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“Why are you blushing, then? I swear to God, Christopher, never play poker. You’re shit at lying.”

“All right, ninety-nine percent talking, one percent kissing.”

Oliver gave him a long, considering look, and Christopher could feel the imprint of Sofia’s fingers on his skin like a visible brand. Then Oliver grunted and returned to his plant massacre at a much slower pace. “The duchess insisted I come to the ball. That woman is tenacious.” His words were softened by a tight smile. “She’s sending over evening wear. I don’t think I even remember how to tie a neckcloth.”

“If only there was a reputable valet nearby.”

Another glare.

“You could use a haircut.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s long enough to pull back in a cue. This isn’t the sixteenth century, man, come on. Just a bit of tidying? Don’t worry, I’ll treat your precious locks with more respect than you just afforded that hedgerow.”

They turned in unison to stare at the victimised shrub, then Oliver chuckled with a shake of his head.

“Fine, but if I resemble that plant when you finish, I’ll use my rusty clippers to castrate you.”

Several hours and ten times that number of threats from Oliver later, both men were dressed in formal wear.

“Stand still, I’m almost done.” Christopher attempted to straighten the cravat that Oliver had just anxiously tugged loose.

“I wish there was a mirror in this place,” Oliver grumbled for what must have been the fifth time. “It seems unfair that my first indication of your professional talents will be the expressions of strangers.”

“You look remarkable. Like a newly minted coin. And we can enter through the kitchens if you can’t take my word for it. There’s a mirror in Gabriel’s exercise room where you can see for yourself. It’s Gabriel’s appearance we should be concerned about. While he was kind enough to loan me out for the evening, that left him with Jeremy to play at valet. God only knows the state of Gabriel’s cravat.”

Oliver’s hand mussed through his shorter, more fashionable curls and shifted his weight again from one foot to the other.

“Is it the wine? It’s your first time around others who will imbibe,” Christopher said tentatively.

“It’s not the wine.”

“The people then?”

Oliver grunted.

“It’s mostly landed gentlemen and their wives. A few second sons and lesser titles who reside nearby. More than a few handfuls from the scientific community. Hamish will be there. If you recall, Violet made the guest list, and those in attendance will no doubt fall a far sight below the dowager’s standards. Luckily, Parliament is in session. If it weren’t, every viscount and earl within a two days’ ride would have clamoured for an invitation. Then again, that would have gotten us both off the hook for attendance …”

“Why isn’t the duke in London? He doesn’t seem the sort to shirk his duties.” This last was said with what sounded like reluctant regard.

“Indeed, he is not. And he has been as active as possible from a distance via correspondence, but his family was in no state for him to travel at the start of the session. How much do you know about the manner in which Violet and Gabriel were wed?”

Oliver shrugged. “Only that he was married before and this marriage was originally to be in name only.”

“Well, the latter was always a bit of wishful thinking on Gabriel’s part, I think. Feelings between the duke and duchess had already formed long before he swept in to save Zachariah from his grandfather, the Baron of Moorefield. Zach is actually Violet’s nephew. She and her late husband, Nathan, took Zachariah in when Zach’s father threatened to send him to an asylum as a very small lad. Even from a young age, it was apparent that he was unique, and his father wanted nothing to do with him. Last spring, that changed when the baron’s heir, Zachariah’s sire, died. The baron swept in and took Zach and the baron’s henchmen did a number on Violet for trying to protect the lad. It took her a week to recover from her injuries and, in that time, Zach suffered deeply under the guise of treatment.”

“So the duke married Violet to protect Zachariah?”

Christopher nodded. “Zachariah has come a long way since returning to the safety of his family, but every step was hard won. Understandably, the needs of the country became a lower priority than his son’s welfare.” Christopher smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from his embroidered waistcoat. “That’s enough history lessons for now or we will be more than fashionably late.”

Oliver had gone quiet, listening. He seemed to take a moment to shake himself from the story, then headed for the door.

The line of carriages stretched down the long gravel drive as enthusiastic guests ambled about, greeting familiar faces as they strolled inside. Oliver and Christopher slipped around through the kitchen entrance so Oliver could check his appearance before making their way to the ballroom. Scullery maids halted in their work with catcalls and whistles as the gentleman stepped inside.

“I’m sorry, sirs, you seem to have stumbled through the wrong entrance. The front door is for all the fancy toffs.” Mrs Simmons reached up to pat Christopher’s cheeks as she teased. “Well, let’s see then. Give us a little twirl, gents!” Christopher immediately complied, then all eyes shifted to Oliver, who stubbornly remained planted in place.

“I don’t twirl.”