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nobility lay in her great-grandfather, and she was a professional portraitist, of all things. And she knew that Melbourne had initially disliked the match. To his credit the duke had softened considerably, and that was probably in part because Caroline could definitely hold her own when push came to shove.
    “They are the finest I’ve ever seen,” he returned. “I should make a tidy profit.” If he could wrest them back from a certain clever, stubborn, exotic chit. After a moment he realized that everyone still gazed at him. “What?”
    “And you tease me over my obsession with cattle.” Zachary grinned at him. “I only asked if you were going to sell the lot of it up in Milford, or piecemeal here in London.”
    “I’m not certain yet.” And if some of the silk began appearing in local dress shops, he wanted an excuse for it.
    Melbourne eyed him. “I thought you had Tannen chomping at the bit for the entire lot.”
    Damn. This was the last time he would count his chickens or his eggs before he had the ownership papers in hand. Neither, though, was he going to admit to having been outmaneuvered by a chit just off the boat from India. “I’m reassessing,” he improvised.
    “They must be good quality, then.”
    “You have no idea, Seb.”
    As soon as he could manage it without appearing to be rushing, Charlemagne got everyone away from the dinner table and out to their waiting coaches. There. At least he’d been fairly smooth about it, and now he could determine whether Lady Sarala Carlisle was brave enough to face him on neutral ground, or whether she would only stand up to him in the safety of her own home.
    “Why the hurry?” Zachary asked as he settled into the coach beside his wife.
    Charlemagne opposite him, conjured a frown. “What hurry?”
    “It’s barely half past nine, and Cook made strawberry cakes.”
    “If we waited for you to finish eating, we’d never leave,” Charlemagne retorted.
    Zachary looked thoughtful. “Can’t argue with that, I suppose.” He reached over and took his wife’s hand, twining his fingers with hers. “Did Caroline tell you that Prinny wants to sit for her next month? The finished portrait’s to go up in the main gallery at Carlton House.”
    “If His Majesty approves of it,” his wife added, shaking her head at him.
    “I’m not surprised,” Charlemagne said. “In fact, the only thing about you that continues to astonish me, Caroline, is that you agreed to marry Zachary.”
    She snorted delicately, looking sideways at her husband. “He’s very persuasive, and much more artistically inclined than you give him credit for.”
    For the moment Charlemagne settled for nodding. He liked Caroline, and he was glad that Zachary had been able to persuade her to marry him. They obviously loved each other—and while he wasn’t jealous, he certainly recognized the rarity of the phenomenon. “The rest of us give him credit. We just don’t like to let him know it. Swelled head and all that.”
    “Why, thank you, Shay.”
    Charlemagne shrugged. “Melbourne and I aren’t completely unobservant.”
    “Neither am I. Who was the chit you were dancing with the other night?”
    With some effort Charlemagne managed a puzzled look. “Eloisa Harding? You know her.”
    “Not her. The glittering one with the black hair.”
    “Oh, her. She’s Hanover’s niece. The new marquis’s daughter.”
    “They’ve just come from India or something, haven’t they?”
    “I believe so.”
    “Hm. From her coloring and choice of wardrobe, apparently the chit’s gone native.”
    “Apparently.” Charlemagne shifted. The less conversation about Sarala Carlisle, the better. At least until he’d reacquired his silks.
    “Do you believe Valentine about Morgan?” Zach continued, thankfully changing the subject without having to be prompted to do so.
    “He has a tendency to know odd things about people. It’s rather like having a professional spy in the family.”
    “As long as