George sat in the carriage and let Aunt Agatha’s tirade roll over her. She had no regrets for what she’d said . . . well, perhaps a few. She really hadn’t meant to upbraid the duke in quite such a manner. All she’d really wanted was for people to be quiet so she could listen to the music.

But the way he’d emerged from the shadowy corner of his box, that look in his eye—dripping with superiority. Standing there, looking down his long nose at her, so arrogant with that I-rule-the-world expression. It had annoyed her from the very first time she’d met him, when he’d become betrothed to Rose.

Thank God that hadn’t worked out. She might have been related to him by now.

As soon as he’d stepped forward she realized that he’d been watching her for some time. She’d felt a prickle of awareness, but had told herself that of course somebody would be looking at her, that at the opera everybody looked at everyone else. But the faint, disturbing prickle hadn’t gone away.

She was a little bit embarrassed that she’d broken her fan on that other man, but he’d kept talking on and on loudly after she’d asked them several times to be quiet. And the fan was a delicate one, easily broken, so it hadn’t actually hurt him. Just made him realize she was serious.

But when the duke had picked it up, his long fingers playing with the broken ribs as he eyed her in that knowing way . . . And then when he’d refused to give it back to her, sliding it into his pocket as though he had every right to keep it—and what would he want with a lady’s fan, let alone a broken one?—it was a move calculated to spark her temper. And then, to insult the performers . . .

When her temper rose, her tongue loosened. Perhaps she had gone a bit far, speaking like that to a man she barely knew, and in public, but it was true—men like the duke did assume the world was theirs to rule, that nobody else mattered. But other people did matter.

That faint, mocking smile, that knowing glint in his eye, that ironic lift of his eyebrow—just one brow—she couldn’t say why it was all so annoying, only that it was. And to call the glorious singing caterwauling . . .

He’d deserved it.

“Oh, Aggie, stop ranting at the gel,” Aunt Dottie interjected. “What’s done is done, and if you want my opinion, it won’t hurt those boys to have heard a few home truths.”

“Those boys? We’re talking about the duke, not those other ones—though she shouldn’t speak like that to any gentleman. And as for home truths—she mortally insulted him, or did you not hear it?”