“I am Samuel Dellamore, Duke of Chantmarle,” said the man impressively, evidently expecting her to be similarly impressed.

  Lulu’s mouth fell open.

  Oh, lord. A duke! The last thing she needed was to be connected to such a man, if he truly was nobility. That would explain the slightly gormless expression, too. Though she had little direct connection with titled men, Lulu had seen enough of those with money to know wealth was often a precursor to stupidity. Why learn anything if one could simply buy one’s way out of problems?

  The bitterness churning in her stomach refused to subside, so Lulu merely allowed it to fester. Duke, indeed.

  That was probably why she spoke so directly and so openly. “Leave me alone.”

  The duke’s eyes widened but Lulu did not linger to discover just how outraged he would declare himself to be. She pushed past, skirts flying, and attempted to make for the door.

  Fresh air, that was what she needed. The coolness of the evening, a chance to stop and think, to reflect on—

  Lulu gasped. A hand—there was a hand on her arm!

  The duke examined her carefully with dark eyes. “I am not one to be ignored, Miss—Lulu, was it? Was that what they called you?”

  Lulu sighed as she wrenched her arm free.

  Of course he was not one to be ignored. No man wanted to be ignored—that was something she had learned long ago. Well, she would only have to suffer the man’s company for a few minutes, then she could make her escape. Return to her room, start to plan the next conversation she would have with Mr. Gregory and Mr. Gillingham.

  “Miss Lucy Finch, actually,” she said sternly.

  Her tone did not appear to work. The duke was grinning—grinning! At her!

  “I believe I asked you to dance, Miss Finch,” he said softly. “And I do not believe you gave me an answer.”

  It was all Lulu could do not to laugh in his face. “Was not my hasty retreat from your presence answer enough?”

  Perhaps she had expected him to be taken aback. It was not the way dukes were supposed to be addressed, Lulu was certain. Not that she had much experience conversing with dukes. But instead of being offended, as she had presumed he would be, the duke merely tilted his head back and laughed.

  “Dear me, I suppose it should have been,” he said cheerfully, as though a woman had not made it abundantly clear she had no wish to speak with him. “And yet I am persistent, Miss Finch. Let me tell you, I will not leave these Assembly Rooms happy if I do not have the honor of dancing with you.”

  “Then I am sorry to inform you that you will be miserable,” Lulu shot back, something strange rising in her chest. Was it . . . enjoyment? “For I have no wish to—”

  “Truly? You have no wish to dance with me—none at all?”

  Her answer died in her throat. The duke had stepped forward, blocking out almost the entirety of the Assembly Rooms. His gaze was sharp again, all the vacancy gone.

  What sort of man was this? One who could switch his intelligence on and off as one would turn a tap?

  Well, it did not appear she would escape him unless she gave into his demand. And besides, Lulu attempted to reason with herself, it was just one dance. Just a few minutes dancing a reel. How awful could it be?

  “Fine,” she said darkly.

  Any other gentleman would have been offended at her reticence, but it appeared the Duke of Chantmarle was charmed by it.

  “Marvelous,” he said, offering his arm. “I intend to know all about you.”

  “Prepare to be disappointed,” Lulu said with a brittle smile.

  It was easy enough to complete the line. That was one of the things she had enjoyed the most about dancing, when she had permitted herself to do so in public. The ease with which others could participate, the sudden rush of belonging that flowed as you joined the line.

  It did not rush through her now. Instead, as Lulu extended her arms so the duke could take her hands, quite a different sensation was spilling through her body.

  Warmth.

  It was because she was dancing, Lulu tried to tell herself. She always grew warm when she was dancing—everyone did! It was only natural!

  But there was something very unnatural about what was happening to her. As Lulu caught the duke’s gaze, something flickered in her heart, something she had never felt before.

  They released hands as the dance moved up the line and Lulu felt a great sense of loss.

  Loss? How could she feel his absence so dearly after only speaking with him for ten minutes?

