Chapter 4
The Duke and I

Dearest gentle reader,

It is often said that those who marry in haste must repent at leisure, a sentiment that is clearly shared by Miss Lily Evans, who has apparently rejected not one, not two, but three proposals already this week. Some believe she is showing admirable forethought in her deliberations, but I would venture a very different conjecture: that she, like this author, is still waiting on the only suitor of note.

Thanks to having seen a pair of dogs mating when she was younger, which prompted her to snoop around her father's study for books on natural sciences that could shed further light on the subject, Lily knew the basic mechanics of how a woman came to be with child, though, being unmarried and not yet engaged, she was not supposed to know such a thing. But when Dorcas Meadowes, her only real friend who wasn't a relative, whispered on their stroll that one of their unmarried maids was with child and now the Meadowes sisters were afraid they might become similarly afflicted, Lily couldn't not reassure her friend that she need not worry about catching pregnancy like one caught cold.

"It's that simple, really," Lily finished explaining in a hushed whisper.

Dorcas's mouth fell open, her arm tense where it linked with Lily's. "He puts his—ugh."

"I know."

"He just"—Dorcas glanced over her shoulder, ensuring their maids were still a safe distance behind—"sticks it in?"

Lily nodded. "That's what the book said. I don't really know what that does, exactly, but it explains why our parents would have had to do it in private, since our fathers—"

"Oh, stop," Dorcas whispered, wincing. "I can't even think about that—"

Lily rather agreed that the idea of Dorcas's parents doing such a ritual was much more disturbing than her own, who had at least genuinely liked each other.

"So"—Dorcas faltered, chewing her lip—"which way does it happen from, then?"

Lily shrugged. "I suppose it could be either. Animals do it from the back, though."

Dorcas shuddered. "Imagine being that close to a man's face while he put his—bleh."

Lily's mind flashed to some of the more horrid suitors she'd endured dances with, and she rather had to agree.

She elbowed Dorcas playfully. "What about' Reg's face, hmm? Bet you wouldn't mind being close to that."

Dorcas blushed—"That's different"—but then elbowed Lily back—"Besides, I could say the same about you and the duke."

A strange heat shot up her spine as his face flashed in her mind, the memory of that stolen kiss to her wrist making her shiver in broad daylight.

Dorcas stopped. "Lily, are you alright?"

"Yes, fine," Lily lied hastily. "And the duke and I are just—"

Her friend arched an inquiring brow. "Forming an attachment?"

Lily swallowed hard. "Friends."

She could tell Dorcas didn't believe her in the slightest. Hell, she didn't believe herself in the slightest. But it didn't matter, because the Powers That Matched had decided that the duke was meant for Petunia, and no matter how much Lily enjoyed the duke's company—not to mention his hand on her back or his face close to hers—it was better if she got used to the idea that friendship with him was all she would be allowed.

Besides, she wanted to leave London anyway. And the duke was going to help her do it, was going to write his professor on her behalf. Because that's what friends did, and the duke was now, bizarrely, a friend.

Right?

"Lily, you're rather pale." Her friend's brow was still furrowed in concern. "Are you sure you're not catching Petunia's cold?"

"Positive," Lily assured her. "Now tell me, how far have you gotten in Sense and Sensibility?"

Dorcas smiled, and Lily listened with rapt attention as her friend launched into her new obsession with the novel, though all the while a feeling she couldn't quite explain nagged at the back of her brain and fluttered around her stomach. Something like nerves. Something like longing. Something attached to the image of crinkling hazel eyes and a lazy grin and the ghost of that same mouth on her skin.

She must have looked as disgruntled as she felt, because when she returned to the drawing room at Evans House, Violet looked up from her needlework only to ask, "Is everything alright, dearest?"

Lily sat down slowly by her mother. "Dorcas told me the Meadowes have a maid who is with child. And she's…not married."

Violet tutted softly under her breath, returning to her stitching. "Oh, the poor, poor dear."

"I guess I thought…the way children are made—"

Violet looked up sharply. "Lily. You should not be speaking of such things."

"Why not?" Lily challenged. "If I'm to be sold off to a suitor, shouldn't I know what marriage is about?"

Her mother's face softened, and she set her needlework aside before grasping Lily's hands in hers and saying with a low chuckle, "Oh, darling, you're not being sold, for goodness' sake, this is England. The season is about finding a match."

"For marriage," Lily pressed. "Which is about having children, even though apparently one need not actually be married at all to do that—"

Her mother sighed. "The marital act should be reserved for marriage," she said sternly. "It is unfortunate that some young girls fancy themselves in love when really it is just lust that they allow to overcome them."

