There was a man in Charlotte’s carriage.

And not a groom or an elderly butler who’d practiced the art of being invisible. This man had broad shoulders and lanky legs and the sort of attire only made by the finest tailor and only maintained by the finest valet.

Not that the man took heed of his apparel. Leaves dotted his tailcoat, and streaks of mud stained his breeches. Most likely mud was on the other side of his breeches and was dirtying the cart.

Charlotte lurched away and squeezed against the side of the cart. She directed her gaze at him, willing him to disappear, but the man seemed distressingly solid, and she screamed.

“My turn,” the stranger said smoothly, reaching for the reins. His fingers touched hers, and even through the gloves, a surge of unwelcome energy moved through her. His fingers were large, ungloved, and their position on top of hers was entirely improper.

Men’s hands weren’t supposed to touch women’s. Charlotte might be on her first season, but she did know that, no matter how much other debutantes laughed and called her a country bumpkin. Men’s hands could touch hers briefly while dancing, and they could even clasp them while kissing them during particular florid introductions, but they absolutely could not touch them otherwise.

When people said London was dangerous, Charlotte hadn’t imagined men tumbling into women’s carts.

Charlotte was already late. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She’d planned her visit to Dr. Hutton’s with care. Now this strange man was sitting beside her, sullying her cart and making her more late.

“Leave,” the groom demanded behind them, though Jerry’s lack of muscles and squeaky voice made his statement ineffectual.

Fiddle-faddle.

Charlotte grabbed her parasol and directed the metal ferrule at the man. “It is perhaps appropriate to warn you that I intend to strike you with this.”

The man’s lips turned up into a decided smirk, and even his eyebrows pranced higher. His face seemed entirely composed of symmetrical planes, chiseled cheekbones and exquisite skin, the sort her sister Georgiana attempted to achieve with lemon and buttermilk masks, but never managed to obtain. Charlotte decided not to investigate his face further. It resembled those of the men at balls who never danced with her, the men with whom all the other wallflowers longed to dance, and who seemed to confine any attention toward her to the occasional smug glance.

Charlotte firmed her lips and pushed him with her parasol.

“Ow!” The man yelped and slid away, even though a cursory estimation of the cart’s measurements should have allowed him to ascertain he should not have attempted to occupy it.

His knees brushed against hers, and a masculine scent of crisp cotton and lemon wafted in the air. The scent might not be precisely unpleasant, but its presence was improper. The air should smell of grass and trees and flowers, not of men.

Men weren’t supposed to jump into carts.

Men weren’t even supposed to speak to women they didn’t know.

Charlotte forced her voice to not quiver. “I demand you leave. Your presence is undesired, and furthermore, you are causing me to be late.”

The man seemed unmoved. He nudged the reins and glanced behind him. Charlotte followed his gaze. Men in curricles grinned at her, as if eager to ponder something else except the speed of their conveyances. Older men and women in majestic barouches held quizzing glasses to their eyes, and even their drivers seemed to focus more on Charlotte than on Rotten Row.

Fire flared across Charlotte’s cheeks, threatening to blaze with a vigor normally reserved for forest calamities. “Everyone is looking at me.”

“I rather believe they’re looking at me,” the stranger said. “The important thing is, do you see a man in a green velvet waistcoat and a glossy beaver hat?”

“The one with a rather angry expression on his face? His precise distance from us is difficult to calculate given the rapid pace with which he is approaching us.”

“Blast.” The man scrambled up, jostling the cart further, and urged the horses to hasten. “Damnation.”

“Cursing is an unbecoming habit,” Charlotte stated, attempting some control of the conversation even as the cart veered to the left. “A dictionary is composed of a great many varied words, and I am certain with some meager deliberation even you could select a more appropriate one for this occasion.”

“I am being chased.” The stranger contorted his face into a scowl, though frustratingly that did not hamper the overall attractiveness of his appearance. The man was impossible.

“While being chased may be inconvenient for you, it does not require inconvenience for me. As I mentioned, and as you should have remembered, I am late for an important appointment. Timeliness is a virtue.”

“I’ll stop him, miss.” The groom rose from his perch in the back, and the cart jostled and swerved. The groom refrained from sitting, despite the cart’s current resemblance to a ship swaying under the force of an enormous ocean wave and crossed his arms. “Leave the cart at once, sir.”

Charlotte grasped hold of the side of the cart, aware her lower lip was toppling to a degree unnecessary even for consuming particularly tough meats.

The groom had never said so much before.

“Sit down,” the stranger ordered.

“I will not,” the groom said valiantly.

Charlotte firmed her lips and sought to recover the reins. Unfortunately, the stranger’s clutch was strong. Well. That fact was not surprising. The man’s muscles were apparent. Butterflies decided to flutter through her chest.

