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unless she says so. But she does say so. Said so to me, as well as to you. Queer, these rules of society, but there it is: A gentleman must honor a lady’s wishes in these matters.”
    Morton wished himself out of there. Harwood was too tall, too stern-looking. Memories of his legendary prowess with a pistol and small sword suddenly superseded Dolphus’s interest in Seymour’s beauteous widow. “Well, of course, if she’s already refused you. Should have said so, my dear. Couldn’t dance with me afterward, could you? You’ll need to relearn these little rules, else you’ll commit some social gaffe. Be glad to assist you. I’ll call on you tomorrow. My sons will be eager to meet your lovely Jennifer.”
    He looked hopefully at Deborah, expecting some encouragement, but the widow Cornwall remained utterly silent, so he made a hasty bow and a judicious retreat, offering his arm to Lydia Smithfield, who was standing at the duke’s elbow.
    As for Lydia, she accepted it gratefully. Harwood’s response had not been encouraging, and though Lord Morton was in no way as appealing as the Duke of Harwood, he, too, was a widower and had a title, didn’t he?
    The duke took one look at Deborah’s pallor and steered her quickly to the chairs set up for the chaperones.
    “Wait here; I will bring you something to drink,” he commanded.
    Deborah nodded, hiding her trembling hands in the folds of her gown. She pretended to watch her daughter dance, but her mind was too jumbled with unpleasant thoughts to concentrate on anything.
    By the time Harwood returned, she had recovered herself somewhat and was beginning to be embarrassed by her loss of self-control. The duke distracted her and put her at ease by a running commentary on the dancers as they whirled by. She listened, smiling, until he pointed out a young woman she knew.
    “See the short, heavy creature at the head of that set,” he asked, indicating with a nod which group he had in mind.
    “Miss Gracemont.”
    “Yes, that’s the one. Would you believe her mother hinted that her child would make me a fine duchess.”
    Though Mrs. Gracemont had snubbed her and Jennifer, Deborah felt pity for the unattractive young woman whom the duke was mocking.
    “She may very well be a lovely person, but I collect you require a diamond of the first water,” Deborah responded in a repressive tone.
    Harwood shook his head. Surprise at Lady Cornwall’s implied criticism lifted his brows. “That was not my meaning. Her mother should have better sense than to look for her daughter’s husband among the greybeards.”
    Deborah surveyed his beardless chin and shining black hair, so lightly tinged with grey. “One would not think to put you in
that
category, sir.”
    “I assure you the young girls do! And their mothers had best look for young men to keep up with them, instead of greedily seeking the highest title they can obtain for their children.”
    Again Deborah felt the prickles of rebellion. How dare he condemn women out of hand? What did
he
know of the fears and anxieties that drove women?
    “A mother seeking a kind husband for her daughter may well be painfully aware that a man in the first flush of youthful strength and vigor may not be the best choice.” So saying, she rose. “I see the dance has ended, and Jenny is looking for me.”
    The duke followed her, looking thoughtful. He certainly hadn’t changed his mind about the advisability of May-December marriages, but the viscountess’s strictures made him think he should perhaps take a more, charitable view of the mothers’ motives in arranging them.
    In response to an almost invisible signal from his daughter, Harwood suggested that Sarah sit out the next dance rather than accept Arnold Lanscombe’s invitation to join him on the floor. “I think you are looking a bit flushed, my dear,” he suggested.
    “I am rather winded, Father,” Sarah sighed, turning toward the chairs. “Do ask Penelope to dance, Arnold. She is