A few days before, his erstwhile bride had called on him, supposedly to apologize, but then she had the cheek to invite him to the ball that had been planned to celebrate his wedding. Its purpose now was to celebrate her husband’s return from the dead, blast him. Hart had nothing against the fellow, but why the devil hadn’t he come back from the dead a week or two earlier and saved them all a lot of fuss and botheration?

He narrowed his eyes. Now he came to think of it, he had met the girl Lady Salter had just tried to foist on him. Lady Georgiana Rutherford had accompanied Rose on that little errand. A long-legged, dark-haired wench, with more than a dash of impudence.

She’d pulled her skirts up to warm her legs at the fire. Dropped them, cool as you please when he’d entered the room, not embarrassed in the least. A hoyden, if not a light-skirt.

Damned fine ankles, as he recalled.

She would rather live with dogs and horses.

He snorted. She was welcome to them.

*   *   *

“What?” Lady Georgiana Rutherford could hardly believe her ears. “You offered me to that . . . that . . . duke? Like a . . . a cake on a plate? Without even consulting me?”

George was taking afternoon tea in the drawing room with her uncle, Cal; his wife, Emm; and her two great-aunts: the sweet one and the sour one. The sweet one, Aunt Dottie, was knitting haphazardly in between poring over a dish of jam tarts and sipping her tea. Her sister, Aunt Agatha, sat like an offended poker, looking down her nose at them all, disdaining the offerings before her.

Cal, lounging on the settee beside his wife, chuckled. “Like a cake on a plate, George? More like a hedgehog in a bag.” He bit into an almond biscuit.

George ignored him. She glared at Aunt Agatha. “How dare you go behind my back and make such a . . . such an offer?”

Aunt Agatha made a dismissive gesture. “Well, someone must make a push to find you a husband, and Emmaline is otherwise occupied breeding The Heir. Besides, since Rose’s disgraceful behavior left the duke embarrassed at the altar, this family owes him reparation.”

“Possibly, but we don’t owe him me!”

The old lady set down her teacup with a snap. “If a duke is going spare, my gel, it doesn’t do to dally!”

“But I don’t want a duke! I don’t want a husband at all! I’ve said so repeatedly. And even if I did, Everingham would be the last man I’d consider!” George didn’t know what it was about the Duke of Everingham, but he . . . he irritated her with his cold, hard gaze, so indifferent and superior and I-rule-the-world. She longed to take him down a peg.