He’d spoken a trifle too loudly. Esther Himmelfarb swiveled her gaze to regard him, while the other ladies continued to ogle Quimbey with longing glances.

God in heaven, Anthony, I do believe you’re right this time.

Green eyes regarded the Moreland spare with a blend of humor, condescension, and… pity? There were depths in Esther Himmelfarb’s gaze, depths of reserve and self-possession that made a red-blooded male want to take down all that golden, shot-silk hair. To provoke her to blushes and sighs and… passion.

“Right about what, Perce?”

Had he spoken aloud?

“We’d best find a housemaid who can provide a distraction for Mannering. Can’t have any tales getting back to Her Grace when she’s decreed we’re both to be wed by year’s end.”

House parties entailed dancing. This was Holy Writ.

What better opportunity to look over the possible flirts and affairs, and to show oneself off to same, than the endless rotation of partners encountered on the dance floor?

Esther loathed the dance floor as her personal purgatory, until the final set concluded, and she found herself on the arm of—Everlasting Powers forefend!—Percival Windham. For her, the Almighty was now fashioning circles even of purgatory.

“Miss Himmelfarb, I believe?” His lordship winged an arm and smiled graciously. “Shall I have us introduced, or in the informality of the occasion, will you allow me to join you at supper?”

A more calculating man would have offered to escort her to whoever had the honor of dining with her, but then, Lord Percival likely did not have to be calculating.

“I will happily accept your escort to the buffet, my lord.” Where Michael might rescue her or Lady Morrisette would find some dowager needing company. Esther laced her gloved hand around Lord Percival’s arm, only to encounter a small surprise.

Or not so small.

Gossip had not lied. The man was muscular in the extreme, and this close, he was also of sufficient height to uphold the fiction that he’d protect Esther from any brigands or wolves wandering about Lady Morrisette’s parlor.

“Does your family hail from Kent, Miss Himmelfarb? I know most of the local families and cannot recall Himmelfarbs among them.”

The question was perfectly pleasant, and so too was his lordship’s scent. Not the scent of exertion or the standard rose-scented rice powder—he wasn’t wearing a wig—but something elusive…

“You’re twitching your nose like a thoughtful bunny, Miss Himmelfarb. Are you in anticipation of something particularly succulent among the supper offerings?”

He smiled down at her as he spoke, and for moment, Esther could not fashion a reply. Of all the times for Charlotte Pankhurst to be right about a man’s blue, blue eyes… “I’m trying to fathom the fragrance you’re wearing, my lord. It’s pleasant.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think from your expression that you do not approve of men wearing pleasant scents.” His tone, amused, teasing, suggested that sometimes, all he wore was a pleasant scent—and that just-for-you smile.

They came to a halt in the buffet line, which meant… Esther was doomed to sharing a meal with the man.

Lord Percival leaned nearer, as if confiding something amid the noise and bustle of the first night of a lively, extended social gathering. “Bay rum lacks imagination, don’t you think? I shall wear it when I’m a settled fellow with children in my nursery. There’s cedar in the scent I wear, reminds me of Canada. You’re partial to spicy scents yourself.”

He was inviting a reciprocal confidence from her with that observation. The notion of trading secrets with Percival Windham made something beneath Esther’s heart twang—disagreeably, of course. “Lavender with a touch of a few other things.”

While Esther stood beside Lord Percival, he leaned even closer and subtly inhaled through his patrician nose. Horses did that, gathered each other’s scent upon acquaintance. And like a filly, Esther held still for his lordship’s olfactory inspection and resisted the urge—the unladylike, disconcerting, thoroughly inappropriate urge—to treat him to a similar examination.

“My dear”—his lordship had straightened only a bit—“why is My Lady Hair Bows staring daggers in this direction?”

My lady…? Then… my dear?!

He was a very presuming fellow, even for a duke’s spare, and yet Esther felt the urge to smile back at him. “I’m not sure what you mean, my lord.”

“You know exactly what I mean, Miss Himmelfarb.” He picked up a plate, though they were still some distance from any sustenance. “Now the Needy girl is at her elbow, pouring brandy on the flames of gossip. You and I will be engaged by this time tomorrow, I don’t doubt.”

Did one correct a duke’s spare when he made light of marriage to a woman within staring distance of professional spinsterhood?

Yes, one did.

“Her name is Needham, my lord. And I should think an engagement unlikely when you have yet to ask for my hand and I have given no indication I would accept your suit.”

The light in his eyes changed, going from friendly—yes, that was the word—to something more intent. “You are an impertinent woman.” This did not, unfortunately, sound as if it put him off.

“As compared to you, my lord, who are somehow a pertinent man? Or perhaps pertinacious might apply?”

That was rude, intended to put the perishing idiot in his place, but it only added approval to the warmth in his gaze. His eyes crinkled at the corners, his lips curved up to reveal perfect, straight white teeth in a dazzling, alarmingly intimate smile.

“We’re going to get on famously, Miss Himmelfarb. I adore impertinent women.”

Esther knew not what to say to that. The line shuffled forward while Charlotte, Herodia, and Zephora glared a firing squad of daggers, and Esther tried to ignore the scent of cedar and spices.

“You most assuredly do not look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Esther glanced around the ballroom, where guests were milling before the dancing resumed, then cast a brief, exasperated look at her cousin, the Honorable Michael Adelman.

“Could you enjoy yourself while the tops of your breasts were engaged in conversation by one man after another, and half those men married to wives busily ogling some other fellow’s falls?”

Michael’s lids drooped in a manner he likely did not intend to be seductive, though it made his good looks even more alluring. “I think the Needham girl might accept my suit. She’s said to be well dowered. The party lasts only three weeks, Esther.”

Remorse had Esther patting Michael’s sleeve. “Three weeks is nothing. We shall contrive. Compliment her coiffure lavishly.” That was the purpose of the outing, in fact—to secure an advantageous match for Michael, and as expeditiously as possible. Michael shuddered beside Esther on a gilded green-velvet sofa set into an alcove off the ballroom’s dance floor.

“How does one consummate a union with a wife who must sleep with a wooden pillow, lest she disturb the architecture of her hairstyle? I lie awake at night and fret over this, you know.”

He was her cousin, and Esther loved him, but he was only a man and therefore not much afflicted with insight.

“You capture her heart so completely that for you she’ll give up hours of torment having her hair dressed and content herself with elaborate wigs, while leaving her crowning glory in the state intended by the Almighty. We’d best mingle. Lady Morrisette has twice smiled this way.”

Michael rose and assisted Esther to her feet. “God help me,” he murmured. “Our hostess is reported to hold these gatherings mostly as a means of seeing to her own entertainment.” He bowed over Esther’s hand. “Say nice things about me to the Needmore girl.”