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then.”
    Grey’s fork clattered to the plate. “Fuck you.” Now he was as foulmouthed as his brother.
    The other man was unruffled. “It’s a damn shite excuse and you know it.”
    “How about the fact that I’d never know if marrying me was just a way to say thank you for my saving her family?”
    Archer made a face, as though it was obvious. “You could ask her.”
    Grey slouched back in his chair, regarding his brother as though ten years rather than months divided them. “Would you want to know the answer if it was you?”
    His brother didn’t have a quick retort for that. And it was plain as the fading sneer on his face that Grey had made his point. “I suppose not.”
    His appetite gone, Grey tossed his napkin on the table. “I’m a decade her senior. I was a friend of her father, and I’m sure she looks upon me like a benevolent uncle. Even if she didn’t, I promised Charles I wouldn’t lay a hand on her.” The Earl of Marsden had been one of his dearest friends—practically his only friend. A promise to such a friend should not be easily broken.
    Archer jerked back, disbelief coloring his angular features. “Why the hell did you do that?”
    Grey shrugged. “He asked it of me.”
    Shaking his head, Archer exhaled a breath. “You never told me that before.”
    “I suppose I was ashamed.” And hurt, even though he understood his friend only made the request to protect his only child from a man whose sexual conquests had resulted in his being marked for life. Were the situation reversed, Grey might have very well demanded the same promise. And despite being a libertine, he was a man of his word.
    Archer stared at him for a long moment, elbow braced on the table, chin resting on his thumb as his index finger stroked his stubbled upper lip. “Devil take it, Grey. Charles Danvers was one cruel bugger.”
    A bitter smile curved Grey’s lips at the insult to his late friend. “Quite.”
     
    “And I think you should wear the blue Worth to your first ball. Perhaps the pink Pingat to the second. How kind of the duke to pay for such beautiful gowns! You must remember to thank him.”
    Rose acknowledged her mother with a faint smile. The older woman had scarce drawn breath since they’d left Bramsley. While she loved seeing her mother so animated—she’d been practically on a shade in the last two years since Rose’s father’s death—she really wished for a little peace to gather her thoughts before they arrived at Ryeton House.
    “I will thank Gr—the duke, mama. I promise.”
    Her mother smiled and clasped her hands together in her lap like a child overcome with joy. She peered out the carriage window, her gaze lit with joy. “It’s been so long since I’ve been to London, I’ve forgotten how much I missed it.”
    Her mother hadn’t been to London since her father died. Rose at least had the advantage of visiting her friend for a few days last year when the family was in town. Not during the Season, of course. This was her first Season in almost three years. Three long years since she’d had a new gown that wasn’t black or gray. Three years since she’d danced or put flowers in her hair. So long since she’d dressed up and made herself pretty so a would-be suitor might notice her.
    Three years—until last night.
    One more thing to add to the list of things to thank Grey for. At this rate she’d spend the next week doing nothing but showing him her appreciation.
    Part of her couldn’t shake the feeling that last night had been wrong—she had done something sinful. But she had wanted to do it. Wanted it more than she’d wanted anything—more than she wanted her father not to have lost all their money.
    And it was wonderful, more than she could have imagined, but it had been awful too, because as much as Grey might have pretended that it was she who he had made love to, he believed it to be someone else. He would never know the truth, and that tarnished the beauty of their night