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Bloody hell.

How many damned shoes or bonnets did one woman need?

Mother had been none too pleased when he’d informed her last week that if she overspent her allowance in the future, he’d not pay her creditors. Her whining and theatrics had affected Fletcher not at all except to reaffirm his resolve to depart her company at the earliest convenience.

After two months of her hospitality, petulant pouts, manipulations, and machinations to wed him to a proper English chit, he’d been determined to obtain his own residence in any event.

Or take to the bottle as his daffy, brokenhearted father had.

It was most opportune that not only was Sheffield one of his business partners, but the fellow also had knowledge of an empty house in a respectable neighborhood Fletcher could move into straightaway.

And so here he was. Letting 19 Bedford Square, of all places. Like a bloody damned proper English duke, to boot.

Only, Fletcher was a Scottish duke and didn’t give ten shillings what le beau monde thought of him. He’d never sought the favor of English peers. He conceded, amongst the ton’s upper ten thousand, there were several decent chaps, including Sheffield, the dukes of San Sebastian and Asherford, as well as a half dozen or so others. There were also a great number of absolute, unmitigated asslings.

His new accommodations were in need of a good clean and the grounds a bit of rigorous attention, but all in all, for a Sassenach residence, it was quite pleasant. He especially liked the untamed gardens. They reminded him of Levensyde House, his home a couple of miles outside of Dumfries.

Fletcher had considered letting rooms at one of his clubs, but his brother and sister might want to stay in London at some point. Florence longed for a proper Come Out and a Season in London. Something his grasping mother fully supported, naturally.

Mother would likely try to insist Florence reside with her, though she knew her own daughter not at all. No doubt the conniving duchess already had some randy decrepitude in mind for his sweet sister as well. All to advance Mother’s social standing and circle of influence, of course.

The idea made him shudder. Florence was too sweet and innocent for London.

Dragging his thoughts from his unpleasant ruminations to the very pleasant creature before him, Fletcher offered her a friendly grin, intending to lessen Miss Wellbrook’s unease.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, bending at the waist into an exaggerated formal bow he’d never before had cause to use, with one hand across his middle and the other flung wide like a courtier.

He knew full well it wasn’t done. No one introduced themselves. They must go through all of the falderol and balderdash of asking a mutual acquaintance to do the honors.

Asinine and inconvenient when he wanted to speak with this imp now.

“Fletcher McQuinton, Duke of Kincade,” he informed her, only half-mockingly instead of his usual full-on jeer.

Her leery expression didn’t fluctuate, nor did she so much as blink. She continued to regard him like a skittish doe prepared to bolt at the slightest hint of danger.

This was very telling indeed.

An unwed young woman who didn’t turn into a simpering, pretentious numpty immediately upon learning he possessed a title, and a dukedom no less. Dukes were just this side of royalty, and Fletcher knew all too well the fawning and toadying that accompanied most introductions to a duke.

So accustomed to deflecting unwanted attention, at her unexpected lack of response, he almost let his guard down. Almost.

“I’m acquainted with Sheffield.” He sought to reassure her while shifting his regard for a second over her head in her house’s general direction. “In fact,” he said with another genial smile, “we are in business together. I also put in an appearance at last night’s ball.”

A very short appearance.

Which was Fletcher’s habit.

Never dally at any haut ton function long enough for politesse to trap him into conversing or otherwise engaging with those on the prowl for a husband. When he chose a wife, she’d be a hearty and hale, wide-hipped, sturdy Scottish lass with red cheeks and a robust constitution. A sensible woman who knew full well what hardships to expect as a Scottish duke’s wife.

At last, a bit of the suspicion and tension eased from Miss Wellbrook’s refined features, and she partially lowered the inadequate blade. Forehead furrowed in neat little lines, she cocked her head, taking his measure. Her expression cleared, and her berry-red, kissable rosebud lips swept upward at the edges in a closed-mouth smile.

“Ah, yes. I recognize you now, Your Grace.” Her inquisitive, coppery brown-eyed gaze took in his loose hair. “Your hair was pulled back into a queue.”