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dancing in the most delicious way. “What promise did I ever break to you?”
    “You haven’t broken any yet,” he said, allowing his voice to drop a register into a deeper intimacy. “But you will.”
    “I will?” She raised a delicate eyebrow.
    “Alas and alack,” he said, sighing. “A man says he loves a woman, and she invariably believes that he worships her. Yet we men are so awkward at kneeling. We do it without much conviction.”
    She shook her head dolefully. “And still a man invariably expects that a woman will kneel in front of him with…utmost enthusiasm.”
    Fletch had a sudden, enlivening idea of precisely what she would do, kneeling before him. The smile lurking on the edge of her lush lips suggested she might even enjoy it.
    “You haven’t guessed my name yet,” she prompted.
    “I know you are Lady Nevill,” he said. “But I don’t know the most important thing of all.”
    “And that is?”
    “Your proper name, of course.” He picked up her hand. “One learns much from a woman’s intimate name. I hope you aren’t a Mary…so puritanical.”
    She giggled at that, and the sensual sound of it raced down his legs. “I’m not Mary.”
    He traced a small pattern on her wrist. “There are many English names that evoke a kind of sturdy Englishhood,” he said. “I find it hard to put you together with a name like Lucy or Margaret.”
    “Surely I don’t look like a sturdy Englishwoman!”
    He took up her invitation and surveyed her from head to foot. Her eyes had a wicked slant, tipped up at the edges and emphasized by the kohl. Her lips were lushly red, crimson almost. Her bodice was stiffly laced and low; her breasts were much larger than Poppy’s and plumped above their restraint, as if begging for a man’s hand.
    “No,” he said slowly, feeling desire as a palpable ache. “No, you don’t look sturdy to me.”
    “I’ll give you a hint,” she said. “It begins with an L.”
    “Lily,” he said, “like a flower.”
    “Too wholesome.” Her eyes danced again.
    “Lettice.”
    She put up her nose. “I am not a garden vegetable.”
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had a great-aunt named Lettice and I’ve always liked it. Laetitia?” She shook her head. “Lorelei?” A nice name, she declared, but not hers. “Liliane?”
    Finally, she gave in and told him. “Louise.”
    “Louise…” He rolled the word on his tongue. “Very nice.”
    Her throaty giggle was reply enough.
    Fletch laughed—they were both laughing—
    When Poppy suddenly appeared with Gill and St. Albans beside her. “Hello,” she said.
    She wasn’t smiling.



Chapter 5
    THE MORNING POST (CONTINUED)
    Such is our plight when duchesses of a desperate disposition—wild to a fault and liable to obey no man’s word—are nurtured on the Continent, and return to our shores. One can only hope that such virtuous young duchesses as the esteemed Duchess of Fletcher, noted throughout the land for her charitable activities, will not find herself drawn into this circle of Amazons.
    J emma could feel a weight fall from her shoulders that she hadn’t realized was there. Yes, her brother was fine. But her friend…her chess partner…Villiers?
    The duke stood in the doorway, seemingly oblivious to the scrutiny of several hundred pairs of eyes. He looked, perhaps, a trifle white, but otherwise he was as extravagantly elegant as ever.
    The word cloak brings to mind black velvet: but Villiers wore a sweep of rosy silk, edged in a stiff little ruffle of deep violet taffeta. The ruffle bore a gorgeous pattern of embroidery that resembled iron lattice work; in all Jemma’s years in Paris, at the Court of Versailles, she had never seen such an exquisite costume. His black hair, streaked with white, was pulled back and tied with a velvet ribbon that perfectly matched his cape.
    “The cape will protect his shoulder injury,” Damon murmured as they both made their way toward the door. “Smart fellow.”
    “There is no