Emary noted the endless line of carriages that preceded them, the process ensuring that they would be arriving fashionably late. When they finally stopped at the entrance to the large, Palladian townhouse, Emary gently placed her gloved hand in her father’s grasp as he assisted her to the ground. She was careful to watch her step, so that the piles of dirty snow, mixed with the more unsavory aspects to be found on the city streets, didn’t get on her shoes. It wouldn’t do to have a pile of horse droppings clinging to her pristine slippers.

They handed their outerwear over to the footmen that were standing like a pair of statues on either side of the foyer, and waited patiently in the long receiving line. Emary was used to this for she had attended nearly every event in her debut Season thus far, and she’d had a fabulous time doing so. She had never been so flattered or complimented in all of her nineteen years. She could easily ensnare an earl or a marquess, so a duke shouldn’t be any different.

Emary yearned to rise on her tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the golden head that everyone had been buzzing about for the past week, but she refrained from doing so. As it was, she felt as though she’d known the Duke of Windwood for years when they had never even met. She had heard that even though his father had forbade him to join the military, he had enlisted anyway and been awarded for his service in the Napoleonic Wars, that he had been named for some ancient Gaelic ancestor, that he liked two sugars but no cream in his tea, and that he was absurdly handsome.

With all of her knowledge about him, it was almost going to be too easy to capture a man like that. She would smile and use the charm that had brought more than one man to her parents’ front parlor on bended knee. But she had refused every offer of marriage thus far. It was going to take a special man to win her affections, and she had the feeling that Donovan was that one she’d been looking for.

A confident smile touched her lips as she drew closer to their host and hostess. Of course, Emary had met Donovan’s mother, Caroline Wainwright, the Dowager Duchess of Windwood, on several occasions. She was a handsome widow in her mid-fifties with golden hair that had grayed and dimmed in brilliance over time. She was tall and willowy and had a rather demure composure. Since Emary was already in the dowager’s good graces, it should be no hardship to capture her son’s attention.

At that moment, Emary finally caught a glimpse of her quarry, and her breath caught. Oh my. ‘Handsome’ didn’t seem like a strong enough word to describe him. His honey-colored hair was smoothed back from his forehead, the ends just brushing his collar. He was tall with a firm build; that much was easy to discern, and dressed in stark black and white with a ruby stickpin in the folds of his cravat. His jaw was square, his eyes direct and accessing as he greeted each of his guests. He didn’t seem to favor one more than the other, but then, he hadn’t yet made her acquaintance.

As she finally stood before him, Emary had to hold back a gasp. This close, she could see that he had eyes of the purest blue, but that wasn’t what had caught her focus. A scar ran along the left side of his face, from his brow and down the side of his temple. While she had been told that he’d served in the war, no one had bothered to mention that he had suffered such a concerning wound.

Her heart abruptly began to pound, a sensation she’d never experienced before. She hadn’t even felt this sudden anxiety when she’d been presented to the Royal Court. She forced herself to calm as she offered a delicate curtsy and a brilliant smile. Adding a slight flutter of her lashes that was sure to curry his favor, she said softly, “Your Grace.”

“A pleasure, Miss Pageant.” His deep voice was perfectly civil, but when she glanced at him to gain his reaction to her, he wasn’t regarding her in the manner of a man who was impressed with her appearance, or admiring of her looks, but rather as though he were…bored.

Emary swallowed her shock. She couldn’t move, stunned as she was by his flat reception. From the time she had arrived in London for her debut ball until this moment she had been admired by men and women alike. The men were entirely smitten by her appearance and manner, while the ladies, however envious they might be of the attention showered upon her, flocked to her simply to learn her secrets.

But this man with his hard gaze and tightly clenched jaw was different.

He was, in a word, fascinating.

There were more people behind Emary, waiting to come forward, but her feet wouldn’t obey her command to move away. As she lingered, something shifted in his face. It was subtle, but she saw the annoyance all the same.

Her mother touched her arm, shaking her out of her sudden stupor. “Come along, dear. Let’s not monopolize all of the duke’s time.”

Emary allowed herself to be led away, but she knew the duke wouldn’t stray far from her thoughts. A man like that would be worth fighting for, and at the end of the battle, she intended to be the one who carried the title of Duchess of Windwood.

The moment the lady and her parents were out of earshot, Donovan’s mother leaned near him to whisper, “Miss Pageant has caused quite a stir this Season. She is a lovely young woman and sought after by many gentlemen. The perfect example of a delicate English rose.”

Donovan wanted to roll his eyes. “Not everyone can be the epitome of perfection all the time.”

Caroline didn’t reply until another young girl had made her curtsy and moved out of earshot. “Perhaps not, but she would certainly be an acceptable candidate—”

“No,” he said firmly.

Her brows drew together into a delicate frown. “You didn’t even know what I was going to suggest.”

“Yes I did,” he contradicted dryly. “You were going to ask me to give her a chance, to get to know her.” He glanced at her. “Was I wrong?” She pursed her lips together, and he had to snort.

His mother sighed. “Just keep an open mind at least?”

“You know I will,” he returned, although he knew it was a lie. He’d met a hundred debutantes so far this evening. As yet, not a single girl he’d met tonight had given him much cause to hope. While Miss Pageant was one of the more comely ones, he knew she would be the same as all the others. They looked at him as if he was some sort of hero who hung the moon, or else they were frightened of his scar. The truth was, he was nothing more than a battle-hardened veteran.

