What exactly was going on here? Rhys led his dance partner onto the floor but he was fairly certain he’d entered into some sort of bad dream. Why on earth was he dancing? Him? Oh, he occasionally danced when necessity called for it, and he’d been prepared to do so tonight with one of the many ladies of the list who would be here this evening.

He spotted Lady Regina even now, looking utterly demure and quite fetching.

Yet it was the little chit on his arm. The one with the wide, pleading eyes who had caught him off guard by demanding a dance. He sniffed as he led her through the crowd, his chin tilted high and his gaze fixed straight ahead.

He’d never much been one for socializing, but it was an obligation he rarely managed to avoid. It was a necessity and a burden.

That described most of his life, come to think of it.

After a moment he realized that he was no longer steering this little twosome. His unwanted dance partner was tugging on his arm as she guided them a little to the left.

Toward that couple she had been staring at so fervently just a moment ago. He recognized the gentleman—Lord Malcolm Reynolds, second son of the Marquess of Alway. A dandy of the highest order. He hadn’t spoken to the younger man often, but enough to know that there was little substance there. He was all smiles and charm, but no honor, backbone, or character. He glanced down at Georgie’s small but surprisingly strong hand on his arm. Was that who she’d been staring at?

Surely not. Davenport and Nicholas—hell, even her brother, the renowned gambler—would surely know better than to let her socialize with that preening wastrel. Rhys knew him because it was his duty to know his fellow peers and their families—it was one of the few reasons he went to events such as this one. Though tonight, his aim was not to familiarize himself with the peer but to interview prospective wives.

He scowled down at the upstart on his arm. A plan that had already been set off course thanks to Georgie. The dancers who had just finished were walking off the floor or finding new partners as the first sounds of the next song started up.

A waltz.

He looked down at Georgie in horror. Good God, they were to waltz?

He had no moral objection to the waltz, but were he to take part in such a dance it would be with a woman he wanted to get close to. A lady who he was seriously considering as a match, one whom he could talk with and form an intimacy with and—ouch. Georgie had jerked him so abruptly he’d nearly lost his footing.

He stopped suddenly, forcing Georgie to come to a stop as well.

When she looked up at him expectantly, her impatience was clear. “Is something wrong?”

Is something wrong? “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but I’ve long been under the impression that it is the gentleman who is to lead the dance.”

He watched as a pretty pink blush crept up her fair cheeks. Her eyes, he noted—those still held a mischievous twinkle. He’d known decorated generals, hardened from combat who were made of less unflinching bravado as this little lady.

She lowered her head slightly. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Somehow she managed to sound like she was teasing even when she was attempting to be proper and demure. Was it possible that she was related to Claire Cleveland?

Or maybe she wasn’t. He’d heard the rumors about the Cleveland siblings and their alleged illegitimacy. Yes, that would explain quite a lot.

He led the way, navigating through the crush until they were standing in front of one another as couples gathered around them. He noticed that his dance partner was still looking elsewhere. She was clearly searching for someone in particular. But who? The answer was clear and for some reason he couldn’t explain, it unsettled him.

No, that was an understatement. It angered him.

“Is it Lord Malcolm you seek?” He hadn’t meant to say it at all, let alone have it come out as an accusation.

Her gaze flew up to his and he had his answer in her startlingly honest eyes and the way her cheeks flushed again. “Pardon me?”

“You heard me.” Lord, was that him? When had he begun to sound so much like his father?

Her gaze dropped to his chest as they came together for the dance, her body moving into his arms gracefully, naturally.

As if she were meant to be there.

Oh rubbish. There was nothing meant to be about any of this.

Her silence as the music started up was unsettling. He’d never known Georgie to be silent for more than a few seconds, and that was typically when she was eating.

“Do you not have something to say?” he said, his voice gruff and harsh even to his own ears.

Hell and damnation. He must sound like that stodgy Haversham to Georgie’s ears. Especially compared to the silver-tongued Lord Malcolm.

“I was just thinking,” Georgie said softly. Too softly. He’d never heard her sound meek before.

He didn’t like it. Hell, had he caused this sudden temerity with his accusation? Perhaps he’d been too quick to assume. It wasn’t his place, anyhow, and—

“I was just thinking about that list your mother mentioned.”

All charitable thoughts ceased when he caught sight of the wicked twinkle in her eyes. “What about it?”

Her lips quirked up in a way that was entirely too fetching. Hypnotizing, even. He found it difficult to pull his gaze away.

“I think I have an idea of what might be on that list.”

