“I quite like spirited women. The Ton is littered with insipid girls these days. It’s difficult to tell one from another when they’re all alike.”
Somehow she had failed to offend him, even by breaking every rule of etiquette that she could think of. He might even have liked her better because of it.
“Tell me,” he said to Aunt Marcheline, “do you enjoy the theatre? I have a private box. It would be my pleasure to escort you and your niece.”
“Oh, Your Grace, that would be lovely. Jillian does so enjoy the theatre. Why, it has been an age since we have gone—”
“I won’t go.” The flat statement surprised the both of them.
Aunt Marcheline gritted her teeth and bared them in a travesty of a smile. “Jillian, my dear. Do consider—”
“I have. And I won’t go.” She set down her tea cup, rose from the sofa and inclined her head. “Your Grace, thank you for the flowers. I beg you not to send more. If you will excuse me.” She headed for the door.
Aunt Marcheline thrust her hand out in a staying gesture. “Jillian, you are not excused,” she snapped.
“If you won’t excuse me, then,” Jilly tossed over her shoulder as she fled the room.
The duke’s laughter chased her up the stairs.

Chapter Three

James scowled at Nick over his glass of brandy, sinking into his chair as Nick laughed at his plight. “It’s not amusing,” he growled.
“I beg to differ,” Nick said. “It is incredibly amusing.” He swirled the liquid in his own glass and took a sip, still chuckling. “Might I point out that you are feigning interest in the lady for your own nefarious purposes? The fact that she doesn’t want you is glorious.” He lifted his glass in the air in a bizarre toast. “May Lady Jillian’s will be stronger than yours,” he said.
“I don’t understand it,” James grumbled. “I did everything right—I sent her flowers, I called when I said I would. I was charming. What sort of woman turns her nose up at a duke?”
“Perhaps she’s familiar with your reputation,” Nick suggested. “God knows we’re not exactly the sort to inspire confidence in a woman.”
“I would swear she did not know me,” James replied. “No—it has got to be something else. Her aunt referenced a Lord Kirkland in connection with Lady Jillian. What do you know of him?”
Nick’s eyes widened for a brief moment. “Oh, Christ,” he said. “That was Lady Jillian? James, you must let the poor woman alone.”
“Tell me,” James said, “and I will consider it.”
Nick made a disgusted sound in his throat, throwing back the remainder of his brandy and setting his glass aside. “It was something of a scandal a few years back,” he said. “Lady Jillian was engaged to Adrian Ross, Viscount Kirkland. By all accounts it was a love match, at least on Lady Jillian’s end. A few weeks before the wedding was to take place, he eloped with someone else. Just as casually as you please—the bastard didn’t even bother to tell Lady Jillian that he was throwing her over. The rumor is that she discovered his defection from the scandal sheets.”
Even James found he could not stifle his wince. No wonder Lady Jillian had not relished his attention—she had been burned before.
“You cannot imagine,” Nick said, “how cruel the Ton can be to a woman in that position.”
Oh, he well could—because Gloriana would be subject to worse than idle gossip. And it was Jillian’s brother who had put her in her predicament. He ruthlessly shoved aside the sympathy that had welled up inside him. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t change his plans.
“James,” Nick said. “For the love of God, she, of all people, does not deserve this.”
“Neither,” James said sharply, “did Gloriana.”
With a rumbled curse, Nick snagged the decanter of brandy and poured himself another measure—and poured. And poured, well past the point where a reasonable man would have called enough. He crammed the crystal stopper back in the decanter and set it aside, then reached for his glass, swilling it as if it were ale instead of liquor. “If you do this,” he said, “you will hate yourself. You might take satisfaction from it initially, but sooner or later the guilt will flay you alive. Can you truly live with yourself, treating an innocent woman as Westwood treated Gloriana?”
The conviction in Nick’s voice was compelling, but misguided. They’d been friends for half their lives; Nick ought to have known that James could not be swayed by anything so foolish as compassion.
When James gave no reply, Nick made a harsh sound in his throat. “Jesus, James. Have a heart for once in your miserable life.”
A man in James’ position couldn’t afford the luxury of a heart. Several castles, vast estates, hundreds of servants, and any material goods available for purchase, certainly—but a heart? No. A heart was a weakness, a liability. He had lost it long ago, as it had been made clear to him that his title was by far his greatest asset. Few cared for the man behind it. And so he had hardened himself, bit by bit, until his heart was only a shriveled thing in his chest, untouchable.
Perhaps Lady Jillian was undeserving of his wrath, but that didn’t matter. He hadn’t a heart left to bleed for her plight. There was no space left in him for mercy or pity. And if his scheme cost him whatever was left of anything noble or honorable in him, then it was a small price to pay.
Westwood had cost Gloriana her future, the happiness to which she had been entitled. James was not a man to let a wrong committed against him and his go unpunished.
Whatever the cost to himself.