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sniffed and took three deep breaths. The seams of her bodice creaked. “There. I’m better now.” She smiled a brave, watery smile. “See? I shall contrive to be aperfectly composed mother”—she gulped—“to … to … be!” She buried her face in the large linen handkerchief Richard produced.
    “Do something,” Hart said to him.
    Richard, aside from gazing sympathetically at his wife, didn’t move.
    “Oh! A mother! Me!” Fanny said, hiccuping uncontrollably.
    “Do something, man!” Hart repeated more forcefully.
    “What?” Richard asked. “She’s been crying off and on for weeks now. I’ve purchased two score handkerchiefs since Fan’s been breeding. Not much else to do, ’cept keep myself well stocked with the tear towels, don’t you know.”
    “Is she all right?” Hart asked. “She’s not sick, is she?”
    “No.” Fanny shook her head. “She’s not sick. She’s expecting … a … a …  baby!”
    “Poor Fan.” Richard patted her shoulder.
    “Get her some Devonshire cream,” Hart said on a sudden inspiration. “She always liked Devonshire cream when she was a lass. Would you like some Devonshire cream, Fan?”
    She nodded, still sniffing. “Devonshire cream would be nice.”
    “Get it,” Hart ordered Richard.
    “Perhaps we can have Acton’s cook find something,” Richard cooed. “Come along, Fan, dearest. We’ll search out a nice little cubbyhole and have ourselves a cream tea, shall we?”
    Hart let out the breath he’d been holding asRichard escorted his sister from the room. Good Lord , he thought. If pregnancy affects steady, even-tempered Fan this way, just think what it would do to someone like Mercy Coltrane . His brows snapped together. Where the bloody hell did that thought come from?
    As if in response to some internal—and infernal—call he’d made, the woman who was responsible for his scratched face, whose actions—or rather the contemplation of whose potential actions—had driven off what little rest he found in slumber, appeared. Beside her was the Dowager Duchess and a man he assumed was James Trent, Duke of Acton.
    Try as he might, Hart was unable to concentrate on Acton with Mercy standing so close. He contented himself with giving his potential brother-in-law a cursory study. A bit beneath average height, barrel chested, curling ginger-colored hair receding from a pleasant, blocky face. Hart’s gaze passed over him to Mercy.
    She did not give any indication they had met before. She looked at him with no more than polite interest, her mouth trembling on the cusp of a smile. She was rigged out in some impossible pink plaid outfit, the heavy skirts draped behind her knees, a waterfall of pale lace and ruffles tumbling behind her as she advanced with that too-long stride of hers. It was, he noted, a high-collared gown, unlike the décolletage of the other ladies in the room. Did she always take pains to hide the scar he had given her? His jaw tightened.
    The Dowager Duchess snapped a huge white ostrich feather fan open as they approached. She raised her thin silver eyebrows.
    “Perth,” she said. He bowed from the neck. She turned and rapped her son sharply on the arm. “James, may I present Hart Moreland, Earl of Perth. Perth, my son, James Trent, Duke of Acton.”
    Acton stepped forward and offered his hand. Hart took it and they shook. Then Acton turned.
    “Miss Coltrane, may I present—”
    “The Earl of Perth? So I heard.” She dimpled saucily. “Yes. You may present him. And I will present myself. Mercy Coltrane, Mr. Perth. Late of Texas. That’s a territory in the United States of America,” she said. “And where do you hang your hat, sir?”
    “Here and there.” He was aware his voice was not as smooth as he’d have liked. Impudent little baggage.
    “Perth is an inveterate tourist. Spends all his time roaming about the world,” the Dowager said. “We are most fortunate he has postponed his latest sojourn in order attend