George tried to think of the duke as a wounded creature, but failed. He was a predator. One who took more than he gave. Wasn’t he?

Chapter Sixteen

There are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement.

—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

George was having the final fitting of her wedding dress. It was spectacular, but she had to admit she had an occasional qualm about wearing it, now that first angry impulse had passed.

Miss Chance pinned the last tiny alteration in place, stepped back and eyed her critically. “I must admit, Lady George, I had me doubts when you first chose this fabric, but you were right. It’s stunnin’.”

Stunning? In what sense? George wondered as she gazed at her image in the looking glass. Shocking or beautiful? She’d chosen it to be shocking, but she had to admit the color did suit her.

She’d chosen it to shock, to defy all those harridans who’d twitted her about entrapment and implied she was a money-grubbing, title-snatching, hypocritical strumpet.

And to remind the duke who’d entrapped whom.

“I’ll finish off those last little bits and send it around this afternoon,” Miss Chance said. “Now, your maid knows what to do with it?”

Sue nodded eagerly. Miss Chance’s assistants had given her thorough instructions about how to care for a silk dress.

George was pleased she’d taken only Sue with her to the dressmaker. Lily and Rose and their husbands were on their way to London, and she didn’t want them—didn’t want anyone—to see the dress until her wedding day.

The day finished with a visit from Aunt Agatha. George almost refused to see her—she was still angry about the way Aunt Agatha had helped the duke’s mother to deceive her. But she was about to get married; it was time to put past grudges behind her. Aunt Agatha, meddling old woman that she was, was still family. And according to Aunt Dottie, she meant well.

“I have some words of advice regarding your marriage,” Aunt Agatha announced. George sighed, sat down and pretended to listen.

“Men are animals,” Aunt Agatha declared. “They will lie down with females of all kinds—young, old, pretty, plain, aristocratic or plebeian—it makes little difference to them. But the act is not in any way important to them—and should not be to their wives. It’s merely an itch they have to scratch.”

George kept a polite expression on her face. An itch to scratch indeed.

The old lady continued, “Ladies, on the other hand, have a tendency to read more into the significance of the act, ascribing meaning and emotions to it that simply don’t exist.” She peered at George to make sure she understood. “So, protect your heart, Georgiana, protect your heart.” She gave a brisk nod and departed, leaving George staring after her.