The groom reached over them and yanked the reins. Evidently, he also hadn’t paid sufficient attention to the stranger’s muscular form, for the reins did not slip from the man’s grip.

The horses neighed and launched into a gallop down a small lane, as if they were competing at Epsom and not simply pulling a cart.

The groom veered fiercely, and for a horrendous moment, Charlotte thought he might fly from the cart, but the groom hunched his back and grabbed hold of the cart’s edge. “I demand you leave at once, sir.”

“It’s ‘Your Grace,’” the stranger said.

“A d-duke?” The groom’s eyes bulged, and his face paled, as if he’d transformed into a ghost. “F-forgive me, Your Grace.”

“Jerry!” Charlotte exclaimed. “You mustn’t apologize to him.”

“He’s a duke, miss.” The groom’s eyes remained round, and he slid down. “Practically royalty.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s permitted to leap into people’s conveyances,” Charlotte said.

The groom looked uncertain. “I ‘aven’t met a duke before.”

“Well, I assure you, they are not allowed to be devoid of manners.” Charlotte decided not to mention that she’d never met a duke either.

The duke had the audacity to grin.

*

CALLUM WAITED FOR WONDER to fill her face. He knew the stages. He’d seen them often enough before.

1. Her eyes would glaze, and he would know she wasn’t solely seeing him, but also the castles, town homes and estates that accompanied men with his title.
2. Her cheeks would flush. The excitement of being in his presence tended to surpass that of any cold weather.
3. Her lashes would flutter. He hadn’t decided if women considered eyelash movement attractive or if they simply obtained extra energy in his presence.
4. She would smooth her dress, as if his presence had wrinkle-causing powers.
5. She would shove her locks behind her ear, as if to better hear even the smallest murmur from him, lest it be a declaration of love and an offer to make her his duchess, one which he would not be compelled to repeat at normal auditory levels.

The predictability of women was almost tiresome, and he stretched his legs as far as they would go in his cart and waited for recognition to show upon her face.

His lips twitched. Perhaps she might even faint.

The woman, though, seemed remarkably upright.

Possibly her stays were of excellent quality.

Her eyes remained resolute, and since the sky had chosen to be gray sometime last year and had not yet stopped, he could not blame overly bright sunbeams.

“A real duke,” the groom breathed. “Fancy that.”

“I am...” Callum paused, allowing himself to smile. His next words would change everything. “I am Callum Montgomery, Duke of Vernon.”

Wonder was certainly supposed to be etched upon the woman’s face now, but her countenance seemed curiously devoid of it. Her voice didn’t wobble, and her gaze didn’t flutter to her lap. In fact... She didn’t seem to be the least bit intrigued.

Is it possible she hasn’t heard of me?

Impressive headlines accompanied his depiction in broadsheets. “Wellington’s Right Hand Man Halts Bonaparte,” one had read, and then “...climbs the Matterhorn,” and “...swims the channel.” The latter two might be rumors, but Callum hadn’t seen fit to correct them.

Naturally, some women were unacquainted with his many feats of brilliance. Those women, though, tended to be servants or other forms of workers who would not have the time to dedicate to perusing Matchmaking for Wallflowers. Some of them were of the older variety with failing eyes.

Old was not a word he would use to describe her.

Callum tried to remember the woman’s name. She wasn’t a servant, he could see that now. In fact, he was certain he’d seen her before.

Her name was something Butterworth. Charlotte Butterworth. She was a member of the ton, even if one of the most external rings.

He leaned back, proud of his memory. He contemplated sharing his knowledge with her, but since she would be well aware of her name, and since she already seemed disinclined to flattery, he doubted she would laud his memory, especially if he hinted her name was of such unimportance that recalling it demanded praise.

He’d never spoken to her, but he remembered the laughter that had accompanied the name. Apparently, the woman’s father was a county vicar with no prospects of becoming even a deacon, but the woman’s mother’s blood was respectable, and she’d wrangled her daughters into the season, where they appeared mostly bewildered by their sumptuous surroundings and polished guests.

Callum rubbed his shoulder. He had never considered the advantages of parasols for serving as weapons, but from the manner she was pummeling him, it seemed obvious the British Army had neglected a weapon that would have ended the Napoleonic Wars earlier.

“You are going in the wrong direction,” Miss Charlotte Butterworth said primly.

Callum would have disputed that fact. Wolfe was nowhere to be seen. It was clear he was very much going in the right direction.

Miss Butterworth pressed her lips together, and her skin seemed paler than before. “I need to return.”

“To the Serpentine?” He scrunched his eyebrows together. Hyde Park was pleasant, but it was hardly the sort of place that demanded one visit at a certain time. The only requirement to see the Serpentine was to view it when it was light.

What exactly was Miss Butterworth intending to do? Have a secret rendezvous? He’d never imagined the vicar’s daughter was so interesting.