  But she could not deny the joy that roared through her as the duke placed his hand on her waist. The completeness that made no sense yet could not be ignored. The warmth spreading through her to the very tingles in her fingers.

  “You dance well,” the duke murmured.

  Lulu glared, just to ensure he could not possibly guess how strange she was feeling in this moment. “I know I do.”

  “You don’t wish to compliment me?” he quipped in return.

  She almost laughed. Almost. But not quite. She was not foolish enough to lose all sense of decorum, and around a duke, too!

  No. She had enough complexity in her life without bringing a duke into the bargain.

  “You may think you wish to know me,” Lulu began.

  “You would be right. I do wish to know you,” the duke said, interrupting her. “Far more than you know.”

  Oh, she knew. Lulu had seen hunger and desire in a man’s eyes enough times to recognize it here—still, it was different. This was not pure, animalistic need in the duke’s eyes. No, he was . . . well, if she did not know any better, she would have said he was curious.

  Curious? About her?

  Heaven forbid.

  “I’m warning you,” Lulu breathed as she stepped into the duke’s arms—for the dance, of course. No other reason. “It’s not a good idea to get too close to me.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” the duke murmured. “In fact, I am rather enjoying it.”

  Her cheeks must be a brilliant red, she was sure of it. They certainly felt like they were burning. How could he say such a thing? And to her, a woman he had just met!

  But perhaps all dukes were like that, Lulu tried to tell herself. Perhaps this was nothing special, just the pitter-patter of a man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted.

  Well, this was one woman he was not going to get.

  “Do not get involved,” she said softly, but with a hint of steel beneath. “I speak the truth when I say it would go hard for you.”

  Lulu had intended her words to warn, to give the truth of the matter as best she could. It was therefore with a sinking heart that she saw her words had done precisely the opposite.

  They had enticed.

  “My word, Miss Lucy Finch,” the duke said, taking her hands once more and looking deep into her eyes. “You could not have said anything that would pique my interest more.”

  Lulu swallowed as the dance came to an end and they stood, breathless, opposite each other in the line.

  She could see that. And she would have to live with the consequences—and so would he.

  “Miss Finch,” the duke said, bowing his head. “Would you—”

  Lulu took her chance. As the man broke eye contact with her, just for a moment, she slipped behind the vast bulk of a large gentleman who appeared to be meandering to the dining room.

  “Miss Finch?”

  She could hear the duke’s confusion but did not dare to peek out as she rushed to the door, hidden by the crush of people who were switching places in the dance.

  As she breathed in the cool air of night, half staggering through the door of the Assembly Rooms, Lulu congratulated herself.

  She would never have to see that Duke of Chantmarle ever again.

  Chapter Three

  12 April 1811

  When Samuel heard the gentle knock on his door, he presumed his valet was late.

  “Come on in, man, for goodness’ sake,” he said cheerfully. “What’s kept you?”

  The tall door in his Edinburgh residence squeaked ever so slightly as it opened, no matter what Morris, his valet, tried to do about it. Samuel knew it bothered the man, who was methodical and careful almost to a fault.

  The squeak was slower this morning, as though his valet hoped that by moving the door more carefully, the squeak would not occur.

  “Kept me, Your Grace?” the valet said softly as he stepped lightly into the room. “What do you mean?”

  Samuel sighed heavily as he pushed himself up on his elbows, and plumped his pillows so he could lean against them. He was hardly a man to tell off another merely for a small slip up, but really. His valet had been part of his household for near on three years. It was most unlike the man not to wake his master at eight o’clock, as he did every morning. But Samuel had been lying here in bed, eyes wide open and mind spinning, for hours past that. It must be near luncheon!

  “Look, I do not mind the mistake this once,” he said generously, as his valet stepped across the room and pulled back the curtains. “But please, I do like to be up for eight o’clock. Cook has my breakfast ready at that time every morning, and—”

  “But Your Grace, it is eight o’clock,” said Morris, bewildered.

