The woman seized George’s hands in hers as if in warm congratulation, leaned forward and in a low voice said, “You don’t deserve such a fine man, you little strumpet. Don’t think I don’t know what you were up to in that conservatory.” Smiling falsely, she dug her nails into George’s hands so hard that if George hadn’t been wearing gloves she was sure the woman would have drawn blood.

She wrenched her hands out of the woman’s grip and, temper boiling, raised her hand—and found her wrist caught from behind in a firm grip.

“Put the slap away,” a deep voice murmured in her ear. The duke, drat him.

Ignoring his imprisonment of her hand she said in a clear voice, “I know what I was doing in that conservatory, Mrs. Threadgood. I’d spotted a rat, a big fat female one, with two friends, strumpeting on their own behalf. A rat who is now choking on her own sour grapes.” She bared her teeth in a parody of a smile.

Mrs. Threadgood flushed an unlovely mottled purple. She glanced at the duke over George’s shoulder, muttered something unintelligible and flounced away.

George turned to the duke and pulled her hand out of his grip. “I wish you hadn’t interfered. If ever a woman deserved to be slapped . . .”

“I know. And it would have been very satisfying, I’m sure. But Lady Dorothea was looking quite wretchedly worried and so I stepped in.”

George ran her hands down her dress. She was still itching to slap someone. “What are you doing here, duke? I didn’t think you would come to this kind of thing.”

“I wouldn’t normally, but Lady Salter sent me a note telling me you were attending this party and that I owed you my support.”

George was surprised. Aunt Agatha had done that? Really?

The duke continued, “And it seems she was right, if that little exchange was any indication. Tell me, what did she say to you? I only heard your response—which was brilliant, by the way.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She could fight her own battles.

He regarded her narrowly for a moment, then shrugged. “May I fetch you a drink?”

“Yes, please.” As soon as the duke left, George pulled one of her gloves off and examined the marks Mrs. Threadgood’s nails had left. A series of red crescent indentations marked the back of her hand. She rubbed it. The wretched woman had claws.

The duke returned with a footman bearing a tray with a variety of drinks. “Did that woman do that to you? Let me see.”

He reached for her hand, but George pulled it away. “No, it’s nothing.” She pulled her long satin evening glove back on and selected a glass of lemonade from the footman’s tray. They stood, sipping their drinks, observing the people at the party.