“Possibly it is a treat in store for you in the future. In the meantime, let us demonstrate to the ignorant that we are in this together.” He presented his arm, and, with a cautious look she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.

He led her forward a few steps, then paused and looked down at her. “And you’re not odd. You’re an original.”

He led her in a slow stroll around the room. He greeted people, sometimes with just a nod, and sometimes he stopped to chat with the more influential members of society in attendance, presenting her as his betrothed each time.

George remained fairly silent, speaking only when spoken to. She kept a pleasant expression on her face, but underneath she was still seething. Naturally the compliments and congratulations held no barbs—hidden or blatant—this time around.

She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved to have the slings and arrows stop, or even angrier at the hypocrisy that would happily attack her but pour the butter boat over him for the same thing.

Not that many people actually addressed her; she was merely the appendage on the duke’s arm. Was that to be her future? she wondered. Not if she could help it.

All the time they circulated, she was horribly aware of the warmth of the duke’s arm under her palm, his strength. The faint, distinctive scent of his shaving cologne teased her senses, making her want to lean closer and inhale him. Inhale him? She caught herself just in time.

It was still happening, she thought gloomily. When would this wretched state come to an end?

After an hour, Aunt Agatha glided up and indicated that it was time to leave. George was never more thankful of anything in her life. The duke escorted them to the carriage, bowed over her hand and then strolled off into the night. George watched him go. It was so unfair. Men had so much more freedom.

*   *   *

George and Aunt Dottie went shopping for a wedding dress the next morning. Aunt Dottie was particularly eager to go. She’d heard about the House of Chance from some of her friends, and in particular from an old crony, Beatrice, Lady Davenham, who ran a kind of literary society. Lily often attended it when she was in London, and after Aunt Dottie’s first visit, she’d become a regular attendee. As was, surprisingly, the dressmaker, Miss Daisy Chance.

As expected, Aunt Agatha declined to accompany them on the excursion, saying in her lofty way that she quite washed her hands of them and would take no responsibility for Georgiana’s final outfit.

“Why should you?” George asked her. “You’re not the one getting married.”

With a sniff Aunt Agatha swept regally out.

Aunt Dottie giggled. “She wouldn’t want to take responsibility for what I’m planning to buy either.”

“What are you getting?” Emm asked curiously.