  Samuel hesitated. It was?

  Surely not. He had been lying there in bed thinking of—well, someone he certainly should not have been thinking of—for what felt like an age. He had presumed he had awoken just before eight, as was his habit, then thought about Miss Lucy Finch, a woman of mysterious origin and tantalizing touch, for over two hours.

  Had he really awoken at six in the morning, just because of a woman?

  “Eight o’clock?” Samuel said aloud. “Truly?”

  Morris pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat, but there was no need. The servant had not closed the door to the corridor, and the chiming of the longcase clock at the end of it was still echoing.

  Dear Lord. His mind had awoken more than two hours earlier than normal, Samuel thought hurriedly. Now that was a bad sign. No other woman in his acquaintance had ever—

  “Well, well, so it is eight o’clock then,” Samuel said quickly.

  His valet was looking at him most curiously, and it would not do for anyone to realize just how rapidly the master’s head had been turned.

  “I’m warning you. It’s not a good idea to get too close to me.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. In fact, I am rather enjoying it.”

  Had that been a flirtatious comment? Samuel had thought so at the time, presumed Miss Finch had been desperate to attract his attention. But the manner in which she had slipped away from the dance . . . And he had been unable to find her after. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought he dreamt the whole encounter.

  But no. His imagination was bold, but it surely wasn’t that bold. He couldn’t just imagine a woman that beautiful, the sense of her hands in his—

  “I said, Your Grace,” coughed his valet. “Would you like me to set out the blue waistcoat, or the—”

  “Whatever you think is best, I am sure,” said Samuel with a sigh as he pushed back the bedlinens. “Whatever you would recommend for a morning of visiting.”

  Visiting. He did his best not to roll his eyes as he walked into the dressing room that adjoined his bedchamber, where Morris had laid out a fresh shirt, his favorite slate gray breeches, and a matching cravat and waistcoat.

  In tartan. Samuel groaned.

  But it was what was expected for visiting, apparently. Lady Romeril had been most insistent that although Samuel had not a Scottish bone in his body, it would be expected of him that while he was in Edinburgh, he would have to attire himself to match with the customs.

  And that meant tartan.

  “Truly, these people could not have created a more distracting pattern,” Samuel muttered as his valet carefully dressed him.

  “I could not agree more, Your Grace,” said Morris with a shake of his head. “Will we be staying long in Edinburgh? If so, I will send out to a tailor and order two more sets.”

  Samuel hesitated as he held out his hands for the shirt to be pulled over them.

  Would he be here much longer? He had only intended to stay in Edinburgh a few weeks. Lady Romeril’s invitation had been the perfect cover. The whole of Scottish Society seemed to be a-quiver that the Duke of Chantmarle was hunting for a bride. Even if hopes had waned in the intervening weeks, as he did nothing but attend gatherings and nod at eligible young ladies.

  In truth, if last night had not occurred, Samuel would be writing to London that very morning and suggesting he return and that he could do more good in the southern capital. He had spent weeks attempting to bribe those who would know whether or not there truly was a ring of blackguards here, selling secrets to the French. All avenues had turned up naught.

  But last night . . .

  “Do not get involved. I speak the truth when I say it would go hard for you.”

  “My word, Miss Lucy Finch. You could not have said anything that would pique my interest more.”

  Samuel swallowed as warmth billowed across his chest. Why was he finding it so difficult to rid his mind of that woman?

  She was beautiful, yes. Her face was imprinted on his eyes, his gaze unable to stop seeing her as Morris carefully tied his cravat.

  But she was hardly a suitable distraction. Really, Samuel should not be permitting himself to be distracted at all. Miss Lucy Finch, as she called herself, had not accepted his pointed attentions, either, which was even more strange.

  Perhaps that was why he was so curious, Samuel thought, stepping into his court shoes and wishing he could be wearing thick solid riding boots as he did so often in London. Perhaps Miss Finch’s indifference to him was itself inviting his curiosity.

