The dog’s tail whipped back and forth in evident agreement, and she licked Quin’s hand enthusiastically.

He took a deep breath and stood. He had himself in control again. He pulled on his gloves. “Come on, then,” he said to Lucy. “Let’s join the rest on the terrace.”

But when he reached the door, the dog melted off to the side, disappearing behind the curtains. The party was clustered at one end of the terrace, looking quite flowery and picturesque. With a faint pulse of alarm, he realized that he was the only man.

His mother turned to greet him. “There you are, Tarquin,” she said. “I wish to introduce you.”

Quin walked forward and joined the circle. The dowager began at her left. “Miss Georgiana Lytton, my son, the Duke of Sconce.” Miss Georgiana bore only a faint resemblance to the sodden woman he had helped from the toppled carriage. Her hair was warm brown with streaks of bronze, and pinned in loops and curls about her head. Her eyes were lively and intelligent, but above all, she carried herself with a kind of natural grace and dignity that was a pleasure to see.

He bowed. Georgiana dipped her head and dropped a pretty curtsy. His mother watched with noticeable warmth in her eyes.

It’s done, Quin thought as he kissed Georgiana’s glove. She was perfect. She even looked like a duchess-to-be. She was wearing something pink with lots of tiny pleats. It wasn’t at all like her sister’s gown—it didn’t make him rage with lust—but one had to assume it was à la mode, with short sleeves that belled around her shoulders with a kind of elegance gifted only by a French modiste.

She looked as if she were ready to have her portrait painted and stuck up on the wall with all the other duchesses who’d lived in his house.

“Miss Lytton, may I present the duke,” his mother said, her voice altering just a shade. “Miss Lytton is Miss Georgiana’s twin sister.” Olivia was clearly not a favorite in the marital sweepstakes, which didn’t surprise him in the least.

Olivia curtsied, rather less deeply than her sister had done, and then Quin swept into a bow. Her hair was far darker than her sister’s.

“Miss Lytton,” his mother continued, “is betrothed to the Marquess of Montsurrey. While the marquess has not been in company overly much, I’m sure you’ve met his father, the Duke of Canterwick, in the House of Lords.”

Quin froze in mid-bow at the word “betrothed,” then his lips touched Olivia’s glove. He felt her fingers trembled in his hand; perhaps it was his hand that trembled around her fingers. He straightened.

“Indeed,” he said. “Best wishes on your betrothal, Miss Lytton. I’m afraid that I have not had the pleasure of meeting the marquess.”

She smiled at him. She had dimples. No, only one dimple, in her right cheek.

“Rupert is heading a company against the French,” she said. “He is quite patriotic.”

“He must be so,” Quin said, pulling himself together and giving a silent nod to the absent marquess. He himself had thought of serving in the war against France but had deemed it impossible. Given that his father was dead and he had no brothers, he was responsible for an enormous estate that stretched across three English counties, not to mention the land in Scotland. He simply could not leave. “I have the greatest respect for those men who are defending our country against the incursions of Napoleon.”

“May I present Lady Althea Renwitt and her mother, Lady Sibblethorp,” the dowager said, ignoring the question of Napoleon. She didn’t approve of the war; the French had been most objectionable when they slew their nobility, but she couldn’t see why England should risk English lives on that account. Quin had given up trying to explain it to her. “Lady Althea, Lady Renwitt, my son, the Duke of Sconce.”

Lady Althea was quite small, and had two dimples to Olivia’s one. She smiled in such a way that both dimples and a great expanse of teeth were in evidence, and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.” Then she giggled.

“My sister, Lady Cecily, will be unable to join us, as she injured her ankle in last night’s debacle,” his mother said. “I don’t doubt but that Cleese will wish to begin luncheon now. We are hopelessly uneven, of course. And there is no sign of Lord Justin.” She turned to Lady Sibblethorp. “My brother’s son. His mother was French, and I expect he inherited the propensity to be late from that side of the family. Sometimes he does not join us until the second remove.”

Quin thought that the more likely explanation was that Justin took longer to dress than a woman. But still, he felt a little better remembering that his cousin would be at luncheon as well. While Justin couldn’t precisely be said to have achieved manhood at age sixteen, half a man was better than none.

At that very moment he heard the click of heels. They all turned, to find Lord Justin Fiebvre making his characteristic flamboyant entry. He paused for a moment in the doorway, threw back the lock of hair that constantly—and, one had to believe, deliberately—obscured his eyes, and cried, “Such beauty! I feel as though I am entering the garden of the Hesperides.”

Lucy was tucked under his arm, her long snout nuzzling the shot silk of a quite extraordinary pearl-colored silk coat, embroidered with silver arabesques and pale blue beads.

The dowager straightened her shoulders, a sign of irritation. She allowed Justin to vex her, which was foolish, to Quin’s mind. Justin was not entirely English nor entirely adult, but under all the frills he was a decent fellow.

“Lord Justin,” she stated. “May I inquire as to why you are carrying that—that animal under your arm?”

“I found this little sweetheart in the library,” he replied, grinning. “I couldn’t leave a lonely girl all on her own.”

From the way she was eyeing him, the dowager considered the coat inappropriate for a country luncheon—though it was difficult to distinguish her sartorial disapproval from her patent dislike of dogs.

But Justin had a charming habit of ignoring his aunt’s displeasure. He had a sunny disposition and preferred, as he often said, “to see happiness.”

“Now who is the mistress of this charmer?” he asked, looking from person to person as he stroked Lucy’s head.

“She is mine,” Olivia said, moving forward. “I left her in the library because she seemed to be so afraid to come into the sunlight. I’m afraid that Lucy is not a deeply courageous dog.”

“We don’t all need to be brave,” Justin said. “I, for one, count myself among the cowardly yet respectable majority. Your Lucy is utterly charming.”

“If you would be so kind as to join us, Lord Justin,” the dowager cut in, “I will introduce you to our houseguests.”

“A keen pleasure awaits me!” Justin put Lucy down at his feet, and she scurried over to Olivia and hid behind her. The dowager drew aside her skirts with a barely suppressed squeak.

Justin bowed low over each lady’s hand, brushing kisses and breathing compliments. He adored Miss Lytton’s gown (so did Quin), Miss Georgiana’s ring, Lady Althea’s ribbons . . .

Quin was rather interested to see that while Lady Althea fell into a perfect frenzy of dimpling, Olivia and her sister seemed more amused than admiring.