Her aunt clasped her hand. "You simply cannot ask a man to marry you in order to do you a favor. He must want to marry you, preferably because he loves you. And if he does, it will be his greatest desire to protect you from every unpleasant thing in the world, whether it is Mr. Rushton or a bumblebee flying around your bonnet. That is when you will be able to tell him everything, dearest, and he will embrace every challenge you represent."

"Let us hope it will come to that."

She checked over her shoulder and saw Lord Hawthorne enter the room with his sister, Lady Charlotte.

"There he is," her aunt said, "and I must say, he is looking very handsome. Good gracious."

Tonight he wore a fine black evening jacket with white waistcoat and tie, and his dark, wavy hair was slicked back, gleaming in the lamplight. The style accentuated the strong, rugged lines of his face.

He met Rebecca's gaze and inclined his head at her. She smiled in return, then faced front again, struggling to overcome the uncontrollable beat of her heart when the evening had only just begun.

"Oh, Aunt Grace, who am I trying to deceive?" she said. "I want to marry him for love and a grand passion, nothing else. I want the fairy tale with my charming, handsome hero. Mr. Rushton does not even exist for me now that I am here."

Her aunt leaned close and whispered, "I assure you, my dear, Mr. Rushton does exist, and he could be searching for you at this very moment. For that reason, it is imperative that you do what you must to secure the man you really want. A man who can protect you."

"Do what I must…"

"Yes," her aunt plainly replied, flicking open her fan and fluttering it in front of her face. "You saw what Lady Letitia resorted to in the conservatory yesterday."

"Are you suggesting I should pretend to swoon? I couldn't, Aunt Grace. I would feel like a fool."

"That is not what I am talking about. You know what I mean, do you not?" She raised an eyebrow.

Thanks to Lydie's most illustrative diary, Rebecca had a feeling she knew exactly what her aunt was referring to.

"You must touch his arm once with your closed fan when you are speaking to him," Aunt Grace whispered.

Touch his arm with her fan. "That is all?"

"What do you mean, that is all? It is a very bold maneuver."

If that was what most women considered bold, Rebecca was definitely out of touch with what went on in society. Clearly, she had been reading too much lately about sin and debauchery and the pleasures of the flesh. It was a very wicked pastime. She should stop, she really should.

She glanced over her shoulder at Lord Hawthorne, and felt that familiar stirring of desire, warm and intoxicating, heady and erotic…

Clicking open her fan, she sighed, because she knew the minute she returned to her room, she would be dashing to her bed and reaching very quickly for that wonderfully wicked diary, for more instructions on how to proceed. And if there was to be any swooning in her immediate future, it would be completely legitimate.

Devon entered the music room with his sister, Charlotte, and immediately spotted Lady Rebecca already seated with her aunt in the front row. She turned around and clicked open her fan, met his gaze over the top of it and smiled at him with her eyes while she fluttered it.

God help him, that russet hair and green eyes set his impulses fluttering as well, and he became instantly uncomfortable with the fact that despite his desire to remain detached and practical-minded, he was becoming more and more inclined to charge forth blindly and impulsively in order to ensure she would be his. He wasn't in danger of falling in love, was he?

No, it could not be that. He simply had a duty to fulfill and promises to keep, and he was trying to make the best of it by focusing on his physical attraction to a woman who might one day be his duchess and provide the dukedom with an heir.

He certainly had no reservations about succumbing to that part of his duty.

Taking seats near the front on the opposite side of the room, he and Charlotte conversed about the quartette and the evening ahead. His sister leaned forward slightly in her chair.

"I see Lady Rebecca is here. Oh, she is lovely, I must say-so pleasant and sincere and agreeable. And what I wouldn't give for hair like that. She is so different from every other woman in the room, and so very becoming. Don't you think?"

Devon leaned forward as well and admired the loose sweep of Rebecca's hair over the back of her slender neck, and the graceful line of her soft, creamy shoulders. "Your own hair is exquisite, Charlotte. You take after Mother, who has always been regarded as a great beauty."

They both looked toward the back of the room where their mother was greeting the guests. Their father, the duke, entered and pumped the hands of all the gentlemen standing at the back, then went and spoke to Lady Letitia and her mother.

