“If I understand you, she is flaunting her independence: as a trollop she may take pleasure from whomever she wishes, including young men. Though of course she’s not really a trollop.”

“It looks to me as if the Honorable Bitts has become the leading contender,” Piers said. “Who would have thought the man had such a courtier turn in him? Though I suppose he comes by it honestly, being the son of a viscount or some such.”

“But would she—” Linnet whispered.

“Never,” Piers said calmly. “My father knows that too. My mother loves to flirt—she is French, after all—but she was a devoted wife, to my father as well as to her second husband.”

“What was he like?” Linnet watched, fascinated, as the former duchess delighted Mr. Bitts by sitting down at the piano. The other two doctors clustered around as well.

“They can probably see straight to her navel,” Piers remarked. “And to answer your question, Maman’s second husband was an excellent spouse. An antidote to my father, certainly: solid, not too bright, thoroughly civilized. Unfortunately, also headless, after the Revolution caught fire and he refused to leave his estate, insisting that his peasants weren’t as angry as everyone else’s.”

The duchess was singing now, her eyes sparkling and her fingers flying over the keyboard.

“What a charming tune,” Linnet said. “And she’s singing in English!”

“There would be no point otherwise,” Piers said dryly. “My father’s French isn’t good enough to catch the words in her own language.”

Linnet listened more closely. “A lascivious wench was she,” caroled the duchess merrily.

“Marvelous!” Linnet exclaimed, giggling. That was a song worthy of her aunt or mother, though she could hardly say so to Piers.

“My father isn’t quite so amused,” Piers said, nodding.

“I feel as if I’m watching a play.” Sure enough, the duke was scowling so fiercely that the resemblance to his son was unmistakable.

“I had the same sensation last night. If we were in a box in the theater,” Piers said, “it would be rather dark.”

“And?”

The duke’s lower lip was jutting out, and he was tapping his fingers on his knee.

“I would put my arm around you,” Piers said, “risking public censure.” He did just that, pulling her back into the depths of the sofa.

Linnet looked up at him. “I suppose if I were very, very tired after some unexpected activity during the day, I might rest my head on your shoulder.” And she did.

Piers’s fingers traced little circles on her bare arm, making it hard to think about the drama unfolding before them. Lady Bernaise finished her song and got up from the pianoforte with a flutter of skirts. The Ducklings clustered around her.

They were all laughing—indeed, they were convulsed with laughter.

“Dear me,” Piers said, “those actors shouldn’t forget that they have an audience—to wit, us.”

But just then, his mother obliged, her light voice coming through the laughter perfectly clearly. She had her fan open, and her eyes glittered dangerously over the edge. “I have always thought, Mr. Bitts, that a hard man is good to find.”

Linnet choked back a laugh, but Piers was looking to his father. “She’s brought the old lion out of his cave with that witticism,” he said into her hair.

Sure enough, the duke was on his feet. The doctors scattered like chaff in front of him; he slipped his hand under the lady’s arm and towed her out of the room before Linnet could do more than blink.

“What a shame,” Piers said, not moving.

Linnet tried to sit up. “We should—”

Piers caught Kibbles’s eye and jerked his head. In a second the Ducklings were gone.

“The entertainment is over,” Piers said mournfully. “Only you and I left in the darkened theater.”

“Where is your cousin?” Linnet asked, suddenly realizing the marquis was nowhere to be seen.

“Prufrock pulled him out of the room a few minutes ago. A patient must have shown up with a broken limb, since that’s Sébastien’s speciality.”

Linnet relaxed against Piers’s shoulder, letting him pull her closer, and then tilted her head up to examine the ceiling. There was nothing much up there to examine, but it did give Piers the chance to dust kisses over her neck.

“Mmmm,” Linnet hummed, deep in her throat.

“I love it when you do that,” Piers said, raising his head to drop a kiss on the corner of her mouth.

“Do what?”

“Make that little sound in your throat that means you’re willing and able.”

“Are you implying that I’m easy?” Linnet asked, nettled.

“Are you implying that I wouldn’t respect you if you were? After all, you’re not the one who just extolled the virtues of hard men,” he pointed out. “That was my mother, the woman whom I have the most reason to honor.”

“I’m not easy,” Linnet said stubbornly.

“I, of all men, know that.” He nuzzled her ear. “But do you think that perhaps you could do an imitation of an easy hussy later this evening?”

Linnet found herself trembling. Piers was holding her tightly, and licking—he was licking!—the edge of her ear. “That is a very strange thing to do,” she said, avoiding his question.

In answer, he nipped her ear lobe, and a little pulse of fire went straight to Linnet’s thighs. “Very strange!” she managed.

“All this hair of yours is in the way.”

“As for tonight,” Linnet began—but the door opened.

It was Prufrock. “I apologize for interrupting, but his lordship the marquis has requested your assistance.”

“Tricky operation?” Piers asked, still nuzzling Linnet’s ear.

Linnet tried to sit up straight, but he didn’t let her.

“So I understand,” Prufrock said. And then, obedient to some unseen signal, or unwritten code, he backed straight through the doorway and closed the door behind him.

“Damnation,” Piers sighed.

“How tricky can it be to lop off a limb?” Linnet said. “I would think it would be rather straightforward, like sawing a log, only messier.”

“Where’s your maidenly squeamishness?” Piers demanded. “You sound as if you wouldn’t mind holding one end of the saw.”

“I wouldn’t,” Linnet said, thinking about it. “I expect it would be interesting. You really must let me sit up. I’m sure Prufrock was horrified.”

“Prufrock? Nothing horrifies that man. Besides, you are my fiancée. We’re allowed to nuzzle each other.”

“Not without a chaperone somewhere in the vicinity,” Linnet said firmly.

“Pooh. I expect you never went anywhere without a chaperone during the season, did you?”

“Never.”

“And look where it got you . . . pregnant by a prince, and betrothed to a maniac.”

Since Linnet had often thought the same thing, she could hardly protest. So she turned her head, just a fraction of an inch, and caught his lips as they slid across her jaw.