come, too?”

“Why, of course! Miss Fanshawe is always welcome.” A burble of mirth sprang from her. “And so is … Mr. Duke.”

Natalie smiled back at her. “Please call me Natalie, Lady Wrenbury. I hope I won’t offend you with a simple handshake.”

“Certainly not!” the woman said as they briefly clasped hands. “And I am Lizzy. Lady Wrenbury sounds so terribly ancient! Anyway, curtsies are rather a bore, especially in a receiving line. I’m always petrified I’ll step on my hem and go tumbling to the floor in front of everyone. Now do come and meet Mama.”

Feeling more relaxed, Natalie followed. It was a relief to discover that she liked Hadrian’s sister. Her earlier hesitation must have been due to a dread that his immediate family might be as hostile as Lord and Lady Godwin. She had no desire to spend the coming weeks in another uncomfortable situation, scorned as a devious hoaxer.

She entered an enormous bedchamber done in the same rose décor as the sitting room. Swaths of pink satin, drawn back by gold cords, framed the tall windows. The canopied bed featured chintz hangings, numerous feather pillows, and an elaborate crest on the gilt headboard. Fine objects of crystal and porcelain cluttered every available surface, including an ormolu clock that ticked softly on the mantelpiece.

The effect was overwhelmingly feminine, a retreat where any male was bound to feel out of place. Glancing back over her shoulder, she was amused to see a hint of steely forbearance in the set of Hadrian’s jaw. Even Leo appeared dumbfounded by all the girlish opulence as he stayed close to the duke’s heels.

Fluffy tail wagging, the spaniel dashed across the plush carpet toward a plump woman who sat on a chair, engaged in sorting through mounds of large and small parcels wrapped up in green-striped paper tied with yellow ribbons. She was richly gowned in violet crepe with a silk turban in a slightly lighter shade on her head. Amethysts glinted on her fingers, at her wrists and throat.

The Duchess of Clayton appeared quite imposing and stately—at least until she raised her head and smiled radiantly at them, in particular, her son. “Hadrian, darling! Thank heavens you’re home!”

She held out her arms, and he went forward to press a kiss to her cheek, extracting himself before being drawn into a full embrace. As he attempted to step back, however, she clung to his hand with both of hers, gazing up at him with tragic blue eyes in a face that might have been ordinary if not for the devoted sentiment that brought her lined features to life.