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Sophronie’s excited declaration reined in Nicolette’s reveries and brought her back to the present. This tendency to woolgather had never beset her before, and it was most discomposing.

Sophronie grinned, her blue-green eyes flashing with a combination of mischief and excitement. “Meet me in Hyde Park tomorrow morning, at half of eight before everyone is out and about. I’ll bring two docile mounts.”

Wise that.

Most of the ton didn’t venture from their plush mattresses until mid-morning at the earliest. Nicolette would need to depart for home soon if she were to arise early enough in the morn. She rarely stayed until a ball ended, in any event, so no one would take notice if she departed a trifle earlier than usual.

Hopefully, Mama wouldn’t object.

“Everyone who wants a chance is welcome. And we can always meet again.” Sophronie glanced around the circle of women to include them. “Do try to find yourself a pair of pantaloons or extra thick small clothes. Or, you may do as the duchess did and wear multiple layers of garments. Also, be prepared for your thighs to be somewhat tender afterward.”

“I think I shall go,” Justina Farthington said with the merest hint of defiance in her pale green eyes. “I’ve decided of late to take risks, and this is a good place to start.”

Justina never did anything the least bit untoward, and for her to declare her intention to participate was quite something, indeed.

“Roni?” said Everleigh, Duchess of Sheffield. “Griffin mentioned that you’ve actually ridden your thoroughbreds in races. That’s so exciting and daring.”

“No, I’ve only raced them during training exercises.” Sophronie shook her head, causing the strawberry blonde curls framing her face to bounce. She pulled her mouth into a slightly vexed grimace. “Women aren’t allowed to actually ride for competition in America, any more than they are permitted to do so here. Rather ridiculous if you ask me. Particularly since not a single male jockey has been able to beat my time. I know I would’ve won races had I been permitted to compete.”

That brought several murmurs of approval.

Unlike the American heiress Maribelle Grosenick, Sophronie wasn’t cold and unapproachable or full of her own self import. The petite girl was, however, rather like a dervish, brimming with exuberance and enthusiasm, and one found oneself quite out of breath in her presence.

“I agree. It does seem unfair.” Her amber-brown eyes full of understanding, Rayne Westbrook gave Sophronie a sympathetic smile.

Everleigh sniffed. “Hmph. Men claim we are the weaker sex, but I’d like to see a single one of them give birth.

That declaration met with uproarious mirth.

“There you are, my dear.” Victor, Duke of Sutcliffe, accompanied by Maxwell, Duke of Pennington, and Baxter, Duke of San Sebastian, approached. Two other men accompanied them, but Nicolette wasn’t familiar with either.

Notably absent was the Duke of Westfall.

A prick of disappointment jabbed her.

Her flippant response to his jest about a dance or two tonight had fallen flat, and he’d excused himself immediately afterward.

She hadn’t seen him since, and she’d missed him dreadfully. Missed their outings and conversations. Missed the comfortable camaraderie between them. Pray God, she hadn’t ruined everything with her thoughtless words.

Though it hadn’t been her intent, she’d offended Mathias. Every instinct of self-preservation had surged forward, and she’d said the first glib thing which had sprung to mind.

However, she hadn’t lied.

Yes, she danced at gatherings, but very infrequently. And she hadn’t danced with a duke since Kilbourne’s treachery. She supposed it was part of the unwritten rules she’d created to protect herself from ever being in the same degrading circumstance again.

Turned out in their evening finery, the gentlemen who’d joined them presented quite an impressive array of masculine virility. The ducal assemblage, again.

Sutcliffe swiftly performed introductions, no small feat considering how many people were clustered together. The two newcomers were both Scots: Evan Gordonstone, Duke of Waycross, and Fletcher McQuinton, Duke of Kincade.

The first discordant chords of a waltz sounded, and Pennington claimed his wife for the dance. “Duchess, join me for a dance.”

Gabriella placed her hand in his before saying, “I look forward to tomorrow, ladies.”

“What’s happening tomorrow?” he asked as he led her away.

“Oh, just a little get together, we ladies spontaneously decided upon,” she replied offhandedly.

Even daring Gabriella wasn’t quite prepared to share their upcoming adventure with her beloved husband.