That was a new word. "So lust is…bad?"

A strange look crossed her mother's face, like she was considering how to answer Lily's question. "When it is not for one's husband…yes, I suppose it is, for it can only lead to trouble."

Lily considered this, not sure she even understood what lust was.

"And marriage is not only about having children," Violet continued. "It is about making a home, being a lady of the house, supporting your husband, raising your children…"

All of that sounded rather the same to Lily's ears, and none of it particularly appealing, but Lily didn't think her mother would react well to hearing that.

"So how am I choose a husband, then, if that's what a marriage is about?"

Violet smiled. "You must simply marry the man who feels like your dearest friend."

Lily rolled her eyes even as heat flared in her stomach. "Oh, is that really it, Mama? How very simple indeed."

Her mother's eyes sparkled. "Yes, quite."

He knew he shouldn't look forward to promenading with Miss Lily Evans as much as he did, but he couldn't help it. Her cheeks pinked in the chilly air, those deep green eyes shone far more brightly away from the stuffy atmosphere of a ballroom, and he much preferred her hair in those simple chignons she did, loose strands falling around her face and blowing in the breeze, than in the severely ornate hairstyles all the ladies were expected to don for balls.

But even more than how she looked, he was becoming more and more entranced with how they talked. About her family, about his travels, about what she was reading, about what he studied, about everything and nothing altogether. In what seemed like no time at all, promenading with Lily Evans had created a camaraderie between them, something he never would have expected when they met but that he found himself craving just as much as he craved those moments of holding her in a dance.

They strolled along a ways behind Violet and Minerva, and James smirked as Lily repeated incredulously, "And so Sirius Black—"

"Hmm."

"—serious man that he is—"

James let out a wild chuckle.

"—let a farm animal into your dormitory?"

He grinned sideways at her, and Lily spread her arms, exasperated. "Why ever would you put up with such pranks?"

"He was my friend," James answered laughingly. "Who d'you think helped your cousin get the animal back out?"

Lily giggled. "Of course it was you. My mother told me something curious yesterday."

He arched a brow down at her. "Hm?"

"That one should marry one's dearest friend."

His stomach fluttered, but he ignored it and bantered, "Are you suggesting I marry your cousin?"

"No," Lily laughed. "But I do wonder, is that truly what marriage is all about, then? Friendship?"

"Well, I imagine it a good start," James answered conversationally. "Though most marriages are more like battlefields."

Lily rolled her eyes. "Even if it is a battlefield, there must be other things that hold the troop together."

"My word," James teased. "I might have thought you were trying to organize a militia." They came upon a small bridge crossing the turn in the river and paused to lean against its landing. "Ah," James continued, nodding toward a huddle of bachelors across the way who were all watching Lily, "now there is a fine group of recruits."

She caught them all watching, then cast a dark look up at James through her lashes, but James, feeling more protective of Lily by the day, reckoned those suitors needed to be put in their place a bit more firmly. Turning away from her and toward one of the immaculate potted arrangements decorating the bridge, James plucked a blooming red rose and handed it to Lily, who brought it coquettishly to her nose as a true smile broke over her face. Returning to her side, James leaned a palm back on the bridge; the distraction of the rose over, she had that pensive look back on her face that usually preceded a more serious comment.

And sure enough: "What I mean is, there are other things…physical…or perhaps, intangible…that bring a couple together."

James ducked his head awkwardly, saying briskly, "Well, yes, of course there's more to a marriage, physical and intangible." He gulped. "Both."

"Both?" Lily frowned in confusion. "But how can something be both physical and intangible when they are indeed quite the opposite?"

James averted his gaze to the distance, his smile turning into a delayed laugh. Lily smacked him with her handbag, accusing him laughingly, "You are beastly! Never mind," before turning and starting to walk away off the bridge.

"No," James called after her, jogging slightly to catch up to her quick pace, "I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at the absurdity of how little mothers tell their daughters."

"They tell us nothing," Lily accused.

"Well, I certainly cannot tell you."

She looked up at him, her eyes like a challenge. "Why not?"

"Because it is not my place," he all but spluttered.

Lily thought on this a moment, then said, "In any real courtship, yes, it would be scandalous for her suitor to discuss such things with a lady. But you"—her eyes studied him—"are not a real suitor, are you?"

His stomach twisted uncomfortably, something like jealousy and regret surging through his chest.

She looked ahead again, continuing, "And besides, I do know more than most ladies, I'm not a complete idiot, even though everyone would have me be."

James fought a smirk. "What do you know, then?"

She met his gaze defiantly, like she was refusing to be embarrassed, and James had to admire her for that. "That the man puts his"—she briefly inclined her head with a pointed look—"inside the woman."

