Needless to say, there was not another chance for Elizabeth to see Hamish before the Moncrieff ball that evening, partly because Aunt Esmeralda insisted on being in Elizabeth’s pocket all day, and partly because there was so much to do to prepare. Her sisters were far too excited for this occasion, billed the event of the season, and they wanted to prepare together.

It would have been just this side of torture, given her mood, but to be honest, Elizabeth was curious about the infamous Dark Duke as well.

Moncrieff had been a rake in his day but had apparently met his match in a redheaded Scotswoman who had utterly tamed him, and that alone fascinated all of them.

“I’ve heard he has horns,” Victoria said as they waded through her closet looking for the perfect gown.

Mary shook her head. “I hear there’s a tail.”

“Well, we can’t very well search for a tail,” Anne remarked, holding up a pretty blue frock. “It would hardly be proper.”

Elizabeth sighed. How she would love to wear something in bold colors. They’d been in mourning for the past three years, and then in the annoying whites and pastels of a debutante.

Victoria sighed. “Perhaps the new duchess will tell us.”

“I cannot fathom how one would ask,” Anne said on a sniff.

“Easy.” Mary grinned. “Pardon me, Your Grace, but does your husband happen to have a tail?”

“Or horns?” Victoria added.

Anne chuckled. “You might as well ask if the other rumors about him are true.”

Three heads whipped around. “What other rumors?” Victoria breathed.

Mary plopped down on the bed. “Oh, do tell.”

Anne frowned. “I am not spreading gossip.”

“Too late. You have to tell us now,” Victoria said, “or we might stare at him.”

Their eldest sister shook her head. “One does not stare at a duke.”

“They do if he has horns.”

Elizabeth grinned at Victoria. “Come, Anne. You must share.”

“Oh, all right,” she huffed, but there was a glimmer in her eye. “There was one rumor that he is an author.”

Mary gasped. “Never say it.”

Victoria humphed. “Imagine that. A duke of the realm involved in something as vulgar as publishing.”

“It is only a rumor.”

“And the rest?” Clearly, Mary was out for blood.

“Well . . . Some say his cousin is actually his sister.”

Mary and Victoria gaped at each other. “How can that be?” they asked in tandem, but Elizabeth had figured it out. Apparently illicit affaires ran in the Moncrieff family. “That is scandalous.”

Anne shrugged. “Perhaps. But there is no doubt he is the heir—the family birthmark, don’t you know—so no one really cares.”

“Is there more?” Mary pressed.

“A bit. Here and there. About his association with known criminals and pirates—”

“Oh!” Victoria threw herself back on the bed into a pile of crinoline and lace, in a paroxysm of scandalized delight. “I cannot wait to meet this man!”

“Do you suppose there will be pirates in attendance?” Victoria asked, fluffing her hair.

“It is a good thing he’s married, or our dear aunt would never allow us to go tonight,” Mary said.

“She might,” Elizabeth responded. “Word is, everyone who is anyone is going to be there.”

“He’s been completely accepted by the ton,” Anne reminded them. “Despite his spotty past.”

“Of course,” Mary said.

“Of course,” Victoria parroted.

Elizabeth had to smile at their enthusiasm. It was clear her younger sisters were over the moon for the festivities, and to be honest, she was excited as well.

Who knew what delights this evening could hold?

* * *

Of all the hideous evenings Hamish had had to suffer through in London, the Moncrieff ball was by far his favorite. For one thing, Lady Jersey attended . . . with her husband, who kept her on a short leash.

For another, the Duke of Moncrieff was a damn fine fellow, who shook his hand as though he were an actual human. Hamish was delighted when Moncrieff introduced him to his brother-in-law, Ewan McCloud, a bona fide Scotsman—even though he was from Perth. Then the duke himself stood with Ranald and Hamish and McCloud and they critiqued the company.

It was all subtle, and offered in code, but they all knew what they were saying and it was enjoyable indeed.

For once, Hamish felt like he fit in with a group of men in London.

Also, there was whisky.

And it was a fine sort that Moncrieff had delivered to them in champagne glasses so no one would know.

The only fly in the proverbial ointment was the fact that Twiggenberry was in attendance and he insisted on dancing with Elizabeth.

As he watched the two round the ballroom, with a glower on his face, Moncrieff grunted. “I never liked that one,” he said. “Something about his piggy eyes.”

