“My darling Mr. Cope,” Isidore cried lavishly. Her eyes were sparkling and yet, to Harriet’s eyes, they were wild.

She bowed. “Your Grace.”

“Do look at this amusing missive I received today,” Isidore said, dropping something into Harriet’s hand as she turned away to greet Lord Castlemaine.

Harriet unfurled a wrinkled bit of parchment.

I discover I have some missing property, read the note. Harriet frowned. The words were written in a strong hand, dashed off as if the writer cared little for penmanship. She almost missed the one remaining word. Tonight. And then: C, scrawled in the lower right corner.

Harriet gasped. The duke. Isidore’s Cosway. Isidore’s scheme had worked. He was here, not just here in England but here.

She started back toward Isidore, elbowing one of the jugglers sharply in the ribs.

“Mr. Cope,” Isidore said again. She was utterly exquisite—and as white as a water lily.

Harriet took her arm and pulled her away from Jem, who looked rather relieved. Naturally all the men turned to follow, as if Isidore were some sort of rabbit and they the foxes.

Isidore smiled, that lavish erotic smile she had, the one that promised men everything and delivered nothing. Harriet could actually see the man closest to her shiver a little. “My dear Mr. Cope will escort me to—to—”

“We will return, gentlemen,” Harriet said, towing her away.

“I’m not ready,” Isidore cried, the moment they were free of the crowd. “I’ve changed my mind, Harriet! I don’t want—”

“You’ve brought the man all the way from the Nile,” Harriet said. “Of course you want him.”

“I’m not ready,” Isidore said fiercely. “In my bed, Harriet. I’m not ready for that. With a stranger. Tonight!”

In truth, it was a daunting prospect, put so bluntly. Isidore came to a halt. “It’s worse because of watching you and—”

Harriet pinched her. “Hush!”

“You know what I mean…”

And Harriet did. When she was married, if she’d had any idea how much pleasure, joy, a man and woman could have together…the comparison to her own life would have broken her heart, probably.

“Isidore—” she said, as they went through the door into the entrance hall. “You must—” But the words died in her throat.

When she walked into the drawing room a mere two minutes before, the great foyer to Fonthill was populated only by a group of lackadaisical footmen. But now the front door was open, bringing with it a little swirl of snow and darkness.

She heard Povey’s measured tones. “Indeed, Your Grace, it is an unseasonably cold winter.”

And then a deep laugh. “I’m not used to it, and I’m shivering like a shorn lamb, I assure you.”

Isidore went utterly rigid, and made a little sound of distress. The man was inside now, but his back to them. He was huge, wrapped in a greatcoat and an enormous fur hat.

“I have to go upstairs,” Isidore breathed.

“Too late,” Harriet said, stopping her. “He’ll see you on the stairs.”

“I can’t…”

Harriet gave her the frown she gave repeat visitors to her courtroom. “Yes, you can.”

It was as if everything was happening in slow motion. The greatcoat was gone, and the hat was gone. Harriet had hardly time to see a great tumble of inky black hair, unpowdered and not even tied back, before he turned.

Her first thought was that he couldn’t be English. She’d never seen an Englishman that color—a sort of gorgeous mahogany. He wore a jacket that Villiers would envy, made of pale blue but he didn’t have it buttoned in the front, as was proper. She could see brown skin, right down below his throat. Where was his cravat? He wore no waistcoat. Long white cuffs tumbled over his hands, but rather than have them caught at the wrist by a pearl button, he wore them open. He was half dressed.

There was a moment of utter silence in the anteroom. The duke was looking only at Isidore.

Just as Harriet was about to say something—some sort of introduction!—he swept into an extraordinarily deep bow. Her eyes fixed on his face, Isidore sank into a deep curtsy. Still without saying a word, she held out her hand.

“My duchess, I presume,” he said, carrying the hand up to his lips. His voice was dark and foreign, like that of a man used to speaking strange languages.

Harriet felt as if she were watching a play. How did Cosway know that he was facing his wife? And didn’t he wish to retire to his chamber before he greeted Isidore? His face wasn’t clean-shaven. Gentlemen—dukes!—never had stubble on their faces, to the best of her knowledge. That’s what valets were for: to make sure that dukes pinned their cuffs, wore waistcoats, buttoned their coats…

No valet could tame the wildness of Cosway’s face.

“I’d like to introduce a dear friend of mine, Mr. Cope,” Isidore said.

Harriet bowed, and the moment she straightened she saw that he knew precisely what she was. Instantly.

His eyes were dancing with amusement.

“Mr. Cope,” he said, softly. “Had I known that my wife’s friends were of this…caliber, I would not have rushed across all England to rescue her.”

“I need no rescuing,” Isidore said coolly, just as if she hadn’t planned precisely that.

“I had no doubt,” he said. “Alack and alas, my mother is of a nervous disposition. I do believe she would have swum the Nile and bearded the crocodiles herself in order to bring me home.”

“Would Your Grace like to refresh yourself before joining the company?” Povy asked. Harriet had forgotten he was there.

The duke shook his head. “The duchess and I leave in the morning, and I positively long to see the decadent pleasures offered by Fonthill. I’ve just come from a rather extraordinary wedding given for the Princess Ayabdar and yet from my mother’s descriptions of Fonthill I expect to find myself shocked to the bone by Lord Strange’s bacchanalian scene. I confess myself all anticipation.”

“I fear Your Grace will be sorely disappointed,” Isidore said. “As shall I, if you are forced to leave in the morning. I myself do not plan to leave for several days.”

He took her hand in his again and raised it to his lips, smiling. Harriet almost fell back a step.

“Ah, but sweetheart,” he said, his voice too low to be heard by Povy and the footmen, “I am all eagerness for our wedding.”

“We are wed,” Isidore said sharply. “You may have ignored that fact for years, but I assure you it is true.”

He shook his head. “We signed some papers, or at least I did. I’m not sure you were old enough to know your letters. As I said, I’ve come from a proper wedding. It lasted four days, or perhaps longer; it was hard to keep track of the days or the pleasures.”

“Indeed,” Isidore said. “How fortunate for you.”

“I spent the time thinking of you. And planning our wedding.”

She frowned.

“We are going to be married,” he told her. “As befits a princess—or in this case, a duchess who waited far too long for her duke to kiss her into life. Surely you feel as if you have been sleeping one hundred years?”