Hart had passed a restless night. Lady Georgiana’s accusation, that he was as bad, as scheming and contriving as his mother, had cut deep. He’d been angry at first, and his initial reaction had been to reject it totally—she was talking nonsense; he was an honorable man.

All his adult life he’d prided himself on not being like his mother, on being so much better than she. He’d always seen himself as an honorable man, too honorable to stoop to her low stratagems.

But Georgiana Rutherford had seen right through him and put her finger squarely on the truth: he was not so different from his mother as he thought.

The realization flayed him. Shamed him.

A line from a speech he’d once been made to memorize kept echoing in his mind. For Brutus is an honorable man.

Now he stood on her doorstep, waiting to see whether she’d reject him or not. He deserved to be rejected, he knew, but . . .

All night he’d tossed and turned, self-disgust, shame and uncertainty warring within him—none of which he’d ever experienced in his life. It was deeply unsettling.

But through the confusion, through the turmoil of his thoughts, one thought grew stronger and clearer: he wanted Lady Georgiana.

Logic told him he could find women more beautiful than she, more assured, more sophisticated, more tractable, more suited to be a duchess—and a damned lot less trouble.

But he wanted her. More than that, he wanted her.

Not one woman in a million—no man either—would have had the courage to confront him about his scheming behavior. Especially since it would be so strongly to her disadvantage.

Though he wasn’t sure she’d see it that way.

He cleared his throat. “Lady Georgiana.”

“Your grace.” She stared at Hart as if he’d dropped from the sky. Her dog pulled forward to sniff his boots, his tail wagging gently. Did she not expect to see him again?

“I said I would call this morning.” Though it hadn’t been a firm arrangement. What had she said before she marched away? Call on me tomorrow or send a notice to the papers, I don’t care! Had she expected him to simply cancel the betrothal and inform the papers? If she had, she surely couldn’t have thought of the consequences to herself.

She shrugged. “Sorry, I forgot.”

“You forgot?” He couldn’t believe it. How could she forget something as important as whether or not their very public betrothal was to be canceled?

“Emm—my aunt—had the baby last night.”

“Oh. I see. Er, congratulations. Is . . .” He groped to recall what people usually said in this situation. “Was it a boy or a girl?” An heir was the thing.