Anna sat at almost the same moment as the Duke of Netherby got to his feet and strolled across the room to stand before her chair. Everyone fell silent, as everyone always seemed to do whenever he as much as raised a finger or an eyebrow. He regarded her in silence for a few moments with those keen, sleepy eyes.

“Anna,” he said, startling her with the use of the name by which she knew herself, “the sun is shining and the fresh air and Hyde Park beckon. If you accompany me there, there is a risk that the ton may catch a glimpse of an apparent governess with me and draw its own conclusions as to your identity. The ton may then proceed to fall into a collective swoon of shock, or it may scurry off to report the sighting to those less fortunate, or it may simply go on its way and about its own business. Knowing all this, would you care to come with me?”

Anna bit her lip to stop herself from laughing nervously, so unexpectedly bizarre were his words.

“Is this wise, Netherby?” Uncle Thomas asked. “Louise has just been pointing out—”

The Duke of Netherby neither turned his head nor replied. “Anna?” he said softly.

He was like some alien creature. She was not frightened of him. Never that. In fact, she had just been amused by him. But . . . well, far more than any of the other people in the room, he seemed to epitomize a universe so different from her own that there could be no possibility of any meaningful communication. Why would he wish to walk with her, to risk being seen with her—an apparent governess?

But . . . fresh air? And a temporary escape from this room and all the other people in it?

“Thank you,” she said. “That would be pleasant.”

“Mother,” Aunt Matilda said. “Anastasia must not be allowed to do this. Louise is quite right. Oh, this is not welldone of you, Avery.”

“If you must go, someone ought to go with you as a chaperone, Anastasia,” the earl suggested. “Lizzie, perhaps you would be willing?”

“Ah, but you see, Cousin Elizabeth,” the duke said softly, his eyes still upon Anna’s, “you are not invited.”

The lady in question smiled at the back of his head, merriment in her eyes, Anna noticed.

“My granddaughter does not need a chaperone when she steps out with the Duke of Netherby,” the dowager countess said. “His father married my daughter, did he not? And Avery is quite right. We cannot keep Anastasia indoors here until she is ready. She may never be ready.”

Seven

Five minutes later, having donned her cloak, bonnet, and gloves—the same ones as yesterday—Lady Anastasia Westcott stood on the pavement outside Westcott House. No doubt this was her best outfit, Avery thought, her only best one. It would be interesting to see her everyday clothes—or perhaps not.

She had looked in need of rescuing. Not that he would have rushed into the breach if there were not something about her that piqued his interest. Perhaps it was the way she had not taken fright yesterday when she set foot inside Archer House and encountered . . . him. He knew he intimidated most people. Or perhaps it was the quiet, dignified little speech she had delivered in the rose salon after Brumford had finished with all his disclosures. Or perhaps it was the answer she had given a short while ago when the dowager countess described her as looking like a lowly governess.

He offered his arm and was left with it cocked in midair when she did not take it. He raised his eyebrows.

“I do not need any assistance, thank you,” she said.

Well.

“I suppose,” he said, lowering his arm, “orphan boys are not taught to offer an arm to orphan girls when they walk together on the street, and orphan girls are not taught to accept male gallantries when they are offered. It is not part of your school curriculum?”

“Of course not,” she said in all seriousness. “How absurd.”

“I suspect you are about to encounter a whole world of absurdity,” he said, “unless after the first or second time you lose heart or nerve or temper and scurry back to your schoolroom.”

“If I return to Bath,” she said, “it will be because I have chosen to do so after careful, rational consideration.”

“In the meanwhile,” he said, “your grandmother and aunts and uncles—uncle, singular—and cousins will work ceaselessly, day and night, to wipe clean the slate that has been your life for the past twenty-five years and transform you into their image of what Lady Anastasia Westcott ought to be. They will do it because of course it is more desirable for you to be a lady than an orphan and rich rather than destitute and elegant rather than dowdy—and because you are a Westcott and one of them.”

“I was not destitute,” she said.

“I will not take much of a hand in the education of Lady Anastasia Westcott,” he told her, “partly because my connection to the Westcott family is purely an honorary one and mainly because it would be a crashing bore and I avoid boredom as I would the plague.”

“I am surprised, then,” she said, “that you came to Westcott House today. I am even more surprised that you invited me to walk with you instead of escaping alone.”

“Ah,” he said softly, “but I suspect you are not boring, Anna. And yes, I did invite you to walk, did I not? I did not invite you to stand thus with me on the pavement outside your house, snapping at me and calling me absurd and very probably being peered down upon by a number of your relatives. Allow me to contribute my mite to your education, then, even against all my better instincts. When a gentleman walks with a lady, Anna, he offers his arm for her support and expects her to take it. If she does not, he is first humiliated beyond bearing—he might even consider going home and shooting himself—and then shocked by the realization that perhaps she is not a lady after all. Either way, actually, he may end up shooting himself.”