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another social blunder by addressing the duchess as Lady Arbuthnot, rather than the customary title of "your grace," or the more informal "Duchess." She didn't care. All these titles and mannerisms were enough to make one's head spin, and her head wasn't up to it this morning. She poured herself a cup of coffee and added a generous amount of sugar. Never again, she vowed, would she drink champagne. Once was enough.
    She took her cup of coffee to the foot of the long dining table and sat down, careful to avoid looking at Edward's plate of kidneys. "Where's Papa?"
    "Your father is giving some of our guests a tour of the gallery," Cornelia answered. "He said they would be in shortly."
    Roger, she knew, was not with them. Cornelia had already told her of the viscount's dawn departure, news which had brought a feeling of profound relief. She took a scone from the basket on the table and nibbled it absently, her mind preoccupied with thoughts of the night before, thoughts which led inevitably to the stranger who had invaded her privacy.
    Where had he come from? An image of him formed in her mind, an image of windswept dark hair and mocking eyes. Who was he?
    A sound interrupted her thoughts, and Margaret glanced up. Her father entered the room with Lady Agnes on his arm. Behind the pair came Lady Sally, gazing rapturously at the tall man beside her, a man horrifyingly familiar.
    It was him.
    The man was incredibly handsome. Given the darkness last night, the champagne, his disheveled appearance, and her justified outrage, she hadn't taken much notice of it. But she noticed it now. Masculine strength was carved in every line of his face, from the deep-set eyes and angular features to the determined line of his jaw and chin. He was smiling at the girl on his arm, a smile that, when it wasn't tinged with mockery, was devastatingly charming.
    His gaze caught hers. Margaret felt heat flood her face as she heard her father introduce everyone.
    "You know Lord Kettering, of course. This is the Duchess of Arbuthnot, whom you may know. Also, my niece, Lady Kettering. And this is my daughter, Margaret Van Alden. May I present the Earl of Ashton, Trevor St. James. He arrived last night from Egypt to conduct some business with Edward before he goes home to his estates in Kent."
    "Trevor," Edward said, rising to his feet, "you look much better. You slept well?"
    "Yes, I did. Thank you, my friend."
    Margaret noted the familiarity with which the two men spoke and heartily wished her matchmaking family to perdition. This stranger was just another British lord, a friend of Edward's, recommended by Cornelia and invited here by Henry for the sole purpose of meeting her. She began crumbling her scone to pieces on her plate as she watched Henry play the hospitable host, showing the earl the breakfast dishes on the sideboard before taking his seat at the head of the table. Margaret shot her father a defiant glance which he did not seem to see, then she fixed her gaze on her plate.
    A movement beside her caused her to glance up. She found that the man had taken the first seat to her left and was staring at her. She forced her hands to stop tearing her scone apart, but she could not look away.
    His vivid blue gaze lingered on her as if she were the only thing in the room worth looking at. He had been looking at Sally in the exact same way scarcely two minutes before, and she was unimpressed. Still, she fought back the urge to squirm beneath the bold scrutiny. His jet-black hair fell over his brow in careless fashion as he leaned back and studied her through half-closed eyes.
    His knowing smile told her he was thinking of the night before. She looked away, but she could feel him watching her. If he told anyone, her reputation would be ruined.
    Margaret wanted to toss her scone in his face.
    "So, Ashton, you're finally going home." The acerbic voice of the duchess caused the man to give her his attention, and Margaret nearly sighed with relief.
    "I fear I