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refusing all the constraints of good manners. A gentleman always helped a lady to mount. Always.
    And he would choose to do so on the day her father issued an ultimatum.
    "Don't be ridiculous." She reined in her temper as she would a rambunctious horse — as she wished she could rein in Fitz. Never had she swung her cane upon a horse with injurious intent. But it would feel so satisfying now to connect the smooth bamboo with flesh. Masculine flesh, not equine. As His Grace had said, she needed some method of gaining Fitz's attention, since it seemed she'd never truly had it. "Putting weight in the stirrup would drag the saddle off-center and twist it on the horse's back. Tricksey's finely bred and sensitive, and I have no wish to cause her further discomfort."
    "But you must admit it would be a handy—" Without warning, Fitz's mouth snapped closed. His grin died away; his glare returned.
    She'd be burned at the stake before she'd answer that. She would not give him the treatment he deserved, because it would lead to her father giving her a treatment she didn't. Seething, her pulse roaring in her ears, Beryl turned Tricksey toward the low fence; she could scramble up from there without hurting the mare. It would be graceless and she'd look ridiculous, but she had to mount somehow, and putting weight in the stirrup was out of the question.
    Not that that blathering fool would care.
    A white cravat, perfectly tied; a maroon riding coat, sleeves leading down to a pair of clasped hands in white kid gloves; pale blue eyes, cold as iced steel. She stopped before cannoning into His Grace's chest, but only by grabbing Tricksey's mane. Silently he stood beside her, waiting with his hands ready. Rake or no, questionable reputation or no, he was prepared to perform the office of a true gentleman. Was that why Fitz had broken off his sentence? His jaw now was clenched tightly closed, and a flush had started climbing up from his collar.
    Excellent. Served the sop right.
    Beryl awarded His Grace her most grateful smile. Those cold-steel eyes softened, warmed, smiled in return. He bent down, she settled her left boot into his clasped hands — hopefully his valet would be able to clean that white kid leather — and he bounced her into the saddle.
    A duke. A real duke, acting as her personal groom.
    And everyone was watching.
    It felt glorious. As if someone truly appreciated her. Saw her worth and willingly sacrificed a valuable pair of white kid gloves to soothe her anger and calm her soul. To make up for her beloved Fitz's boorishness.
    Before she'd settled, before she'd shortened her reins and settled the still-unblooded bamboo cane against Tricksey's off side, Fitz scrambled aboard Rounder and trotted off.
    Posting in the most ordinary of manners. Without a backward glance.

Chapter Four

    Tuesday, March 16, 1813 continued
    "I've always thought George Anson was handsome. Don't you?"
    Belinda lounged on Beryl's four-poster, her pale muslin afternoon gown a colorless gleam against the silken primrose duvet. Her blond curls fell on either side of her face, hiding her expression, but her chubby hands stilled amidst the swirling ribbon the maid had set out for Beryl's hair. She'd been playing with it for an hour, winding it about her fingers and letting it unwind and drift down to the duvet, while Nan had curled and laced and puffed Beryl into her finery. It was the first moment Belinda had been still all afternoon.
    "And a really good dancer." Still no movement. "Have you noticed?"
    "George Anson?" Beryl shuddered, then took another deep breath and held it. Nan's fingers paused, then resumed fastening the evening gown's pearl buttons. Tug, twist; tug, twist; inch by inch down her spine, currently at the small of her back. "I try not to."
    "Whyever not?" Belinda's face shot up, flinging back her obscuring curls. "His father's a lord and a senior bencher. They have a subscription to Almack's, for pity's sake, and boxes at the Olympic Theater