“Of course it is,” Cal said. “Society tabbies are always looking for something new to talk about. Scandals might be uncomfortable to weather, but they never last long.”

“Besides,” Emm added, “if you’re going to be the baby’s godmother, I’ll need you on hand when he or she is born.”

“Godmother? Me?” George swallowed, surprised and deeply moved. “Are you sure?”

“Emmaline! How can you say such a shocking thing!” Aunt Agatha snapped before Emm could respond.

They all turned to frown at her. “But George will be perfect—” Emm began.

“It’s our decision,” Cal said at the same time.

“Will you never stop interfering, Aggie?” Aunt Dottie added. “George will make an excellent godmother.”

“Pish tush, I don’t care about godmothers—though you could do better. What I do object to,” Aunt Agatha said with freezing authority, “is any suggestion that this child might be a girl! You are carrying the Rutherford Heir, my gel, and don’t you forget it.”

For a time they almost forgot their purpose in gathering in the drawing room as thoughts of the imminent baby dominated conversation.

And then the clock in the hall struck twelve.

The last chime faded away. “He’s not coming, is he?” George said. She wasn’t sure whether she felt relieved or insulted. Certainly she was frustrated—all keyed up for a confrontation and then . . . nothing.

Was she never to get the chance to say no to the duke?

*   *   *

“Damn his blasted cheek!” Cal exclaimed at the breakfast table the following morning. He slapped down the newspaper he’d been reading.

“What is it?” Emm asked. “Whose cheek?”

“Everingham. He’s made the blasted announcement without so much as a by-your-blasted-leave.”

George looked up from her kedgeree. “What announcement?” Dread filled her. She knew, she just knew . . .

“Read it yourself.” Cal passed her the newspaper. “There.” His finger stabbed at a notice surrounded by an elegantly printed border.

As George read it her mouth dried. It was a notice announcing the betrothal of Lady Georgiana Rutherford to the Duke of Everingham. “But he can’t do that!”

“He blasted well has,” Cal said grimly. “You know, I didn’t mind the fellow when he was going to marry Rose. Bit of a cold fish I thought, but no real harm in him. But this”—he jabbed the notice with his finger again—“I’m getting to see a whole new side of him now.”

The butler, Burton, quietly entered bearing a folded note on a silver salver. “This note was just delivered, m’lord,” he murmured. “A footman is outside, waiting for an answer.”

Cal glanced at the seal, broke it open and scanned the note. “Tell him I’ll be waiting for his explanation.” He glanced at the clock. “Eleven o’clock, on the dot—none of his blasted unpunctuality.” He tossed the note aside. Burton glided out.

“The duke?” Emm asked.