He couldn't help it; he pulled a Lily and snorted into the back of his hand.

"What's so funny?" she demanded

James searched for words, hardly believing this conversation was real. "There's just, erm, a little more to it."

Lily huffed in a show her frustration and muttered, "Well, no one will tell me anything else, other than Mama making some obscure comment about how lust is bad except when it's for one's husband"—James's insides flipped, pulse beating harder at the ungentlemanly thoughts that word inspired—"so I can only assume that lust is somehow connected to that unseemly ritual that somehow produces a child"—good God, these girls were really told nothing—"but it doesn't make any sense at all, so surely, for the sake of academic curiosity, you could suffer explaining what this intangible and physical both thing is so I can feel less like a fool?"

She finally had to stop to take a breath, and James's mind raced for a way to end the conversation without risking her anger or his own arousal. "You will know when you know," he landed on as he slowed to a halt.

Lily laughed exhaustedly. "What does that even mean?"

"I cannot tell you," James insisted.

She straightened her spine, drawing herself up to her full height just below his chin. "I thought we were friends."

That was a low blow. He peered down at her, his voice a warning. "Lily."

She matched his tone—"James"—but then rolled her eyes and laughed. "Tell me."

How could he ever refuse, when she laughed like that and looked at him with such pink cheeks and vibrant eyes? "Alright, alright," he chuckled back.

Her face perked up, and she watched him eagerly as he opened and closed his mouth, looking over his shoulder as he tried to figure out what to say.

"What happens between a husband and a wife when he, as you say, puts his"—he inclined his head—"inside the woman is…well, it is a natural continuation of what happens at night."

She stared at him blankly. "At night. What happens at night?"

He arched a brow. "When you are alone."

She still looked nonplussed. "When I am sleeping?"

James winced. "Not when you are sleeping."

There was really nothing else for it; he really did have to spell it out. With a deep breath, he lowered his voice and said, "When you touch yourself."

All the color drained from Lily's face.

His brow knitted together; did she really not—"You do…touch yourself?"

Those emerald green eyes darted frantically between his, her pallor becoming slowly replaced with a flush.

That was a no.

James chuckled dryly, chewing on his lip for a moment before taking a slight step closer to her so he could lower his voice more. "When you are alone, you can touch yourself. Anywhere on your body, anywhere that gives you pleasure, but especially…between your legs."

A furrow deepened in her brow, and James saw her throat bob.

"And when you find a feeling you particularly enjoy, you can carry on with that"—he swallowed somewhat hard—"until the feeling grows, and eventually you reach…a pinnacle. A release."

She almost looked like she was about to cry. His eyes flitted from her eyes to her lips; he really couldn't help it. "And that should help you…"

He turned, stepping back onto the path. "Come."

I have always thought that an appreciation of the arts is what lifts us beyond mere animals. It stirs the passions and moves the spirit. And, this author hopes, inspires more newsworthy pursuits.

A new wing at Somerset House is to be opened today, where several attractions will be on display, like the lovely Petunia Evans, newly recovered from her recent illness and expected to rejoin the season. Of course, there is today's royal attraction as well: Prince Amos of Prussia, who has yet to hint at which jewel he would like to add to his crowning collection. Might he prefer one that a certain Duke has also been eyeing?

Another day, another outing. Mixed emotions swirled in Lily's mind as she descended from her carriage in front of the stately Somerset House. On the one hand, she was tired, bored, of going through all the same motions of getting ready only to make disingenuous small talk and suffer the company of the same suitors. But on the other hand, she was excited, alert, because outings like this meant brief moments of respite from all the society drudgery in the form of the witty, sarcastic, and devastatingly handsome Duke. But on yet another another hand, a new hand, she was nervous, apprehensive, for what this day would bring. Because now, for the first time since she and James had begun to form a friendship through their little ruse, Petunia would be back in the mix and no doubt commanding James's attention.

For reasons she'd rather not dwell on, the thought made Lily feel slightly sick, though the fact that he had seemed less than excited to see her sister underneath all the social niceties he'd offered was a small balm to her nerves.

Dorcas soon found her after that, and Lily happily linked arms with her friend and set off for a turn about the room. Thankfully, that day's outing was not a dance but a gallery viewing, so while Petunia was being insufferable with the likes of Lady Selwyn, Lily could at least escape to view the innumerable pieces of the collection. Her eyes drifted up the walls, multiple stories high and bedecked floor to ceiling with paintings double to triple the size of her pianoforte.