"Well, I certainly don't take after him," Charlotte said with more than a little resignation.

"Neither you nor Garrett do," he said. "But look on the bright side. At least you haven't inherited his propensity to believe in curses. I, on the other hand, might one day believe the palace is being overtaken by leprechauns."

He was not surprised when Lady Letitia and the Duchess of Swinburne approached and claimed the seats beside him. The young lady began to immediately go on about the quartette, and how she had heard them play once before. As soon as the music began, she prattled on with a dozen insignificant little criticisms, implying of course that she could do better.

"It is a shame this quartette does not have a soloist to sing for your guests," she said far too loudly, between pieces, while the players turned the pages of their music sheets and pretended not to hear her. "Wouldn't you like to hear someone sing, Lord Hawthorne? Surely you enjoy an accomplished vocalist, do you not?"

"The music of an accomplished vocalist is always a great pleasure," he replied. "Perhaps you will consider singing for us later this evening, Lady Letitia?"

Her eyes beamed with satisfaction. "I would be delighted, Lord Hawthorne." She gave him that look again, as if they were secret paramours.

After the concert, the guests moved to the red drawing room where champagne and hors d'oeuvres were being served. Devon mentioned to his mother that Lady Letitia would be showing off her vocal talents later, then he conversed his way through the crowd to where Rebecca and her aunt stood tasting pastries.

"Good evening, ladies." He bowed to each of them. "I trust you enjoyed the music this evening."

Lady Saxby quickly swallowed. "Yes, very much, Lord Hawthorne. And may I personally thank you for inviting us to stay at the palace under such short notice?"

"It was my pleasure." He turned to her niece. "And you have everything you require, Lady Rebecca?"

"Yes, thank you. Your family has been most welcoming. And the palace itself…" She looked around the room. "Well, there is no possible way to describe its beauty, Lord Hawthorne. It absolutely takes my breath away."

All at once, he found himself a little short of breath as well, and spoke before he considered any outcomes or ramifications. "In that case, may I be so bold as to escort you to the gallery, where I might show you my family's collection?"

Bold, to be sure. He might as well have declared himself right there. Strangely, however, he didn't care if he was charging past the point of no return. He just wanted to be alone with her.

"I would be delighted, Lord Hawthorne." Her voice was soft and velvety, and sank into his masculine impulses like fine wine.

He escorted her out of the drawing room and down the long, vaulted corridor under the keystone arch to the gallery, where his ancestral history could be revealed in less than fifteen minutes.

"Let us begin," he said, "with this portrait of the first Duke of Pembroke."

They looked up at the life-size painting. The duke stood with feet apart, hands on hips.

"The pose is very similar to the famous portrait of King Henry VIII," she said.

"Yes, but this was painted by a different artist."

He watched her profile in the dim light from the wall sconces as she looked up at the portrait with a charming sense of wonder. "There is great courage in the artistry," she said, tilting her head to the side. "I am beguiled by the variety of brush strokes. It almost seems like a revolt against the classical balance of High Renaissance art. It's willful and anxious."

Devon continued to watch her, feeling rather beguiled himself.

"Am I correct," she asked, "in my knowledge of your family's history-that the title of duke was a gift to this man from King Henry himself?"

"Indeed, you are. My ancestor chose this site as the palace location for personal reasons, which at the time were deemed quite scandalous."

"You have inspired my curiosity, Lord Hawthorne. What was the scandal?"

They began to stroll to the next portrait. "It is quite an intriguing story," he explained, "because the palace itself, to this day, sits upon the ruins of an ancient abbey. The east courtyard is the old cloister."

"Yes, of course," she replied. "I strolled there this afternoon."

"Well," he went on, "in 1522, the prior was murdered by two of his own canons, who had discovered his secret love affair with a local woman." He leaned a little closer. "In case you are wondering, that is the scandalous part."

"Obviously."

"After the prior's death, the woman had his son, then years later, the abbey was dismantled during King Henry's Dissolution of the Monasteries, and all the monks were sent away. The boy grew up and surprisingly went on to become one of the king's trustworthy allies, and was later awarded the title of duke."