He concentrated on the steps. There was no way he would stumble over the thoughtless words of a silly young lady. She knew not of what she spoke.

“Or perhaps I should say who. Would you care to hear my guess?”

He frowned down at her. When their eyes met, he forgot for a moment what he was frowning about.

Her smile grew. “The ton talks ceaselessly of your need for a wife. Perhaps I could help.”

That startled a short laugh out of him, humorless and quiet. Yet, he noted, it still caused the dancers around them to look. He did not often laugh in society—humorless or not. “How do you suppose you could help?”

He hadn’t meant to ask it. In fact, he’d meant to remain quiet and somber through this ridiculous dance. It was bad enough his evening had already been thrown off course by Georgie, he could not let this go any further. Why, he hadn’t even begun to watch the ladies on the list to see how they behaved in public.

He trusted his mother’s opinion on the matter, of course, but he would still like to see them in action for himself. After all, interacting with society, performing the role of hostess, this was an integral function of a duchess.

Georgie’s high, tinkling laughter drew his attention back to his dance partner, not that it had strayed far.

She was laughing. Of course she was laughing. More significantly, she was laughing at him. “I am helping you as we speak,” she said.

He drew his brows down lower into a furrow that drove the bravest men to cower.

Georgie laughed. Again.

“And how is that?” he asked. Damn, he had to stop catering to this woman’s whimsy.

She cocked her head to the side. “You’re a rather lovely dancer, did you know that?”

He let out a sound that even he could not quite classify. Part harrumph, part scoff, it escaped him like a cannon blast.

“It’s true,” she said, not laughing for once as she widened her eyes. “Believe me, I am just as surprised as you are.”

Bloody hell, he would not laugh at this woman’s insolence. But despite that proclamation, his lips were fighting a battle with a smile. Really, it was the way she’d said it. So earnest and innocent, yet there was that flicker of intelligence in her eyes that said she knew exactly what she was doing.

Perhaps she wasn’t as witless as he’d first assumed. He studied her closer. No, perhaps he’d had her all wrong. She wasn’t witless, she was…wily. A wolf in sheep’s clothing—or rather a feminine terror hidden in an elegant form.

And a luscious body.

He would most assuredly not leer over this lady’s body. With that thought he stared determinedly down at her face, not allowing his gaze to drop lower to sneak another peek at the curve of her breasts or the way her bodice dipped and clung to in a way that was at once modest and tempting as sin.

“I have a theory,” his little she-wolf said, her voice soft and her tone light but her eyes wicked.

“And what is that?”

“Even the most practical, sophisticated, and levelheaded lady yearns for love and romance.” He stared down at her as his brain latched onto the words yearns and romance coming off those pretty, lush lips.

His brain had clearly been rattled by her ceaseless chattering in the carriage. Pulling back slightly while still maintaining his hold, he forced himself to replay her words without the distraction of her lips. He let out another ungentlemanly sort of scoff. “What nonsense.”

She arched her brows and her lips parted to protest, but he cut her off.

“Just because you are silly enough to dream of fairytales and magic, does not mean that all women do.”

Her brows fell just as quickly as they’d risen and she gave him an uncharacteristic frown. “I did not mention magic or fairytales.”

“No, just romance and love,” he said with a sneer. “Which are one and the same.”

She blinked once. “My, so cynical.”

“Just a realist, my dear.”

Where had that endearment come from? It shocked him more than it shocked her, he dared to say. What was happening here? He’d lost the thread entirely. “Do not concern yourself with my interests here tonight,” he said firmly. “They do not involve you.”

She pursed her lips and he knew without a doubt she wanted to protest, but for once since he’d met her, she showed restraint.

Or rather, he’d thought she’d shown restraint. It seemed her audacious mind merely chose another tack, continuing the conversation as though uninterrupted. “In any event, you are helping me and I wish to return the favor.”

Would she ever cease to surprise him? It took him a moment to follow her meaning. “Dancing with you is my duty as your host,” he said stiffly. “You do not owe me any favors.”

He watched her lips in fascination as she fought another smile of amusement—at his expense, no doubt. “Dancing with you is my duty,” she repeated, not outright mimicking his stern tone but lacing her words with a hint of hubris. She batted her eyelashes in a way that was at once becoming and teasing. “What flattery, Your Grace.”

“I do not believe in flattery.”

Now she did smile. “Just as you do not believe in love and romance,” she said. “I do believe I’m beginning to have a better understanding of you.”

He most certainly hoped not. Were she to see past his stern frown to the devilish thoughts he couldn’t seem to stop, she would faint dead away. Despite his best efforts, a base portion of his brain insistently took stock of her finer qualities.

