She was sure he would come to Lady Pentwhistle’s rout. Everyone who was anyone had been invited; it was expected to be the most tremendous squeeze. The duke would arrive, looking sardonic and intimidating—if one allowed it, which she would not. She would ignore him completely—unless he asked her for the first dance, giving her no choice but to accept him, unless she wanted to sit out the night on the wallflower benches, because if she refused him, the conventions of the polite world obliged her to refuse all other gentlemen who asked her that night.

Which of course he would know. Little did he know George was prepared for the sacrifice. An evening of being a wallflower was nothing compared to the look she’d see in his eye when she blithely refused him. Because nobody ever refused the duke.

The duke didn’t come to Lady Pentwhistle’s rout.

He didn’t attend the Heatherton ball, either, or the betrothal party for Charlotte Sandford, or Lady Marclay’s Venetian breakfast or any of the other engagements to which she’d been invited.

It was as if the duke had simply disappeared off the face of the earth. Or else returned to his previously unsociable existence.

It was a good thing, George told herself. It was better not to expect to see him anywhere, though she would quite like to encounter him one more time—she’d now thought of several beautifully scathing things to say to him.

Eventually it became clear that the duke wasn’t going to appear at any of the events she attended. Despite that, she couldn’t help looking for him.

And every time she looked, there he wasn’t.

His disappearance was a very good thing, she told herself. The sooner he was removed from her consciousness the better. Then perhaps she’d stop having those hot and sweaty dreams, where she woke up during the night, gasping, her nightdress all twisted up, her body sticky and overheated. Reliving that kiss. Those kisses.

She tried to get on with her life. She tried to exercise him away. She rode at dawn, in the daytime and at dusk, riding herself and Sultan—and poor Kirk—almost to exhaustion. But all it did was fill her dreams with that glorious chase out on Hampstead Heath. Which in her dreams ended with a kiss—and how wrong—and ridiculous—was that!

She suspected she knew what the matter with her was, and she was fairly sure the problem would pass in a few weeks. All she had to do was to endure the discomfort and the irritation. And wait.

Patience had never been one of her virtues.

The duke continued to stay away, but the dreams didn’t. Which was very annoying.