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Aye, just what every hostess desired at a dinner party.

For certain, he’d never be invited to dine by anyone in the ton again.

He didn’t give a hog’s grunt.

“Peacocks are quite intelligent,” Asherford improvised.

Like hell, they were. Every peafowl Fletcher had ever encountered had been noisy, aggressive, and dull-witted as a turnip.

Miss Breckensole speared Asherford with what could only be called an impatient—perhaps even annoyed if she weren’t so well-mannered—half-glance.

Asherford had effortlessly drawn Miss Breckensole’s attention from Fletcher, and, in doing so, had handily entrapped himself. God Almighty, the incongruity was nothing short of hilarious. He now understood the mirth enjoyed by his friends at his expense earlier.

For the truth of it was that Asherford did not blurt anything. The man was as sparing with his carefully articulated words as a miser was with a shilling. He also loathed—absolutely abhorred—masquerade balls. He’d voiced his contempt for the ridiculous assemblages numerous times.

And to save Fletcher further awkwardness—likely Rayne as well, if Asherford had also seen Fletcher’s wink earlier today—he’d committed to attending the Gravenstones’ ball. The most garish and absurdly decorated gathering hosted every Season. What was more, Asherford had declared he’d go as a flamboyant fowl.

By God, Fletcher might also have to put in an appearance just to see Asherford’s tall, somber form strutting about as a peafowl.

Priceless. That was going to be bloody priceless.

Another snicker threatened, but Fletcher squelched it. Instead, schooling his expression into what he hoped was one of appreciation, he sent his friend a grateful smile and mouthed a silent thank you over the top of Miss Breckensole’s head.

“So is Kincade,” Asherford continued with a wickedly skewed eyebrow and sly sideways grin. “Attending as a peacock, that is.”

Not so bloody damned noble or sacrificial after all. If Asherford must endure the most godawful ball of the Season, then so would Fletcher. One for all and all for one. Down with the ship and all that courageous rot.

In truth, Fletcher had nearly gone down with a ship a decade ago.

Before his father had died, he’d enjoyed a short, dangerous stint as a privateer. That was the year he’d rebelled at being born a ducal heir. More than anything else, he’d taken to the seas as a scandalous buccaneer as revenge toward his mother.

He’d known she’d despise his doing so, and he continued to wear the earring for the same reason. It absolutely infuriated her, which she made known regularly.

“Really, Kincade,” she reproved in that shrill, hoity-toity tone that scraped along his nerves and made him want to shove his fingers in his ears like a petulant child. “Must you wear that evidence”—long, elegant fingers flicked with perfectly shaped oval nails toward the earring—“of your unfortunate decision?”

Aye, indeed, dear Mother, I must.

The truth of the matter was that the privateer he sailed upon had nearly been scuttled by a pirate ship. An old, much more experienced sea salt, Wen Ling, had saved Fletcher from pitching over the side and to certain death.

Fletcher put a finger to the band, recalling the sailor’s urgent and sincere warning.

Wen Ling had pointed to the earring in his left ear, and in his lyrical accented voice, explained that his life had been endangered too. According to an ancient Chinese legend, one who wore an earring in their left ear had already faced death and escaped. The earring was worn as a talisman to protect against a recurrence. Then, he’d not only gifted Fletcher the earring he now wore, but Wen Ling had also pierced his ear.

With a whalebone needle.

It had hurt like hell.

The old memory kicked Fletcher’s mouth upward on one side the merest bit.

That wasn’t the only reason he wore the earring, however. The band also reminded him why he couldn’t be the same kind of fool the prior duke had been.

“In fact, all of the dukes are,” Asherford announced smugly.

Bringing his mind back to the present, Fletcher focused on Asherford.

Still going on about that masked ball twaddle, was he?

“Are what?” Forehead wrinkled in confusion, Jules, the Duke of Dandridge, broke protocol about only speaking with those on his immediate right or left.