“You should be terrified.” She leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Lady Amelia has been practicing her curtsy for weeks. Lady Ann Fairchild’s mother has memorized your entire pedigree. And dear Lady Harrow…” The Dowager’s gaze flicked towards the widowed countess. “Well, she has been looking remarkably satisfied with life ever since last summer’s house party at your estate.”
Austin’s mouth twitched. “Your powers of observation are, as always, terrifying.”
“I am old, not blind.” She patted his arm. “But mark my words. This season, you will dance more than twice with the same lady. You will take walks in the garden without disappearing into the shrubbery with someone else’s wife. And you will—” She paused for dramatic effect. “—consider matrimony seriously.”
He laughed softly. “You wound me. I always consider matrimony seriously. For other men.”
“Not this time.” Her expression softened, just a fraction. “You are eight-and-twenty. Handsome, wealthy, and titled. But even dukes cannot outrun time forever. And I have watched too many fine gentlemen end their days alone because they mistook freedom for happiness.”
Austin inclined his head, the amusement fading slightly. “Your concern is noted, Your Grace.”
“It is more than concern. It is determination.” She squeezed his arm. “I like you, boy. Far too much to let you waste yourself onfleeting pleasures. Somewhere in this house is a woman worthy of you. Find her.”
Before he could reply, the dowager’s attention snapped towards the doors. Her face lit with genuine delight.
“Ah! The last of my guests.”
Austin followed her gaze, where the double doors opened again, and his breath caught. His gaze landed on the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Every nerve was suddenly alert.
Her reddish-brown locks fell over her pale shoulders as she maneuvered through the crowd. She was ethereal in the room full of unauthentic women, and every eye was on her.
“Who is she?” Austin asked the Dowager, but when no response came, he realized he was standing alone.
The Dowager swept through the room to greet the mysterious beauty; he watched in awe as her smile lit up the room.
He was certain that he knew every woman in this room. Married, unmarried, widowed, and wanting. He had danced with them, flirted with them, bedded more than a few. But this one…
She carried herself as though she owned the air around her. Slim, yet unmistakably curved beneath a simple traveling gown of deep forest green that looked almost severe against the froth of pastels everywhere else. Freckles dusted the bridge of herstraight, proud nose. And in her gloved hand, she held a small leather-bound notebook, clutched like a weapon. She looked like a woman on a mission.
He could not remember the last time a woman had walked into a room and made him forget every other female in it.
Is she married?
He was completely and utterly intrigued by her as she moved gracefully, avoiding the glances and whispers of the people around her.
“Your Grace.”
A familiar sultry voice pulled his gaze away for a moment. The Dowager Countess of Harrow had glided to his side, fan fluttering and décolletage arranged to devastating advantage.
“I had hoped you might save me from boredom this evening,” she murmured, leaning close enough that her overbearing perfume drifted over him, filling his mind instantly with the many nights of pleasure he had with her. “My chambers are in the east wing. Third door on the left. Shall we say… midnight?”
Austin turned to her with the smile that had earned him his ridiculous nickname.
“Any other season, my lady, I would already be counting the minutes,” he said softly. “Your generosity has brightened many a dark night for me.”
“But not this season?” She pouted.
Austin shook his head regretfully. “This season I fear I will soon be off the market.”
The countess’ fan stilled. “Are you saying what I believe you’re saying?”
“You’re a smart woman; you’ll figure it out.” He winked at her.
The countess gaped and asked him loudly. “Are you… getting married?”
Heads turned again, and Austin could hear the whispers ripple outward like circles in a pond.
“Did she say married?”