Hamish blinked. “He has piggy eyes? I didn’t notice.”

“Definitely piggy,” McCloud grunted. Then he took a sip of his “champagne.”

“Never got past the stench, myself,” Hamish murmured.

The duke barked out a wet whisky-laden snort. He yanked out his handkerchief and dabbed his mouth. “That was wicked, Robb. And he does indeed have an odd . . . odor about him.”

“He’s courting Elizabeth,” Hamish said before he fully processed the thought. Both the duke and his brother-in-law pinned him with a sharp glance.

“Lady Elizabeth,” Bower clarified.

“Oh, I got that.” Moncrieff turned back to watch the couples dancing. His sharp gaze landed on Twiggenberry and Elizabeth. “On the plus side, she does not appear enamored.”

“Does she not?” Ranald asked drily.

“She looks as though she wants to escape,” McCloud snorted.

God, it was wonderful being around Scots again. Men who said it like it was, rather than the way they expected it to be.

“She doesna like his . . . odor either.”

“She does look as though she might retch,” Moncrieff observed.

It was undoubtedly wicked to add, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Perhaps I should cut in,” McCloud offered.

Hamish sent him a toothy grin and Ewan started in that direction. But before he reached them, Twiggenberry whirled Elizabeth in a turn and danced her out of the room and into the hall.

And Hamish’s gut surged.

Bluidy hell and damnation.

“Come on,” he growled to Ranald, and they lit off after their wayward chick.

* * *

As delightful as the evening had promised to be for Elizabeth, all the shine wore away the moment Twiggenberry showed up.

She had thoroughly enjoyed meeting the duchess—who bade them to call her Kaitlin—and her friends Lady Darlington and Lady Pennington, and her sister-in-law Violet McCloud, who was married to the brawny Scotsman chatting with Hamish.

These were ladies she would love to call friends, and she hoped their connection would continue.

But then Twiggy had appeared and claimed her.

They had danced around the ballroom and taken a promenade and then had the obligatory lemonade and Elizabeth had thought her trail had ended. But when her next dance partner arrived and cried off—apparently Blackworth had stubbed his toe or some such nonsense—Twiggenberry claimed her again.

It was tantamount to a declaration, two dances in a row, but Elizabeth didn’t much care. He could declare all he wanted. Tonight she was handing him his congé. So to speak.

What she didn’t expect was having the blackheart whirl her off the dance floor, down a hallway, and into the deserted library.

The fact that it was deserted was enough to concern her.

But then there was his expression.

“My lord. We should not be in here alone,” she said.

She headed back to the door, but he caught her arm. “Shouldn’t we?”

Oh. She didn’t care for the look in his eye in the least. “Please let me go.”

“Never.” The zealous trill of his voice frightened her and she tried to pull away. His fingers tightened painfully. And then—horrors—he yanked her into his arms. She fell against his chest with an inelegant oof.

But that was only the beginning. Because then, with a reptilian smile, he smashed his mouth against hers.

She very nearly retched again, but saved her energy for fighting him.

Sadly he was stronger, and clutched her tighter, and deepened the kiss.

And then, to her absolute horror, he grabbed her breast.

* * *

Hamish sprinted down the hall after Elizabeth, peering quickly into the open door of a salon filled with tittering partygoers. No. Not there.

Then he saw Twiggenberry’s tailcoats disappear into the next room, and he bolted after him.

He flung open the door and his hackles rose.

Twiggenberry had Elizabeth in his arms and though she was clearly fighting him, he wouldn’t let her go.

Unable to stop himself, Hamish issued a feral growl that resonated on the air.

Twiggenberry lifted his head. Elizabeth gasped for breath.

Hamish opened his mouth to bellow something—probably something foul—but before he could, a triumphant voice sounded from behind them. “I say, Twiggy! I do believe you are thoroughly compromised.”

Hamish whirled around to see Blackworth, Lady Jersey, and a coterie of the ton’s haughtiest patronesses standing with him in the hall and looking on. That Moncrieff and McCloud were among them didn’t help. Something acidic swirled in his belly. The hair on the nape of his neck rose. His hands closed to fists. He turned back to Twiggenberry, who looked far too smug for this to have been anything but a setup.

Blackworth chortled. “Well, Twiggy. You’ll have to marry her now.”

To which Elizabeth fainted.

And the bastard didn’t even catch her.