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“My apologies,” Lord Eppingham interrupted to rectify the situation. “Mr. Nigel Sellers, may I present His Grace, the Duke of Kelbrook. Your Grace, Mr. Nigel Sellers.”

“How do you do?” the duke said, inclining his head.

Mr. Sellers bowed in return. “Quite well, thank you. And I own to being most intrigued by your suggestion that there are Englishmen on the cusp of new discoveries.”

“Yes, yes. Give us some details, Kelbrook,” Lord Eppingham said. “You were always one to be tinkering with one thing or another. I daresay you have a grasp on what some of the great brains in the country are working on.”

From the corner of the ballroom, the orchestra began to play again. Vaguely aware that Elinor and Margaret had disappeared on the arms of other gentlemen, Rosalind remained where she was. It seemed that the Duke of Kelbrook’s presence at her side was enough to discourage other gentlemen, a fact that suited her very well. She was far more interested in the current conversation than in performing another minuet.

“Richard Arkwright’s spinning frame has revolutionized the textile industry, and he has recently taken out a patent for a carding engine,” His Grace said. “Then there is Thomas Farnolls Pritchard. One should not overlook the daring of his cast-iron bridge across the River Severn. It is a masterpiece of engineering.”

Lord Eppingham snorted. “Come now, Kelbrook. You can do better than that. Sellers here was asking for something fresh, something beyond the imagination of those in this ballroom. As praiseworthy as Arkwright’s and Pritchard’s work is, those creations are old news.”

His Grace’s blue eyes flashed icily. “Then I can be of little help to you. It is my understanding that inventors keep their designs to themselves until they have a fully functioning prototype to show the world.”

As far as Rosalind was concerned, the Duke of Kelbrook’s tone brooked no argument. It seemed, however, that Mr. Sellers was not of the same mind.

“What of you, Miss Ainsworth?” He shifted his gaze to her. “I have always been led to believe that young ladies enjoy being the first ones to hear the latest news. Do you not wish His Grace to share what he knows with us?”

Mr. Sellers’s overly familiar smile made Rosalind uncomfortable. She took a step back and bumped into the duke. “I beg your pardon,” she murmured.

His Grace slipped his hand beneath her elbow. His touch was remarkably reassuring, and she drew strength from it.

“It must be that I am unlike other young ladies, then,” she said. “For I would not wish His Grace to break a confidence simply to satisfy my curiosity.”

Mr. Sellers’s frown came and went in an instant. He replaced it with a knowing look. “A prudent response.”

“Not at all,” she said. Why the handsome and charming Mr. Sellers should suddenly seem so irritating was a mystery. “I am simply stating the situation as I see it.”

A slight increase of pressure on her arm communicated His Grace’s approval. “It seems that we are at an impasse, Mr. Sellers,” he said.

“Good evening, Your Grace.” The strident female voice cut through the tension humming between the two gentlemen and caused them to turn toward its source. The Dowager Marchioness of Pendleton arrived at the duke’s side in a flurry of silk skirts and feathers. Despite her advancing years, her white hair was ratted to perfection and her sharp eyes moved across the group, quickly dismissing all but His Grace. “I have a young lady I should like you to meet.”

She ushered her youngest—and only unmarried—daughter, Lady Marian, forward. Lady Marian’s hair was as dark as her mother’s was white. She wore a stunning yellow gown that floated out around her as she dropped into a curtsy.

“Your Grace,” she said.

The duke removed his hand from Rosalind’s elbow and bowed to the beautiful young lady. “A pleasure, Lady Marian.”

Feeling unaccountably discarded, Rosalind schooled her features into a pleasant smile. The Dowager Lady Pendleton ignored her.

“Your dear, late mother and I were such good friends, Your Grace. I have no doubt that you will soon discover that you and Marian also have much in common.”

“I daresay you are right,” His Grace said.

It seemed to Rosalind that the Dowager Lady Pendleton’s logic was patently flawed. If the Duke of Kelbrook could not see that, perhaps he was not as brilliant as Lord Eppingham believed.

The Dowager Lady Pendleton smiled smugly. “Well then, I shall leave you to enjoy a dance together.”

Rosalind stared. She could not help herself. If anyone in the vicinity had the right to be called a genius, it was the dowager marchioness, at least when it came to the art of matchmaking. Rosalind glanced at the Duke of Kelbrook. His shoulders were stiff, his expression unreadable. The music filling the room came to an end with a smattering of applause. His Grace inclined his head toward Lady Marian.

“Would you do me the honor of the next dance, my lady?”

Lady Marian smiled warmly. “It would be my pleasure, Your Grace.”

He extended his arm to the lady. Rosalind took another step back. She should be glad. With His Grace’s dominant presence removed from beside her, other gentlemen would undoubtedly be more willing to ask her to dance. She waited for the feeling of relief to come. Instead, she experienced an absurd mixture of disquiet that His Grace was walking away and gladness that he had offered Lady Marian his arm rather than his hand.

Someone cleared his throat, and Rosalind turned to discover Mr. Coombs at her left.