“We have left Rotten Road. This lane leads north.”

“You need to go somewhere.”

“I thought I’d made that quite evident.” She shoved a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and her slender fingers quivered.

He sighed. “I’ll take you.”

He turned the horses around and headed back.

“But isn’t someone here who wants to hurt you?” she asked.

“I’ll be brave.” He grinned. He needn’t tell her Wolfe was his best friend. It was the sort of statement that might make her question his urgent entrance into her conveyance. “What is your destination?”

“St. James Square.”

He almost sputtered. Then it was a secret rendezvous. Most women of the ton lived in Mayfair, in grand townhomes, with their families. St. James Square was known for its multitude of bachelor apartments.

Callum steered the horses from the idyllic spot in which he’d found her toward the rather less idyllic location she wanted to go.

“You shouldn’t be out by yourself,” he said.

“I have Jerry.”

“The groom? He looks scarcely thirteen. Hardly an effective guard.”

“The circumstances were exceptional. Besides, no one was supposed to know.”

“Your parents will miss you.”

“It’s early, and they have a tendency to enjoy the bed to the fullest.”

“It’s dangerous to travel on your own,” he growled.

“I was in Hyde Park. Hardly Seven Dials.”

“A woman like you isn’t supposed to know what Seven Dials is.”

She tossed her hair, and light blond tendrils fell from her bonnet. She shoved them back, tucking them under the coarse straw, and raised her chin. “I read.”

“The broadsheets no doubt.” The horses exited the park, and the cart jostled over cobblestones. Normally Callum might admire the buildings, so different from the Scottish Highlands, but he kept his gaze on her. “If I had any daughters, I wouldn’t permit them to read any broadsheets.”

“If you had any daughters my age, you would be a medical miracle,” she retorted, and he fought the urge to smile. “Besides, what would you have them read now? And how would they know to avoid Seven Dials?”

He considered this, but before he could respond, she pointed.

“Stop there.”

He urged the horses to the side of the pavement.

Obviously, the woman was seeing some man. In Callum’s experience, a woman who desired a secret meeting desired a man, even if most women intent on meeting a man in private were prone to clothe themselves in more elegant attire. St. James Square was filled with men of venerable backgrounds and not venerable lifestyles; perfect for a woman driven by baser desires. He’d been the subject of many forbidden visits himself, and he grinned and directed his gaze at the building, wondering whether he knew the man to whom it belonged.

A plaque glimmered in the sunlight, and he read the name.

It was not what he’d expected.

Dr. William Hutton.

Callum stiffened.

In one respect, he was correct: she was seeing a man. The name Dr. William Hutton could hardly belong to a female, but it was the words underneath which caused Callum’s stomach to tighten.

Heart physician.

This wasn’t some illicit, sordid meeting. Perhaps the meeting was forbidden, but Callum had the impression the fact she was not accompanied by a family member or even a servant had less to do with protecting herself, than protecting them.

“What’s this about?” Callum asked.

“Most likely nothing.”

He doubted it was nothing.

In his experience, young ladies did not possess a habit of visiting heart physicians. If she was here, it was because she was concerned for her health.

And that is not good.

He scrutinized Miss Butterworth again, and she lowered her lashes. He straightened. He was being rude. He shouldn’t scrutinize the shade of her pale skin or the slightness of her body. She didn’t seem unwell.

But then hadn’t his parents had died suddenly after giving no indication of being vulnerable to illness?

That was different.

His stomach attempted to arrange itself into one of the more complex fisherman’s knots, and he inhaled. He forced thoughts of his parents from his mind. Thoughts of his parents might lead to thoughts of his guardian on that dreadful afternoon, and he had no desire to linger on that.

Callum exited the cart. He turned to assist Miss Butterworth, but she was already striding briskly to the entrance.

“Pardon, Your Grace,” the groom said. “I should take care of the horses.”

“Er—naturally.” Callum stepped away from the cart. The groom soon led the horses about the square, and Callum was alone.

He should leave. He should return to his townhome on Grosvenor Square and resume some sleep before he made an appearance at Sir Seymour’s ball this evening.

Except...

He didn’t like the idea of Miss Butterworth making her way to her home herself, even if, despite the profusion of young men, it was unlikely danger would come to her at St. James’s Square. The leafy squares and imposing residential homes were hardly cesspools of vice, and Miss Butterworth wouldn’t be the first young lady of the ton to ride in these neighborhoods on her own. The less than one mile gaunt along the finest streets of the British Empire could hardly be termed terrifying.

A few of his friends streamed from their homes, decked in their top hats and canes, ready to amble to White’s or other clubs in style. On any other day, he would have stopped to chat with them.

Today though he avoided their glances, consumed with the sense something of increased importance might be happening at the physician’s.