"Quite dull, would you not agree?" Lily pondered, head tilted to one side as they paused to observe a painting of naked women doing the washing at the water's edge while naked, cherubic children flopped on the ground.

"It is terribly familiar," Dorcas rambled, "yet I am sure this is the first time I have seen it."

Lily sighed. "That is because, like all of these paintings, it was done by a man who sees a woman as nothing other than a decorative object. They're like…"

"Human vases," supplied Dorcas.

Lily nodded her agreement. "Precisely."

Dorcas suddenly gripped her arm more tightly, and Lily looked down concernedly at her friend. "What is it, Dory?"

Dorcas looked cautiously back over her shoulder, then whispered up at Lily, "Regulus. I cannot…look at him without thinking about…you know. What we discussed the other day."

Lily covered her mouth to stifle her giggle.

"Don't laugh!" Dorcas peeked over her shoulder again. "I could hardly get a sentence out to him earlier, it was horrid."

"Right," Lily started, determined to keep a straight face for her friend. "Okay, well. Look, he's standing by a landscape painting. You could ask him about his upcoming tour?"

Dorcas nodded and took a deep breath. "Yeah, alright."

"Go." Lily elbowed her gently. "I need a glass of lemonade anyway."

With a final push of encouragement, Lily sent her friend off toward Regulus, for whom Dorcas had long nursed an attachment, and then steered herself toward the refreshment table, her conversation with her friend reminding her that she had something she wanted to ask a friend of her own.

He was hovering not far from the lemonade, and Lily plucked a glass for herself before weaving toward him.

"Your Grace," she greeted playfully.

He inclined his head with a smirk. "Miss Evans."

"However have you managed to escape my dear sister?"

James chuckled over his glass, and Lily tried to ignore the way her insides lit up at the sight of that true grin. He nodded toward where Petunia stood amongst a throng of suitors.

"I assure you, she is managing her attentions most whole-heartedly."

Lily brought a hand to her chest in a faux-shock. "Why, you must be horribly jealous, My Lord."

He chewed his lip in an effort to stop his smile, though his eyes twinkled with mischief when he finally gazed down at her. "Indeed. It leaves me with quite the conundrum of what to do."

"Oh?"

He nodded toward the swarm surrounding Petunia. "Yes, Chapter Ten," he teased in a throwback to their conversation at the last ball. "You see, I could charge forth, make some sort of scene—a gallant scene, of course—"

"Of course," Lily echoed.

"—mark my desired territory, and all that nonsense—"

"She would have a bloody conniption of delight," Lily muttered dryly.

James smirked softly, then resumed his inscrutable mask. "Or," he continued, "I could continue a perfectly enjoyable conversation of my own, and leave her to stew in her own jealousy while she simultaneously fends off a pack of hounds."

Lily pursed her lips in thought as she regarded Petunia. "But is it fending off when she actually enjoys it?"

He allowed another real smile at that and answered, "I think that answers my quandary, Miss Evans. I'll stay right here, if you don't mind."

Her chest hummed with satisfaction, but Lily forced that thought aside, determined on her mission. "Not at all. In fact, I had something I wished to discuss with you."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

She'd found James's description of what happens at night to be rather vague, not least because when she'd done what he'd said to do—touch yourself—nothing had happened. Although it was somewhat wet and sticky down there, all that resulted from her exploration was that she supposed she was more familiar with her anatomy than she had been. None of this pleasure or pinnacle or physical and intangible both mystery he'd alluded to.

And she wanted answers.

"I did as you said," she muttered conversationally over her lemonade, "and nothing happened."

He looked down at her with a confused brow. "What?"

Lily lifted her glass of lemonade to shield her lips and he bent his ear toward her, taking a sip of his own glass as his eyes scanned the room ahead.

"Touched myself," she whispered.

James promptly choked, only barely managing to prevent lemonade from spewing out of his mouth as he held a fist against his lips, and when he looked back at her, it was with eyes that seemed…wild, like hazel had morphed into golden flame, and there was something so intense about his whole expression, down to the clench of his jaw and the set of his mouth, that Lily suddenly felt like his gaze was burning her from the inside.

"Lily." It was only a whisper, the softest drop of syllables from his tongue, but it sent a shiver up her spine all the same. "You—I can't—we shouldn't—"

She'd never seen him flustered before, and something about the vulnerability in his voice, the new pink in his cheeks, made her absurdly need to touch him, but before her outstretched hand reached his arm, Lady McGonagall appeared in front of them, making Lily's feet leave the ground and lemonade slosh over her glass as she jumped.

"Oh, goodness," Lily muttered under her breath. "So terribly sorry, Lady McGonagall, you gave me a fright."

