“You’re a duchess, aren’t you? Let me see, Duchess of Gisle, that’s it! They don’t tell me much,” he said, stepping as close as he possibly could to the beautiful new duchess, “but they couldn’t keep it from me. Heard it passed the Parliament this afternoon.”

Seeing her look of complete bewilderment, the duke smiled. Obviously the rumors did not underestimate the discord between the lovely Lady Sophie and her husband. As soon as she dropped the brat she was carrying, he would make his move, the duke thought.

“Parliament has granted your husband a title,” he explained slowly. “They’ve made him the Duke of Gisle. That makes you the Duchess of Gisle.”

Sophie instinctively stepped backward, away from the royal duke’s hot breath on her neck.

“Oh, of course,” she murmured, dropping into a deep curtsy. “For a moment I had forgotten. Thank you for reminding me, Your Grace.”

She read in Cumberland’s eyes the humiliation she felt deep in her bones. He’d never be able to keep it to himself—the delectable news that the Duke of Gisle hadn’t even bothered to tell his wife that he was being made a duke. A duchess who didn’t even know her own title!

Patrick never appeared at the ball. After an hour or so Sophie went home. Cumberland’s gossip had spread like wildfire. She couldn’t bear any more people addressing her as “Your Grace,” their carrion eyes bright with curiosity. (“Where is the duke tonight, Your Grace? Such an honor he received! One might think he wasn’t interested in his new title.”)

At the house she had a word with Clemens and then walked into the library.

Patrick was seated comfortably in front of the fire, reading a book.

Sophie flushed a deep, furious red. “How dare you not arrive home in time to escort me to the Commonweal ball?”

Patrick looked up and politely rose to his feet. “As it happens,” he said nonchalantly, “you didn’t tell me where we were going, m’dear, or that we had accepted an invitation. Had you informed me that you wished my company, I naturally would have accompanied you.”

Surely she had told him about the ball. Although she was forgetting all sorts of details these days. She might have forgotten after all.

“You should have assumed that I needed your escort,” Sophie retorted.

Patrick’s eyes were shadowed, black with reserve. “In that case, I apologize.”

“Well,” Sophie said impatiently, suddenly remembering why she was furious, “that doesn’t matter. You—you didn’t tell me that you’re a duke!”

“Oh, did Breksby push it through so soon?”

Sophie looked at her husband as if he were a visitor from a foreign land. Patrick seemed mildly interested, as if he’d heard that his favorite horse had won the Ascot.