He’d never understood why soldiers were romanticized. There was nothing remotely appealing about a bloodstained battlefield where a man had to watch the men he admired, the ones he’d trained with and perhaps had even known for years, fall at his feet with lifeless eyes. The only thing he’d been able to think about during those dark times was their parents and how they must be grieving for a son who wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas anymore, or perhaps a widow who was mourning a lost husband, the children at home crying for a father who would never have the chance to see them grow.

Emotion clogged his throat now, as it did whenever he found himself dressed in his ducal finery knowing that he was one of the lucky ones who had survived. Each day that he opened his eyes in the morning and stared at the canopy above his bed, now that the war was finally over, he couldn’t figure out why he’d been spared. Surely it wasn’t just so he could stand in the middle of an elegantly decorated London ballroom and be fawned over by countless, empty-headed chits that he could never even consider taking to wife.

And yet, that’s why he was here. He was nearly thirty years old. He knew his duty to his title, it was expected for him to marry and produce the requisite heir.

While he hated to be put on display, like a painting in the British museum, for people to observe and dissect with their approval or criticisms, he had his limits. He wasn’t going to be tied down for life to a silly girl who giggled constantly and couldn’t string two coherent words together, the only things that she cared about in life being fashion or needlepoint.

As another girl paused before him, her beaming parents behind her, he had to withhold a sigh.

It was going to be a long night.

Emary barely refrained from biting her nail in contemplation as the duke began to meander about the room nearly an hour later. Since the duke’s initial impression of her hadn’t gone as planned, she was confident that her dancing skills would do the trick. So when one of her faithful, male admirers came over to claim a quadrille, she accepted with a brilliant smile.

Her form was perfect and she moved with an easy elegant grace. After hours of training, she could practically perform the steps in her sleep. But when she glanced about to gauge the duke’s whereabouts, she found him engaged in an involved discussion with a group of men of Parliament, still completely unaware of her existence.

Because of her distraction, she actually managed to tread upon her partner’s instep, something that had never happened before. “Oh, I do beg your pardon!”

“No harm done, Miss Pageant,” the young man replied, but his slight wince told her otherwise.

As the rest of the evening droned on, Emary spent the majority of her time trying to catch the duke’s eye, but whenever she thought to try and impress him with her elegance or wit, he was either swallowed up by the crowd, or in some sort of in depth debate. As far as she knew he hadn’t even danced with a single lady in attendance thus far, but yet she still wanted to stamp her foot in frustration.

What am I doing wrong?

She was surrounded by her usual crowd of admirers, who showered her with so many empty compliments that it was all starting to set off a pounding behind her temples. She finally excused herself to get some air, hoping that the brisk night would help to clear her agitated mind. Normally she relished being the center of attention, but at the moment, all that praise only managed to annoy her further.

She was so focused on her hasty retreat that she didn’t notice the man walking in from the terrace — until it was too late.

Emary awkwardly crashed into a firm chest.

The man muttered an obscenity under his breath, and once she righted herself she found out why. Windwood had been holding a cup of punch in his hand, but she’d managed to knock it askew, causing a bright red stain to taint the front of his pristine, white shirt.

The blood left her face in a rush, the dizzying sensation causing the room to swirl about her. “I’m s…so…sorry,” she stammered. She never stammered.

The duke looked down at his shirt, and then flicked a glance at her. “I suppose it’s nothing that a good wash won’t fix,” he said dryly, and Emary could tell by the look in his eyes that he wasn’t pleased. “I should probably go upstairs and change.”

She wanted to sink into the floor. If she’d thought she’d been mortified before, she was thoroughly humiliated now. Thankfully, after a quick glance around, she didn’t think that anyone had noticed the mishap. Something of that magnitude would likely cause her darling of the ton status to shift drastically.

As he started to move past her, she panicked and grabbed hold of his arm. He paused and glanced down at her hand where she clutched a rather muscular upper arm “You surely don’t want to walk through the crowd, Your Grace.” She tugged him back toward the terrace. “Surely you’d wish to take an alternate route and save yourself the embarrassment.”

Emary might have imagined it, but she thought she saw his lips twitch as he allowed her to pull him away from the crowded ballroom. She was quite sure that he could have refused her at any time, but she was grateful that he went willingly. “Something tells me that it’s not my appearance that concerns you so much as your own standing in society,” he drawled.

The blast of cold air that hit her beyond the glass door nearly had her teeth chattering, but it didn’t stop her from turning to him with an innocent expression. “Why, what a rather cynical view you have developed of me in such a short acquaintance. I truly only have your best interests at heart, Your Grace.”

He continued to eye her skeptically, and she knew that he didn’t believe a word she said. While that knowledge didn’t particularly set well, she refused to let it deter her. However, when a rustling from the bushes beyond froze her in place, Emary silently cursed her luck. How ironic that a couple returning from a tryst would bring about her ruin. The moment they spied the duke’s current predicament, it would be all over the ballroom within the hour.

“We’re going to be seen,” she whispered, as if speaking aloud would draw their attention, when the couple was still well out of earshot.

She gasped when the duke took hold of her arm and led her over to a shadowed corner of the terrace. He turned her around where her back was against the cold, stone railing, but the instant his towering height enveloped her, she no longer felt the chill in the air, but rather the heat emanating from his powerful body.