George sat in the audience between Aunt Dottie and Aunt Agatha, wondering how she could escape. She’d heard that the music would be bad, but hadn’t realized quite how bad nor how often Cicely would perform.

“And now before we break for supper, Cicely will entertain us with a trio of Scottish ballads . . .”

George closed her eyes and wished she could somehow close her poor lacerated ears. She had to get out.

As Cicely and her accompanist arranged themselves, a footman appeared, bent and murmured in George’s ear, “Someone wishing to speak to you outside, Lady Georgiana.”

Aunt Agatha, overhearing, frowned. “Who is it?” The footman didn’t appear to hear her. At any rate he didn’t respond.

Aunt Agatha leaned toward George and said in a low voice, “This is most improper. You cannot walk out on Cicely’s performance. Whoever it is, they can wait until supper, when you can speak to this person in the presence of myself or your aunt Dorothea.”

But Cicely hadn’t yet begun, and George didn’t think she could bear one more lustily delivered off-key song. “I won’t be a moment,” she whispered. “Besides, I need the ladies’ withdrawing room.” Before Aunt Agatha could respond George gave a silent grimace of apology to Cicely, hurried toward the door and closed it thankfully behind her as the first off-key strains of “The Braes of Yarrow” began.

“Who was it—?” she began, but there was no sign of the footman. Instead, leaning idly against the wall was the Duke of Everingham. “You!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

He straightened and strolled toward her in a leisurely manner that nevertheless had something of a stalking-cat feel about it. “Enjoying the music?”

George backed away. “You know very well I’m not.”

“Indeed? I seem to recall that you’re fond of music.”

“I clearly recall that you’re not. In any case”—she gestured toward the door—“I wouldn’t call that music.” She turned back to him and found he was suddenly much closer than before.

She tried to edge around him and found she was trapped between the wall, the bannister, and the duke.

He was close enough for her to see the fine-grained texture of dark bristles in the skin of his well-shaven jaw, close enough for her to smell his scent—now too disturbingly familiar to her—essence of arrogance.

He knew he had her trapped. He looked disgustingly smug.

Annoyed, she stiffened her spine. She refused to be intimidated. “Was it you who sent that footman?”

He didn’t respond. He was looking her over with a slow, lazy gaze that left warm prickles in its wake. She knew the neckline of this dress was too low—girls like her who weren’t at all bounteous in the bosom department ought to face facts and keep what little they had well hidden. Miss Chance, her outspoken dressmaker, had disagreed.