Ophelia flipped open her fan. “Why is he here?” she asked Maddie from behind its shelter. “I thought he was uninterested in society, and he certainly looks it.”

The last two years she’d been in mourning, but before that, she and Peter had attended virtually every ball held in London. Peter had loved to dance.

“Keep walking,” Maddie hissed. “My husband is one of His Grace’s acquaintances, so I shall greet him. As for why he’s here, I expect he’s looking for another wife. Or should I say, broodmare.”

“What?”

“Phee, don’t you pay attention to anything? The duchess, the one he divorced, left four young children behind. That’s why the private act passed so quickly. Everyone knows that he needs to marry again; apparently the discussion in Parliament circled around that issue.”

“Four children,” she echoed, wondering how the former duchess could have left her babies behind. She could no more leave Viola than she could cut off her own arm.

“There are more children than those four, because if I remember correctly, he had four or five with his first wife as well, though they must be nearly grown. If we don’t hurry, he’ll move away from the door and I’ll miss my chance.”

“More children than four?” Ophelia kept her fan up as they arrowed through the crowd. “How old is he?”

“Not as old as you’d think. Late thirties, I believe.”

They weren’t the only ones heading in the Duke of Lindow’s direction. There was an unmistakable drift in the room, as if the tide were coming in, and he was the shore.

“The three or four from his first wife,” Maddie said over her shoulder, “are all boys.”

“Slow down,” Ophelia hissed, tugging back. “You’re making a spectacle out of us.”

They were close enough now that she could see the duke’s eyes were dark green. His face was all hard planes and angles. He was standing with one leg bent in front of him, a silver-hilted sword on his left hip.

She felt heat rising in her cheeks just from glancing at his stance. His thigh was pure muscle, and anyone could tell that his calves were not enhanced by horsehair pads. His was an aggressive leg, not a graceful one. She’d put a pretty chunk of her jointure on a bet that he didn’t care to dance.

That sword? It wasn’t just for show.

He wasn’t the sort of man who would ever interest her. “I truly must leave,” she said, with sudden resolution. “You may stop and talk to His Grace, but I am going home to Viola.”

“All right,” her cousin said, not listening.