Her finer physical qualities. He had yet to be impressed by her crass demeanor or her tactless wit.

“Do you know what women find charming?” she asked, catching him off guard, which seemed to be her rather peculiar talent.

“I suppose you are planning to tell me.”

“Watching a man dance,” she said, gracing him with a gorgeous smile that made her eyes light from within.

What nonsense. Eyes could not light from within any more than they could twinkle. Yes, his mind was clearly addled by this woman, and he blamed her quick tongue as much as her glorious figure. For what felt like the millionth time, he cursed whatever deity gave this woman such a voluptuous figure along with that wicked demeanor. Surely she’d been sent as temptation among men.

Even now, her seemingly innocuous statement about dancing enhancing his appeal only made him more keenly aware of her appeal. The slim waist beneath his grip, her small hand tucked in his, the way she smelled of some heavenly floral concoction that ought to be made illegal for the intoxicating effect it had on his senses.

Then his awareness broadened and he found himself acutely aware of how she must be perceived by their many onlookers. Of the way the gentlemen all around them were staring. Leering, even. He caught sight of that Lord Malcolm fellow standing on the sidelines and the man’s obvious interest made him tighten his grip.

Mine. She is all mine.

What nonsense. His mind was clearly addled. He fixed his gaze on her eyes once more. What nonsense, indeed. The sooner this woman was out of his home, the better. It seemed she’d set her sights on Lord Malcolm so perhaps she would be out of his hair even sooner than he’d imagined.

He thrust aside the thought which had made his insides twist with something primitive and possessive. But those thoughts aside, she could do better. Surely she would come to her senses and find herself a decent gentleman. One who would tame that wayward spirit while enduring, and perhaps even admiring, her unique sense of wit.

She lowered her voice and leaned in closer as though to tell him a secret. “And do you know what makes a man truly irresistible?”

Bloody hell. She was still stuck on this topic, it seemed. Schooling him on females and their yearnings. God save him from interfering young ladies.

She’d arched her eyebrows as if expecting a response. What made a man irresistible? He gave a little shrug. “A title? A large inheritance, perhaps?”

She didn’t so much as blink. He wasn’t entirely certain she’d even heard him.

“Jealousy.”

He stared at her. “Pardon me?”

She nodded. “It’s true. The quickest way to gain a lady’s attention is to make her jealous.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh at her naiveté or berate her for her insolence. Instead of doing either, he found himself staring at her in shock. Honestly, did she really think that he would stoop to such levels? He was a duke, for heaven’s sake.

“And here I thought my title and fortune would be enough.” His tone was droll, his meaning clear.

Yet it was difficult to tell if she were in jest or just deliberately obtuse when she responded. “One would think, but I’m afraid that is not the case. Not for a woman of substance, at least.”

“A woman of substance,” he repeated, as if that might help make sense of her words.

She nodded eagerly. “Of course. And that’s the kind of lady you’d like to marry, is it not?”

Before he could reply to this gibberish, she continued in a hushed, but enthusiastic voice. “It stands to reason that you’d want to marry a woman with passion. One who would base her decision on something more meaningful than money and status.”

Her eyes were wide as they met his, and he felt the full weight of her undiluted attention. It felt as if the world had come down to this. He was all that existed in this ballroom, and quite possibly in the world.

It was ludicrous, of course, but that was the way it felt nonetheless. As though being the center of her world were one and the same as being the center of the universe. As though nothing and no one else mattered.

Stuff and nonsense, all of it. His mind had taken a hiatus this evening and he blamed that blasted perfume she wore.

He’d have it banned throughout England if he could only figure out the name of it.

She continued talking as they moved together in time. “I don’t mean to be impertinent but I just cannot imagine anyone wanting to marry a woman who only cares about such things.”

It was then that his mind finally caught up to the moment. Was she serious? She couldn’t be.

But one look in those bright green eyes told him that indeed she was. She honestly believed he would choose a wife based on her passion and her interest in him.

The very idea was laughable. No, it was sadly naïve. Sad in the sense that her innocent eyes would one day be opened to the reality of the world around her.

Ridiculous as it might seem, he had an intense and overwhelming instinct to protect her from that. He couldn’t, of course. Even the most naïve youth grew up in time. Even the most dewy-eyed believer in love and romance came to see that such things did not rank highly in the priorities of the world at large.

They certainly had no weight in his life, nor in his decision.

