George rather thought they’d already witnessed quite enough but her aunt had a point. The crowd pressing avidly around them, eating up the gossip and no doubt adding to it, was unnerving. “Very well, talk tomorrow morning?” she said to the duke in a low voice. Though there was nothing to talk about, really. She was not going to marry him. The very idea was ridiculous.

He was just being gallant—or something—because they’d been caught kissing.

And how that had happened she had no idea.

He nodded.

Aunt Agatha gave a briskly approving nod. “Eleven o’clock, Ashendon House.” She turned to the crowd. “My niece and I shall depart now. Enjoy your supper and the rest of the concert. Devastated to miss it, Cicely, my dear. Your performance was superb. Wonderful hospitality as always. Mrs. Gastonbury, thank you. Come along, Dorothea. Collect my cloak please. We’re leaving.” Taking George’s arm in a steely grip, she led her toward the front door.

George’s legs were still distinctly wobbly, and when Aunt Dottie slipped an arm though hers, she felt obscurely comforted. “Don’t worry, my love,” Aunt Dottie murmured. “I have one of my feelings about this. It will all work out for the best.”

George managed a weak smile. Aunt Dottie’s “feelings” were legendary in the family. George didn’t believe in them herself, but it was nice to have some support.

*   *   *

“I won’t marry him!” George said for the umpteenth time. They were traveling back to Ashendon House in the carriage. Aunt Agatha hadn’t stopped haranguing George since the carriage door closed. If it hadn’t been pouring with rain, George would have jumped from the moving carriage and stormed off.

“Don’t be ridiculous, child. You have no choice. You were caught by half the ton with your skirts up around your waist, climbing the duke like a tree. If you didn’t want to be compromised, you should never have left my side in the first place.”

“But—”

“Do not argue with me, gel! If you hadn’t behaved like the veriest trollop—and at a ton event—you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

George bit her lip. That part was true enough. She didn’t understand herself how it had happened. One moment she’d been standing in the hallway, telling the duke to get out of her way, and the next . . .

“But it’s too late for regrets. I’m only grateful that the duke behaved like the true gentleman he is and made you an offer—and in such a public manner that neither of you can wriggle out of it.” Aunt Agatha’s expression reeked of triumph.

“I will wriggle out of it,” George insisted. “Besides, he didn’t make an offer, he made an announcement—and without my permission.”

“You gave him permission when you climbed up his torso like a cat in heat, with your dress hitched—”