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She, Nicolette Adelia Estelle Twistleton, a woman sworn to never succumb to a man’s charms again, was attracted to Mathias. And while not precisely a roué nor a rakehell, neither was he a pillar of morality and respectability.

Her bruised heart could not stand to be shattered again. Most especially by the captivatingly charming and irresistibly handsome Duke of Westfall.

God, curse her for a nincompoop.

Booby. Numpty. Peagoose.

She was not—by all that is holy, I am not—making that mistake again. To do so would be the height of folly.

Only, Nicolette feared it was already too late.

Grosvenor Square, Mayfair

Afternoon

16 May 1810

Mathias smiled at the footman as he passed Romulus’s reins to him. “I shan’t be above thirty minutes.”

Likely, far less.

It would only take a few moments to ascertain if Nicolette was well on her way to recovery and apologize again for Sampson’s poor manners.

Tipping his hat at a pair of curious, haughty ladies as they passed by, and then catching a glimpse of a familiar face practically pressed against the carriage glass as the conveyance rolled past, he reconsidered the wisdom of this decision.

If he wasn’t mistaken, the beady-eyed, pinched-faced meddler peering at him from behind the conveyance’s window had been none other than Lady Gloria Darumple—rumormonger, extraordinaire. Many a le beau monde member had been scarred by that woman’s rancorous tongue.

Damn his eyes.

His presence outside the Twistletons’ house today, combined with the event in Hyde Park yesterday, would have the chinwag conjuring all manner of inaccurate assumptions. If he wasn’t mindful, he’d see an announcement in the gossip rags connecting his name with Nicolette’s.

He’d not have called on her at all today, except he felt responsible for her injuries. Sampson had been left in his care, after all, and would remain so until his owner, Landry Audsley, Earl of Keyworth, returned from the continent next month.

Odd that Keyworth hadn’t left the pup at his country seat.

Rolling a shoulder, Mathias dismissed the thought. Keyworth frequently did unexpected things.

It had been pure luck that Mathias had driven by Hyde Park yesterday on his way to White’s. He’d spied Sampson racing pell-mell across the greens as a very flustered Farrow sprinted after him, his coattails flapping furiously in his wake.

Now, two footmen were assigned to take Sampson on his outings.

As Mathias crossed the pavement to the house, a blue tit alit on the branch of a purple lilac bush.

Manicured gardens, boasting a profusion of flowers, including peonies, irises, and lily of the valley, flanked a well-scrubbed stairway with scrolled wrought-iron handrails leading to the house. The subtle, heady scent surrounding Nicolette yesterday as he carried her through Hyde Park had hinted of peonies, lily of the valley, and lilac.

Perhaps she created her own perfume.

The blue sky, with only a few wispy clouds feathered across the horizon, heralded another mild spring day, and he regretted that Nicolette’s ankle confined her to the indoors. Perhaps the Twistletons’ had a back patio or terrace from which she might enjoy the unseasonably pleasant afternoon.

Mayhap he could persuade her to take a turn in Hyde Park or ride Rotten Row with him soon. In full bloom, the cherry blossoms gave the pathways a fairylike quality, especially when the petals fluttered from the trees during a breeze, swirling to the ground like pink snow.

As Mathias climbed the stairs, he glanced up at the tidy, brick house. Not as large and ostentatious as many of the manors in the square, it was, nonetheless, quite charming. If he recalled correctly, Scarborough had come into the title after an uncle had died. Until then, the Twistletons had spent most of their time in the country.

Scarborough.

Now there was an interesting fellow—reserved, methodical, severe. Some even called him unfriendly and standoffish. Mathias had perceived Scarborough’s aloofness to stem from the discomfort of being in the public eye and from having an earldom unexpectedly thrust upon him.

How very different Ansley Twistleton, Earl of Scarborough, was from his vivacious sister.