She fixed her friend with an incredulous look. “Hattie. I am not your noble cause.”

At least the girl had the decency to look contrite—for a moment. Then a sly look entered her eyes. “But of course not,” she said. “It’ll cost you handsomely. Five hours a week sitting as Helen of Troy.”

Helen of Troy again?

“Emerald silk,” Hattie singsonged, “champagne, waltzing, eligible bachelors. And—”

Annabelle threw up her hands. “All right, all right. You will get my measurements, and Helen of Troy.”

Hattie’s face lit up like the enormous Christmas tree in Claremont’s main sitting room. “Fabulous!”

In the corner, the pendulum clock bonged, once, twice.

“Do excuse me,” Hattie said, “Aunty will be waking from her nap.”

Catriona looked on in awe as the door fell shut behind their friend. “She has just talked you into sitting for a painting you don’t want to sit for in order to get a gown you don’t want.”

Annabelle gave a shrug. “It is of no consequence. I won’t be invited.”

“I think Hattie is not entirely wrong,” Catriona said, her expression pensive.

Annabelle frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just a feeling.”

That was suspect. Catriona never just had feelings; there was usually a long list of facts underpinning the things she said.

“What dress are you going to wear for the Christmas dinner?” Catriona asked.

“The light blue damask.” It was the finest one she had been given, but she had worn it before, here at Claremont. It had to do.

“I heard that Lady Lingham and the duke . . . have an arrangement,” Catriona said.

Oh.

The blush tinging Catriona’s cheeks left little doubt over the nature of that arrangement.

Why should this surprise her? Men of Montgomery’s standing usually had a mistress tucked away somewhere. But an arrangement with a social equal?

She kept her voice neutral. “What is she like, the countess?”

“She’s his neighbor. Older, and widowed,” Catriona said. “She might have influence over him, so perhaps we should target ladies like her with our campaign.”

“That’s a grand idea,” Annabelle muttered. She shifted on her chair, her skin itching uncomfortably underneath her walking dress. “You know, that blue gown looks ghastly on me.”

Catriona looked confused. “It does?”

“Yes. The color doesn’t suit me and it adds bulk in the wrong places.”

“Can you add a ribbon?” Catriona tried.

“I could, but it would be like adding a ribbon to a train wreck.”

“You’re not normally prone to exaggerations,” Catriona said slowly. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” Annabelle said, tapping her pen on the letter and splattering ink. “I’ve just remembered that I’m not that old, and I don’t recall the last time I have worn a pretty dress.”

A lifetime ago, she used to have taste, an interest in braiding ribbons into her hair and matching her earbobs to her eyes. She hadn’t taken any joy in that since that summer with William; her looks were an empty promise at best, a liability at worst. And now . . . now she was almost writhing with the need to burst out of this drab gray shell she had cultivated for so long.

But she couldn’t. Right now, she was exactly as she had to be to move forward on a respectable, independent path.

She could, however, stay away from Montgomery. Yesterday in the greenhouse, he had wanted to kiss her. She knew the look he had got on his face by the terrarium, the fixed stare, the singular male intent. Such intensity was usually followed by a grab for her person and a slap to the man’s face. But Montgomery hadn’t made a grab for her. Even more shocking, she was fairly certain she wouldn’t have slapped him. No, she had gone back for more of his company this morning. It hadn’t helped to learn that he kept his moth-eaten horses, as if a generous, caring heart were beating in his hard chest . . .

She’d find ways to avoid him until the Christmas dinner; no more breakfasting with him, no more letters and walks and intimate talks. What had she been thinking?

* * *

The journey to Lady Lingham’s Christmas dinner was awkward. Perhaps for efficiency reasons, Montgomery had all four of them travel in the same carriage—himself, Peregrin, Aunty Greenfield, and her. Aunty kept sagging against her as she slipped in and out of her nap, and the two men opposite looked terribly stern, which was owed only in part to their sharp dark twin topcoats. They seemed right cross with each other, staring determinedly into nothingness, a look that suited Montgomery but not Peregrin. She had spent a lot of hours with the young lord in the past few days, first to avoid the duke, but soon because Peregrin turned out to be exceptionally friendly, quick-witted company. Higher powers are forcing me to revise Plato’s Republic during my Christmas break, he had confessed. Would you happen to know anything about that particular book? Tutoring him had been so delightful, it had—briefly—distracted her from her ludicrous attraction to Montgomery.

