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help but wonder who the real man behind the mask was.
    Penelope insisted she and Eugenia visit Cynthia
that very next afternoon to relay their discovery that the masked man at the
masquerade was none other than the Duke of Rothford.
    Cynthia had barely settled on the sofa cushion in
her family’s turquoise and gold parlor before she asked, “Is he truly a duke,
Genie?” Her wide-open eyes focused on Eugenia for an answer.
    “You should have been there, Cynthia.” Penelope
gave the account of how the Duke of Rothford and his companion, the Honorable
Donald Hamby, became known to them. It had been a critical gathering that
Cynthia had missed. “The Duke saw to the introductions himself.”
    Cynthia gasped, covering her mouth in shock. “Say
he didn’t!”
    “He did,” Eugenia replied, not at all thrilled to
make the confession. Penelope’s version of her meeting with the Duke had more
than a mere ring of gossip.
    “And Genie shamelessly flirted with him,” Penelope
leaned forward to whisper.
    “You didn’t!” Cynthia drew in another quick breath
and stared at Eugenia, shocked.
    “She did!” Penelope appeared to enjoy adding her
salacious enhancements wherever she could manage. “She used her fan with such
skill.”
    “I was following your instructions!” Eugenia
exclaimed in her defense. She was not the one who had the knowledge of such
things.
    “I did not hold a loaded pistol to your back,”
Penelope returned rather sharply. “I was only trying to help you do what you
must.”
    Eugenia looked away. Perhaps she ought not to have
done it but that was beside the point. This was too cruel a reminder of her
untoward behavior of the night before.
    “But he did seek you out.” Cynthia glanced to one
side, apparently lost in deep consideration of Eugenia’s circumstances. “And he
made himself known to you, without a proper introduction and without the
permission from your aunt. What if he should prove unsuitable?”
    “Unsuitable?” The notion never occurred to Eugenia.
    “Cynthia, he is a duke!” Penelope reminded her. As
if one holding a title could not be loathsome and dishonorable in any way.
    “There are those families who seek a wife’s fortune
to replenish their own. He would not be the first.”
    Eugenia blinked. “I have no fortune.”
    “But you do have a dowry,” Penelope pointed out. “How
much would Lord Langford’s daughter bring?”
    “He may not know. Then again, he may not care.”
Cynthia maintained her dubious air. “Perhaps he is overwhelmed by your beauty.”
    “You have enchanted him.” Penelope stood and
strolled to the window. “We may arrive together for the Little Season but you will
be the fiancée of a duke.”
    And Aunt Rose thought Eugenia was the one who wove
fanciful tales.
    “The Little Season will begin with the grand
celebration of your forthcoming nuptials,” Penelope elaborated. “Shall we be
invited to the wedding?”
    “I should hope so. We were with Genie when she and
the duke first met.” Cynthia grasped Eugenia’s hand. “Will the banns be read
that first Sunday or shall you be wed with a special license?”
    “I cannot imagine he should want to wait longer
than he needs,” Penelope stated in complete confidence.
    “I had wished for a wedding at St. George’s.”
Eugenia’s confession was a closely held secret. She had heard of well-known
aristocrats marrying there and only dared dream that she could do the same.
    “Oh, that would be grand.” Penelope’s faraway
dreamy visage matched that of Cynthia’s expression.
    Eugenia hoped she had not succumbed to the same.
    “And what of your gown?” Cynthia’s voice took on
the same dreamy quality of her face. “I had always wished for pale pink cotton
with fine embroidery.”
    “I should have a silver satin dress, I think,”
Penelope mused.
    “I have always dreamed of white silk and a bit of
lace.” Eugenia divulged another secret desire. “And flowers. Dozens, hundreds
perhaps.