  “Your Grace?”

  Samuel blinked. Then he looked down.

  Blazing hell, he was dressed. When had that happened?

  “You asked me something?” he said, seeing his valet’s pained expression.

  “I did, Your Grace,” said Morris politely, deciding not to point out his master’s rudeness. “I inquired how long we would be staying in Edinburgh.”

  Samuel frowned. What the devil was he asking that for? The very cheek of it! “And what has that to do with you, pray?”

  Immediately he realized his mistake. His poor valet knew no better; none of his servants knew the work their master did for the Crown. And besides, it was Samuel’s own distracted nature which had caused this mix-up in the first place.

  His mind flashed back to an earlier part of the conversation. Oh, yes. “Ah, yes, shirts and cravats and things. Well, how long I am intending to stay in Edinburgh depends on . . .”

  Depends on my orders, Samuel could have said. Depends on what is required. Depends on how I can serve my country, keep England safe.

  Instead, a pair of dark hazel eyes flashed across his mind. A woman who frowned rather than smiled, a woman who refused to dance with a duke instead of simpering at his attentions. A woman who was entangled, somehow, with a pair of ruffians who may just be the people he was searching for.

  “A little longer, Morris,” Samuel found himself saying. “We’ll be in Edinburgh a little longer—order the cravats. Order whatever you like.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. Your Grace—?”

  “I’m going out,” he called over his shoulder as he made for the corridor. “Visiting!”

  “At this hour?”

  At this hour, Samuel thought wryly as he half walked, half ran down the broad staircase, there were still a number of people he could call on. It may not be a socially acceptable hour for most of the ton, but there were a few who understood his line of work.

  If one could call it work. Dukes never worked.

  The streets of Edinburgh were quiet this early—at least, quieter than they would be later. No respectable people were out, but that meant all the people not in the rigid ton were, and in the main they were the people whose company Samuel usually preferred.

  Hawkers attempting to sell pies, meats, ale, pastries. Samuel shivered as he walked past a woman attempting to sell knitted scarves and matching mittens.

  He would not have thought about it in London, of course. It was April. Spring—almost summer! But the chilly winds of the Scottish Borders were felt keenly here, and Samuel shivered as the breeze rushed through him and the greatcoat he had grabbed from the hall before leaving his residence. He would have to remember to ask Morris to purchase a scarf or two.

  His destination was only ten minutes up the Royal Mile. He had recommended the location when Penshaw had written asking for a suggestion for an Edinburgh residence, and it had three great advantages.

  Firstly, it was suitable for a duke, and Penshaw was one.

  Secondly, it was in the fashionable district, which was precisely what the duchess, apparently, had requested.

  And thirdly, it was only a short walk from his own residence. That meant whenever Samuel grew tired of the pretense, tired of aping the fool, tired of smiling at Lady Romeril as though she were not the most irritating woman in the world, he could visit the Penshaws and be himself.

  “Ah, Your Grace, you are early,” said the Penshaw butler politely, opening the door.

  Samuel grinned and ignored the pointed—and completely unspoken—reproof. “That I am. Is Penshaw up?”

  “His Grace is in the breakfast room,” said the butler sedately. “May I—Your Grace!”

  Samuel wholly ignored him. It was easy, ignoring servants. In truth, Samuel ignored anything that did not precisely align with what he wanted at the time. It was a hateful habit, one he had picked up from his father and had never managed to lose.

  It did come in useful, though.

  “Penshaw, you old reprobate!” Samuel said with a laugh as he opened the door to the breakfast room and took in the view. “Breakfasting before your woman makes it downstairs?”

  Lawrence Madgwick, the Duke of Penshaw, chuckled as he leaned back in his chair. “And is it always your habit to march into other people’s breakfast rooms and criticize them?”

  Samuel grinned as he sat opposite his old friend. “Most definitely. May I?”