George’s fingers clenched into fists. It was in all ways his fault. She’d told him she wasn’t interested in marriage and the horrid beast had taken that as some kind of challenge to his horrid masculinity. And then when he’d caught her, and kissed her just outside a room full of people, at the end of a concert—who had made the first move then? Not George. And then when everyone came spilling out after the recital, catching her locked in his arms—who was it who’d announced their betrothal without even asking her? Not George. And then he’d put it in the papers! Again without asking!

So why was everyone blaming her? She hadn’t wanted any of it.

To be fair, she did share some responsibility for the kissing. She hadn’t exactly fought him off. And perhaps she had become a little carried away—well, a lot carried away. She’d practically climbed him like a tree!

But she knew why that was and it wasn’t her fault. Nobody had warned her it could happen.

“This whole dreadful affair has quite cut up the poor duchess’s peace, and her health is fragile at the best of times,” Aunt Agatha continued. “If you would only talk to her, you could ease—”

“Very well, I’ll talk to her,” George agreed. Best to get it over with. Aunt Agatha was quite capable of going on and on and on about it all afternoon and through the night and probably for the rest of George’s life.

“Excellent,” Aunt Agatha said briskly. “I’ll let the duchess know to expect us tomorrow at three.”

“Us?”

“Of course, us. Who else would you take? That wretched animal?” Finn recognizing the reference, if not the sentiment, thumped his tail on the floor.

“No, of course not, but I thought perhaps—”

“Who? Rose and Lily have both gone to the country, Emmaline is in no fit state to accompany you anywhere, burdened as she is with the imminent arrival of The Heir. As for Dorothea”—she snorted—“no, I will accompany you and that’s that. I will call for you at twenty minutes to three. Be ready.”

*   *   *

George woke in the night, the bedclothes flung into twisted ropes, her nightdress scrunched up around her hips. She was hot, sweaty and restless. That dream . . . She blushed just thinking about it. She’d been kissing the duke again, her legs wrapped around his waist, only this time she was naked. And so was he . . . and his hands— No, she wouldn’t think about where they’d been and what they’d done.

She slipped out of bed, pulled her nightdress down, padded to the window and pulled the curtains back. Below her Berkeley Square was deserted, the gaslights blurry golden moons shining through the drizzle.