“So you’ll have to endure another unwanted proposal? Oh—and his next opportunity will be at my ball tomorrow night!” Rose exclaimed. “Oh dear, and I did so want everything to go smoothly. We don’t even have a conservatory. Oh, I could shoot Lord Towsett.”

“That’s the strange thing,” George said slowly. “You won’t have to. I received a letter from him this morning—it arrived during the night, hand delivered.” She pulled it out of a pocket in her riding habit. “Here, read it.”

Rose took it and read it aloud, then stared at George in amazement. “He apologized? And has withdrawn all claims to your hand and will never bother you again? That’s wonderful.”

“But how? I mean, if you didn’t even talk to him last night . . .” Lily began.

“Exactly.”

“And Cal wasn’t at the ball, so he couldn’t have confronted the horrid beast on your behalf,” Rose added.

“Cal doesn’t even know Lord Towsett has been pestering me,” George said. “I swore Emm to secrecy. I wanted to deal with Towsett myself.”

“Then what do you think happened?”

George shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s a mystery.” There was a second, smaller mystery that she didn’t mention: A footman had come to the conservatory with a message that Lord Towsett had left the ball. And when she’d asked him who sent the message, he refused to say, which made George think he’d been bribed.

She could think of only one person who might have done such a thing, who even knew she was in the conservatory—but why would the duke care enough to send her a message? It couldn’t possibly be him. She’d seen him briefly when she returned to the ballroom, but he’d given her an icy glance, made no attempt to talk to her and left immediately afterward.

So, no, she wasn’t going to mention that little incident. It would only stir up speculation, and she wanted to forget all about it.

But for the rest of the evening, free of Lord Towsett’s presence and the duke’s, she’d had a lovely time. Danced until the wee small hours.

They rode on, and the strangeness of Lord Towsett’s unexpected about-face was soon forgotten as talk turned to the ball to be held on the following night, when Rose’s husband, Thomas, would be presented to the ton for the first time.

*   *   *

Hart scowled. What the devil was he doing? He’d had no intention of attending this wretched affair. It would cause the kind of gossip and speculation he loathed.

And yet his feet kept on moving.

He turned the corner into Berkeley Square, saw the crowd outside Ashendon House and the many carriages lined up, dropping people off. The sight of them alone should have given him pause—he hated crowds—but his feet kept moving.