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doesn’t want to use an Eton accent, although I wager he could.
    She had to force herself to focus on the other members of the house party. They were assembled in the drawing room around a cheerful fire – a perfect tableau of aristocracy in idleness. Their clothing was impractical, their conversation superfluous, and their smiles as tight as their collars.
    Preshea felt instantly at home. The moment she entered the room, currents of power flowed in her direction. She knew herself to be beautiful, and, in her overly simple green gown, daring.Risk-takers were often respected in a fixed social order, for they courted the edge of propriety.
    Always inspire ardor or terror – it matters not which, for in society, they share the same sauce.
    Then a certain Scotsman entered behind her and attention shifted. She should resent it, but she understood it all too well. That damnable Captain Ruthven was impressive. It was hard for a Mourning Star to overshadow a mountain. In fact, even now, she wanted to turn towards him as he blithely conquered the room. His technique was amateurish and inadvertent. How can he not know his effect?
    She forced herself to glance at Mr Jackson, establishing a friendly alliance of strangers in the soup together.
    Their hostess commenced introductions. Of course, Preshea already knew the names, but she paid careful attention, charting the flow of expectation and precedence as one title followed another.
    Three of the duke’s living children were in residence. And the dead one, of course. But as it was still daytime, the ghost was not present.
    Lady Violet Bicker-Harrow was plainer than Preshea expected, dark and round like her mother but wearing both in better humor. She rose the moment they entered the room, putting aside a sketchbook upon which, instead of the expected insipid landscape, there was a shockingly scientific diagram of a flower.
    She gave Preshea and the visiting gentlemen a curtsey without artifice. Preshea dampened down a strange sadness that her own motives must conflict with this poor girl’s love affaire.
    “My dear Lady Vi!” Mr Jackson charged across the room to grab her fingers and press them ardently.
    Lady Violet blushed and tried, not very hard, to withdraw her hand.
    Preshea couldn’t help but bless Captain Ruthven for exclaiming, “By fegs, Jack! We’ve just arrived. Control yourself.”
    Such rudeness, though warranted, was only to be expected from a Scotsman.
    One of the other ladies tittered.
    Mr Jackson, shamefaced, returned to the doorway with a hangdog expression. “I apologize, Your Grace – I quite forgot myself, being back in your daughter’s glorious presence.”
    The duke gave Preshea a significant look. She wished he would stop. He’ll botch everything. I know what I’m about.
    “With your permission, young man, my wife will carry on her hostess duties?”
    Lady Violet covered her mouth to hide her shock at this blatant rebuke of her beau.
    Is that my leverage? Is the very boldness of our Mr Jackson a detriment to his suit? Perhaps I need not intercept but instead encourage him in his foolishness?
    The next Snodgrove offspring, Lady Florence, was a livelier version of her older sister. She was practically jolly, with Cupid’s bow lips and freckles across her uptilted nose. For all her pleasant demeanor, there was a tension about her shoulders that Preshea knew well. This one has secrets.
    Lady Florence’s bosom companion sat next to her, a Miss Jane Pagril. A pretty brunette with a generous mouth that looked as if it smiled readily.
    Preshea suppressed an inclination to dislike both ladies. Cheerful people were abominable.
    Lord Lionel Bicker-Harrow, the only Snodgrove son present, was a match to his sisters in the matter of appearance, only a great deal more whiskered. He leaned his stocky frame against the piano where his affianced, Miss Fanny Leeton, palpated melodically.
    The former actress stopped her playing to rise and curtsey upon introduction.