She was waiting for a response and he felt he owed her the truth—not that he was obligated to speak it, but because he had the unnerving knowledge that were he not to make his feelings plain, she might do something foolishly sweet and completely foolhardy all in the name of helping him find some passionately idiotic lady to be his wife.

He cleared his throat and averted his gaze, focusing on the crowd around him with their interested looks and their questioning eyes. “I am afraid you’ve formed a mistaken impression,” he said. “I am looking for a wife, that is no secret. But the lady I seek understands responsibility and duty, just as I do.” He met her gaze and wished he hadn’t. He hated the sadness he saw there.

No, not sadness. Pity.

Bloody hell, if there was anyone who did not need nor deserve this woman’s pity, it was he.

“I plan to choose a bride based on many attributes and qualities,” he said, his voice stiffening along with his spine. “And I assure you, passion and sentimentality are not among them.”

Her silence was loud, if such a thing were possible. If she were any other woman, her silence would be just that. Silence. But she was not any woman. She was Georgie Cleveland, and when she was silent, he was…ill at ease. Not scared, precisely, but wary.

It was this wariness that kept him from looking down, more than a little afraid he’d see that pity in her eyes again. But when he finally risked a peek, it wasn’t pity or confusion or anger that he saw there.

He sighed with exasperation.

It was amusement. Of course it was. It seemed his sole purpose on earth these days was to provide Miss Cleveland with a source of amusement.

She shook her head in mock dismay as their gazes met and held. “Me thinks he doth protest too much,” she misquoted.

He didn’t want to laugh and he certainly did not want to provide her with more amusing ammunition. So he looked away. Directly into the watchful eyes of Lady Regina Phelpott.

She was not smiling, though she was dancing quite elegantly with Lord Fenton. She didn’t look the least bit amused.

Rhys, for his part, was glowering, still thoroughly unamused by his dance partner.

What passed between him and Lady Regina was understanding, of that he felt certain.

They were both dancing dutifully with a person perhaps not of his or her choosing. Neither was pleased by the situation.

Yes, she might do quite nicely as a prospective wife. He added a point in her favor for the sheer coincidence of being miserable but stoic at the same time. If he believed in such things, he would say it was a moment of synchronicity. Perhaps even fate.

He would ask her to dance this evening. Not because ladies liked a man who could dance. Good heavens, of all the silly things to say. No, he would ask her to dance as the first step in getting to know one another better.

And that was why he was here tonight. He looked back down at his irrepressible and irritatingly charming young dance partner. It might do for her to have whimsical ideas of love and romance, but he didn’t have the freedom for that sort of nonsense, nor did he have the constitution. He was made of sterner substance.

“Do you always scowl when you dance or is it just for my benefit?”

Her words startled him so much he nearly lost his footing for the second time. “I beg your pardon.”

Bloody hell. He sounded like a scandalized school mistress even to his own ears. There was noble and stoic and then there was missish. He refused to be the latter. Leaning forward and lowering his voice, he did his best to remain calm and detached, despite his rising anger. “One does not speak so brazenly in public.”

She bit her lip as though contrite, but her eyes said otherwise. “My apologies, Your Grace. I suppose that sort of statement would have been better suited to the privacy of your home.”

His scowl deepened. She was intentionally misunderstanding him, the little minx.

She continued despite his obvious displeasure. “I was merely offering my services.”

“Mmm.” He studied her wide eyes, the way she fairly glowed with innocence. He didn’t believe it for a second. “And I suppose this altruistic offer would in no way benefit you.”

She didn’t look offended; she didn’t even pretend to misunderstand his meaning. Instead, she tipped her head back with a laugh that was at once alluring and alarming.

Everyone was staring.

Including Lady Regina, he noted.

“Oh, very well,” she said. “Perhaps I would also benefit.”

His gaze followed hers to that ridiculous Lord Malcolm. From what little he knew of him, the man fancied himself a poet.

A poet, of all things.

He sighed in the face of her luminous smile. Of course she had gone and set her sights on a poet. He shouldn’t encourage her. Surely her family wouldn’t approve.

But then again, the family was riddled with scandal, perhaps the thought of a poet did not overly distress them. Still, as her…well, not her guardian, but as a friend of the family, he ought to steer her toward a more viable husband. Someone who could repress that giddy spirit and reign in her more wayward tendencies. Maybe the proper husband would be able to instill some sense of decorum.

“While I appreciate your concern for my affairs,” he said stiffly, “I must decline your offer.”

She tilted her head to the side and pursed her lips in a manner that made it impossible to ignore her mouth. The damned little minx.