The attraction was now firmly back in place, yes, she was beyond denying it: she was hopelessly preoccupied with the grim-faced aristocrat across the footwell. Even now, despite his coldly bored expression, his nearness warmed her body like a bonfire right to her core.

She forced her eyes away from him to study her hands in her lap. Still, she saw him, like the glow of a fire spilling into her field of vision. Good lord. Perhaps dining with his arrangement would douse the flare of infatuation.

Her stomach gave a queasy twist when Lingham Hall came into view. Admittedly, the house itself was lovely, a conveniently sized manor with a smooth Georgian sandstone façade. Leafless vines ranked around the pillared entrance, where the butler was already waiting.

The moment they entered the foyer, a tall, slim woman in her early forties strode toward them, her heels click-clacking confidently on the marble floor.

“Montgomery,” she exclaimed softly. Her slender hand lingered on his arm just a fraction too long.

Annabelle could not blame her. Montgomery’s straight shoulders filled the black evening jacket perfectly, and the pale gray of his waistcoat made his eyes gleam like polished silver. He was a picture of masculine elegance that would compel any woman who was entitled to do so to steal second touches.

“And you must be Miss Archer.” The countess’s expression was mildly curious. “Poor thing, how ghastly to be taken ill at such a merry time.”

Lady Lingham had that look that her father used to describe as “long of face and large of tooth,” a look that was considered appealing chiefly because it spoke of centuries of wealth and good breeding. She had also mastered the art of effortless elegance—her sleek gray gown clung to her lithe figure in all the right places and the knot of blond hair atop her head looked deceptively simple. A maid could spend an hour on creating such a knot. It would never work with Annabelle’s mass of wavy hair.

When they entered the sitting room, a dozen pairs of eyes shifted to the duke like metal to a magnet. Lady Lingham detached herself from his arm as people began drifting toward them, and then she alarmed Annabelle by taking her elbow as if they were old confidantes. “Take a turn around the room with me, Miss Archer.”

Warily, Annabelle fell into step beside her. They were of similar height, but the countess was fine boned like a bird, the touch of her gloved hand hardly registering on her arm. Delicate lines rayed from the corners of her cool blue eyes. Intelligent eyes. Montgomery had not picked a simpering miss for his arrangement, and she wasn’t sure whether she found this good or bad.

“Thank you for inviting me tonight, my lady,” she said.

Lady Lingham’s eyes twinkled. “The pleasure is mine. The neighborhood was abuzz about you.” She gave a little laugh. “Oh, no need to look startled. Of course there will be gossip, and all of it too ludicrous to be borne. My lady’s maid was adamant that Montgomery was seen with you up on his horse, riding across the fields like a knight in shining armor with his princess.”

What?

“Goodness,” she managed.

“Precisely,” Lady Lingham said, shaking her head, “so do not fret. Everyone knows Montgomery would never contemplate such a display. He tells me you are from a clergy family?”

“Yes, my lady.” What else had Montgomery told the countess about her?

“How charming,” Lady Lingham said, “and so I have just the table partner for you.”

They had reached a slight, dark-haired man who stood by himself next to a large potted plant.

“Miss Archer, meet Peter Humphrys, the curate on my estate.”

Peter Humphrys’s blush was instant and fierce when he bowed far too low. “What a pleasure, Miss Archer,” he exclaimed. “This splendid evening has just become even more splendid.” He promptly followed them around the room for the remaining introductions to Lady Lingham’s other neighbors.

There was the Earl of Marsden, a heavyset older nobleman with florid cheeks who looked straight through her. His wife kept touching her bony fingers to the egg-sized ruby pendant that looked too heavy for her thin neck. A Viscount Easton, who had brought his adolescent son and daughter, and an elderly couple, the Richmonds, whose two daughters gave Annabelle’s blue dress a sweeping glance of pity.