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careful not to disturb her coiffure—a man married to a duchess learned the knack of such things.
    â€œYour thinking is logical, and Louisa is logical. There are still many people who believe daughters ought to marry in birth order or not at all. I will say again that Louisa should have been a cavalry officer. She has the gallantry for it and the excellent seat.”
    â€œAlso the outspoken opinions and tendency to take charge of matters outside her authority.”
    â€œYou can’t blame the girl if she takes after her mama in some regards.”
    Esther sat forward and aimed a glare at him, until he smiled at her ruffled feathers. She smiled too and subsided against him. “Shameless man, and you a duke.”
    â€œAlso a father. Have you spoken to Louisa about her wayward notions? She cannot be allowed to give up so soon, Esther. Young men are blockheads. This is known to all save young men themselves, and Louisa is not one to tolerate blockheadedness from any quarter.”
    â€œPercival, what if Louisa is right?”
    The little note of despair in his duchess’s voice sent alarm skittering through His Grace’s vitals. “Right? To give up the chase after what, only three Seasons? That is rot, utter tripe, Esther, to think—”
    She put her fingers to his lips, giving him the scent of roses and the sensation of soft, soft skin against his mouth. “Six Seasons, Percival. Six Seasons, which means for five Seasons she’s had to stand around with her empty dance card, secure in the knowledge she has not taken, convincing herself all the while that it’s her fault her sisters have not married.”
    Her Grace was being reasonable. She was at her most dangerous when she was being reasonable.
    â€œMaggie was past thirty when she married, my love. Men are idiots, is the trouble. We need time to mature beyond the screaming demands of our base natures, to appreciate a woman’s—”
    He fell silent. He’d been such an idiot, and only by the grace of a merciful God and the cleverness of his dear duchess had he been spared the marriage from hell.
    â€œI don’t want to give up on her either, Percival, for Louisa has a soft heart and would make a wonderful wife and mother, but to see her tortured, Season after Season…”
    Tortured. Tortured was not a word a father liked to hear regarding any of his offspring, but most especially not his pretty, proud, and—facing facts was also part of being a duke—sometimes blunt-to-a-fault daughter.
    â€œShe dances well.” He needed to defend Louisa, even to her mother.
    â€œWith the few who ask her.”
    â€œShe’s fluent in any number of languages.”
    â€œSo why hasn’t she singled out some diplomat? They tend to be from good families, and we’ve certainly seen enough of them underfoot in recent years.”
    â€œShe’s very well read.”
    â€œAppallingly so, some would say.”
    â€œShe understands mathematics better than any Oxford don.”
    â€œPercival, that is hardly an attribute that will secure her a happy future.”
    His Grace rose from the sofa, needing to pace in the face of such honesty. “It isn’t Louisa’s fault she’s got a brain. It isn’t her fault she isn’t dainty and blond and simpering. You never simpered, Esther, and no woman of your magnificent height could be called dainty.”
    Refined, yes—Her Grace managed that easily—but she was not dainty.
    â€œI never asked Lord Hubert if I might try a puff of his cigar, either.”
    â€œHubert is eighty if he’s a day. How else is a young lady to flatter and flirt with such a curmudgeon?” Except old Hubert in his cups had a puerile turn of mind, and a puff of his cigar had—several brandies later—turned into a much more prurient innuendo. His Grace shuddered to recall the quiet talk he’d had with the man in the sober light of