“Too bad,” she said. “I do believe you and I could have quite a diverting season were we to combine efforts.”

Combine efforts? Really, treating courtship and marriage like some sort of sport was going too far.

She tilted her head forward and dropped her voice to little more than a whisper. “Just look at the way the ladies around us are watching you.”

He resisted the temptation to follow her orders. “I will do no such thing.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t care about ladies in general, merely the few who are suitable matches for a man of my position.”

Bloody hell, was he really discussing suitable matches with Georgie, of all people? How she managed to provoke him into speaking without thinking was a matter to consider at another time, in any other venue.

“I see. Like these ladies of the list.” Somehow she made that term sound utterly ludicrous. But she didn’t laugh, or even smile. She nodded. “I find that honorable.”

He stiffened, expecting to see that teasing humor in her eyes, but she seemed utterly sincere. “Honorable,” he repeated with a disdainful huff.

She nodded again. “I do. Most gentlemen would be concerned with their popularity among the eligible ladies. They would want to be seen as dashing and handsome and witty…” She widened her eyes. “All of which describe you, of course.”

“Of course.” He muttered it under his breath. No one in her right mind would describe him by any one of those traits, let alone all three. But she looked so sincere, it was hard to stay miffed.

“You are very clearly dashing, handsome, and witty,” she went on to say. “It is just not terribly obvious to the rest of the ton, I fear.”

He stared at her in shock, but her expression and her gaze held nothing but sincerity and concern.

She was serious.

He let out a sharp bark of laughter before remembering where he was and by whom he was surrounded.

Georgie’s answering smile looked hesitant. For the first time since he’d met her she seemed uncertain. “I hope I did not offend you, Your Grace.”

Offend him? On the contrary. “That may have been the kindest way I’ve ever heard of saying that society finds me to be boring, ugly, and far too serious.”

She widened her eyes further. “I said no such thing.”

He ignored her, honest amusement making him laugh, softer this time, but it was still genuine. His laughter felt like rediscovering an old childhood toy—one that was rickety and outdated, but not distasteful.

When he met her gaze, he found that she was smiling up at him. “I like your laugh.”

I like you. He stopped himself before he could utter such nonsense. It had popped into his head in response to her absurd comment. Her simple statement had disarmed him.

He wasn’t certain how to respond and he found himself speechless and oddly clumsy. Luckily the last strains of the waltz were coming to an end and he brought them up short, stopping so suddenly the couple beside them nearly collided into them.

He bowed, she curtsied.

“Thank you for the dance,” she said.

“It was my pleasure.” He said the words automatically but then he realized with a start that they were true. He normally hated dancing because of the enforced intimacy, but she had kept him too entertained and consistently surprised to notice any awkward tension.

He supposed making people feel comfortable was a special talent of hers. She seemed to put everyone at ease, even his mother.

Between her beauty and her outgoing personality, it was a wonder she wasn’t surrounded by suitors. Add in the fact that she was now well-connected and had a large dowry, Georgie would surely be swatting away interested young men by the dozens.

The thought had him scowling down at her once more, but she seemed unmoved by his sudden change in demeanor.

She was already looking about, her gaze seeking out her next victim, no doubt. And he had a suspicion he knew exactly who it would be. That Lord Malcolm fellow. Really, of all the men she could have, what sort of bad judge of character chose that simpering fop?

Apparently she’d spotted him because her face lit up with recognition and a pleasure that made him grow testy in turn. Turning her face up to his, she gave him another dazzling smile. “Wish me luck,” she said. “And best of luck to you as well, Your Grace.”

Luck? Whatever did she mean by—

But she was already walking away. Gracefully and swiftly making her way through the throngs toward a group of young gentlemen and ladies who had gathered near the refreshments.

Lord Malcolm among them.

Bloody hell. She aimed to woo him. Him. That ridiculous fellow with the easy smile and the peacock strut.

It wasn’t jealousy that had him glaring at the other man. No, no. It was concern for his young guest. She needed his protection and he would provide it. It was the least he could do for Claire’s sister.

He had to force himself to turn away as Georgie reached the group and Lord Malcolm seemed to greet her warmly.

Too warmly for his liking.

There was nothing to be done about it today. Not tonight, at least. But he would keep his eye on her. And Lord Malcolm.

It wasn’t until someone jostled him that he noticed he was still standing on the dancefloor. He scanned the crowd again, but this time he was searching out a new partner. A better suited dance partner.

Lady Regina, preferably, but really anyone would do at this moment. Anyone who did not have sparkling green eyes or a dreadfully bewitching laugh.