Needham’s already beady gaze narrowed. “Then you’d best get it done, Leighton.” Simon’s teeth clenched at the words. He did not like being ordered about. Particularly by an idiotic marquess who was a poor shot.

And yet, it seemed he had little choice. He gave a curt nod. “Presently.”

“Good man. Good man. Fallon!” the marquess called as the door to the card room opened and Simon’s opponent stepped into the hallway. “You’re not going anywhere, boy! I plan to lighten your pockets!”

The door closed behind the portly marquess, and Simon gave a silent prayer that he was as bad at cards as he was at shooting. There was no reason for Needham to have a good afternoon after so thoroughly ruining Simon’s.

The enormous bay window that marked the center staircase of White’s overlooked the street, and Simon paused in the afternoon light to watch the carriages pass on the cobblestones below and consider his next move.

He should head straight to Dolby House and speak to Lady Penelope.

Each day that passed simply prolonged the inevitable.

It was not as though he had not eventually planned to marry; it was the natural course of events. A means to an end. He needed heirs. And a hostess.

But he resented having to marry now.

He resented the reason.

A flash of color caught his eye on the opposite side of the street, a bright scarlet peeking through the mass of muted colors that cloaked the other pedestrians on St. James’s Street. It was so out of place, Simon moved closer to the window to confirm that he had seen it—a bright scarlet cloak and matching bonnet, a lady in a man’s world. On a man’s street.

On his street. Across from his club.

What woman would wear scarlet in broad daylight on St. James’s?

The answer flashed the instant before the crowd cleared, and he saw her face.

And when she looked up toward the window—she couldn’t see him, couldn’t know he was there—he was unbalanced by the wave of disbelief that coursed through him.

Had he not—the evening before, for God’s sake—warned her off such bold, reckless behavior? Had he not given her a lesson in childishness? In consequences?

He had. Just before he had told her to do her best to win their wager.

This was her next move.

He could not believe it.

The woman deserved to be turned over someone’s knee and given a sound thrashing. And he was just the man to do it.

He was instantly in motion, hurrying down the stairs and ignoring the greetings of the other members of the club, barely forcing himself to wait for his cloak, hat, and gloves before heading out the door to catch her as she left the scene of her assault on his reputation.

Except she was not on the run.

She was waiting, quite patiently, across the street, in conversation with her little Italian maid—whom Simon vowed to see on the next ship back to Italy—as though the whole situation were perfectly normal. As though she were not breaking eleven different rules of etiquette by doing so.

He headed straight for her, not at all certain what he would do when he reached her.

She turned just as he reached them. “You really should be more careful crossing the street, Your Grace. Carriage accidents are not unheard of.”

The words were calm and genial, spoken as though they were in a drawing room rather than on the London street that boasted all the best men’s clubs. “What are you doing here?”

He expected her to lie. To say she had been shopping and taken a wrong turn, or that she had wanted to see St. James’s Palace and was simply passing by, or to say that she was searching for a hackney.

“Waiting for you, of course.”

The truth set him back on his heels. “For me.”

She smiled, and he wondered if someone in the club had drugged him. Surely this was not happening. “Precisely.”

“Do you have any idea how improper it is for you to be here? Waiting for me? On the street?” He could not keep the incredulity from his tone. Hated that she had shaken emotion from him.

She tilted her head, and he saw the wicked gleam in her eye. “Would it be more or less improper for me to have knocked on the door of the club and requested an audience?”

She was teasing him. She had to be. And yet, he felt he should answer her question. In case. “More. Of course.”

Her smile became a grin. “Ah, so then you prefer this.”

“I prefer neither!” He exploded. Then realizing that they remained on the street across from his club, he took her elbow and turned her toward her brother’s home. “Walk.”

“Why?”

“Because we cannot remain standing here. It is not done.”

She shook her head. “Leave it to the English to outlaw standing.” She began to walk, her maid trailing behind.

He resisted the urge to throttle her, taking a deep breath. “How did you even know that I was here?”

She raised a brow. “It is not as though aristocrats have much to do, Your Grace. I have something to discuss with you.”

“You cannot just decide to discuss something with me and seek me out.” Perhaps if he spoke to her as though she were a simpleton, it would settle his ire.

“Whyever not?”

Perhaps not.

“Because it is not done!”

She gave him a small smile. “I thought we had decided that I care little for what is done.” He did not respond. Did not trust himself to do so. “Besides, if you decide you want to speak to me, you are welcome to seek me out.”

“Of course I am welcome to seek you out.”

“Because you are a duke?”