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“Sheffield, Waycross, Heatherston, and I are at an impasse. Sheffield and I believe gas for lighting will become commonplace. Gas lights in every home. We think it is an industry that would garner significant profits and is worth investing in. However, Waycross and Heatherston are convinced only the wealthy will take to gas lighting. What say you?”

Waycross and Heatherston were Scots, and they had a valid point. But so did Sutcliffe and Sheffield. Though why they thought the matter so significant that it required discussion at a masked ball was beyond Stan.

“I do see a future in gas lighting,” he agreed. “Nonetheless, I don’t believe the masses will embrace the concept for decades. They cannot afford to.”

The dukes of Waycross and Heatherston exchanged satisfied glances. Unfortunately, gas for lighting was far less likely to become common in the Highlands for even longer.

“Were I you,” Stan looked to each of them in turn, “I’d be investing in Durand’s tin can and that German fellow’s new printing press. And steam engines.” He gave a sage nod for emphasis. “Mark my word. Engines are the way of the future. I shan’t be surprised if there are horseless carriages someday. The world is changing, and we must change with it.”

Sheffield scratched his jaw. “Interesting and rather fascinating.”

“Aye, but I dinna like some of the changes.” Waycross shook his head as he gazed across the room. “A woman should ken her place.”

That sentiment was also changing, thanks to innovators like Mary Wollstonecraft. Nevertheless, Stan wasn’t in the mood to upend that bucket of worms.

Above the other men’s heads, he caught sight of Ophelia reentering the ballroom, looking much refreshed. She was met at once by several women, including the American giving Waycross fits, Sophronie Slater, and Justina Farthington.

Miss Slater looped her hand through Ophelia’s arm and began leading her toward a small crowd clustered at one end of the ballroom.

Ophelia glanced over her shoulder. Her lovely eyes rounded when she spied Stan, and a blush stained her cheeks before she averted her gaze and presented her profile.

If Stan were the type of man to take affront or to feel chagrin, he might flush himself. But as he was a pragmatic sort, he simply filed her response away to examine later.

“Ah, so that’s the way the wind blows, is it?” Sutcliffe asked, his voice ringing with hilarity. “I know Ophelia Breckensole well. You better have a well-thought-out strategy, Asherford. She’s not as biddable as she presents.”

Bollocks.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Stan said stiffly, feeling as awkward as a lad caught pilfering a ginger biscuit.

“I’m sure you don’t.” Sheffield chuckled. “But you will, my friend. My sympathies.”

He slapped Stan on the shoulder.

Why did blissfully married men think they were experts on courtship?

A scowl lashed Waycross’s eyebrows together as he watched Ophelia and Miss Slater’s progress across the room. It was well-known that the American had acquired a mare Waycross had been waiting to purchase for breeding purposes. He hadn’t forgiven her for her temerity or for buying the mare out from under him.

“I heard the gypsies have camped on Gipsy Hill and have set up a fair of sorts. They have horseflesh for sale. If I can get there before that she-devil does,” Waycross said.

“Aye.” Heatherston nodded. “I have a mind to take a gander myself.”

“I shan’t be surprised if half of the ton isn’t there tomorrow afternoon to have their fortunes told and pick up a knick-knack or two.” Sheffield flicked a speck of something off the front of his cape. “I’ve promised to accompany my wife. I believe several of her friends are also intent on an outing to the gypsy encampment, including the Duchess of Pennington.”

That was as subtle as the portly Prince Regent prancing about in pink satin.

Regardless, Stan appreciated the hint. It meant Ophelia would likely accompany her twin. Gratitude wasn’t a sentiment he expressed with ease, but he gave Sheffield a terse nod of affirmation.

Stan hadn’t planned on wasting time meandering about the travellers’ camp, and he had no interest in having his fortune read. He didn’t believe in that preternatural poppycock.

The travellers came through annually, and every year, London went slightly berserk at their appearance. The Roma stopped in the wooded area of Gipsy Hill near Croydon, where a few made the place their permanent home.

London’s elite were fascinated by the travellers—more so by the prospect of learning their futures from one of the fortunetellers.

Stan had never been particularly interested in the nomads’ simple life, culture, and mysticism that le beau monde found so intriguing. Nevertheless, if Ophelia was going to Gipsy Hill tomorrow, it might prove a perfect opportunity to learn more about her. Such knowledge could only aid in his quest to make her his wife.

“Perhaps I’ll see you there,” he said with a noncommittal nod. “Please excuse me.”

The others bid him farewell and wandered away, soon disappearing into the throng.

Stan asked a footman to call for his coach. Shortly thereafter, he sat within, pondering his next move. Was it because Ophelia Breckensole presented a challenge that Stan pursued her?

“Not this time. Look elsewhere for a bride. I’m not interested,nor will I ever be.”

Since he’d been fourteen, when he’d set his mind to a task, he didn’t give up until he succeeded. And of all of the obstacles he’d faced, convincing Ophelia to be his duchess might be the greatest. He saw now that he’d gone about it all wrong. She’d have to be won. That meant he’d have to cast off his protective shroud. A guise he’d adopted as a scared, uncertain fourteen-year-old to fend off his own and others’ doubts.

The Dangerous Duke could not win Ophelia Breckensole’s hand in marriage.

Could Stanford Bancroft?