"I'll say." The formidable Lady peered at Lily with a smirk on her face. "The Duke hasn't been distracting you from enjoying the art, I hope?"

Lily determinedly avoided James's eyes as she plastered on a society smile and gave Lady McGonagall a small curtsy. "Not at all, my Lady. Now if you'll excuse me."

She ducked away from them and into the crowd, letting out a long breath as she did so. What had just happened? Why did the Duke make her…feel this way, all loopy and unsettled? Determined to distract herself from the uncomfortable memory of that look, that whisper, Lily kept her eyes peeled for anyone she could make polite conversation with. It being the ton, she didn't have to look long, and for the first time ever, Lily was thankful for it.

The afternoon seemed to drone on and on and on. After what felt like hours of pointless conversation, Lily's mouth soon felt tired from all the smiling and speaking, and as the crowd disbursed and reformed in waves, she meandered through the galleries, seeking what she'd previously wanted to outrun: solitude.

"Miss Evans."

So much for that.

She turned and felt a sudden spark of panic in her chest as none other than Prince Amos strolled up to her. He was again bedecked in his military regalia, his soft brown hair styled neatly and a gently boyish smile on his face.

"Your highness," she remembered, sinking into a curtsy.

Amos smiled kindly at her. "I was hoping to see you today."

Surprise bolted her to the floor. "Were you?" she blurted out.

"Yes, it seems the art is not the only beautiful thing on display at present."

A smiling chuckle escaped her lips; this was a turn Lily had not expected. Her heart sped up its pace as her mind raced, searching for neutral ground, and she settled on, "Are you enjoying your time here in London?"

"It has always been one of my favorite cities," the Prince answered with another smile.

Somehow, Lily didn't doubt that he was being genuine, and she replied in kind, "How lovely to hear from someone who has traveled so widely."

"Have you traveled much?" he asked. "I think you would love the music of Vienna."

Lily's insides somersaulted, but whether it was because of the topic of travel or the Prince's subtle flirtation or the tall figure who'd caught her eye passing through a doorway beyond the Prince's shoulder, Lily couldn't be certain.

Well, okay, she could. Her eyes tracked the disappearance of a crisply tailored jacket, hands clasped behind his back—

"Miss Evans?"

Lily started, gasping softly as she was pulled from her thoughts back to the expectant-looking Prince standing in front of her. Mustering her social abilities, Lily said in a kindly teasing voice, "You should get back to your rounds, Your Highness. I believe there is a gaggle of young ladies waiting for your favor."

The Prince was smiling softly, but didn't say anything as Lily dipped into a curtsy and said, "Delightful to see you," before departing for the doorway beyond.

It opened into yet another galleried room housing one occupant, and the way he remained straight-backed and gazing at the wall in front of him made her wonder for a fleeting moment whether this meeting had been by his design.

She pushed her resurgent nerves aside; this was James, her friend, her confidant. She was being stupid.

Strolling toward him with more confidence than she felt, Lily asked, "What are you doing hiding away in here?"

"Enjoying some culture," he replied easily, still gazing at the painting in front of him. Lily lined up her shoulder with his, perusing the painting to his back.

"About earlier," Lily started, but James quickly cut her off.

"Don't."

She floundered for only a moment before rushing on, "I was only going to apologize."

"I know." He tilted his body toward her. "You don't have to."

"I shouldn't have brought it up," she admitted quietly.

"Well…" A note of wry humor was back in his voice. "Maybe not in the middle of Somerset House…"

Lily snorted and suddenly they were both giggling, bodies turned in toward each other as the laughter worked itself out. When she came back down from her giddy haze, she found she was facing front, and all of her prior humor was knocked out of her at the sight of the magnificent landscape painting before her—and the name on the donation placard.

"Oh—this one is yours, too."

Belatedly, she realized that gave away that she had noticed all of the others he had donated from his family's collection, but he did not chide her on that as she expected.

Instead, he merely commented, "You sound surprised."

"I suppose I am," she mused aloud, taking in the soft change of colors, the idyllic scene. "It's not at all like the others you donated, is it?"

He sucked in a breath. "It is not. The others are…well, to my ancestors' taste. If Lady McGonagall is to be believed, this one was a favorite of my mother's. I have never understood why."

Lily admired his profile, the purely open expression on his face, before she turned her attention back to the painting and took a presumptuous guess at what a woman who had married into a dukedom might have once seen in the image before her.

"It is very beautiful," she started, but then, as memories rose to the surface of her mind, memories of quieter days when she had been a child, her father had been alive, and they'd still had their country home, Lily found she didn't have to presume at all. "It reminds me of waking up in the country. First thing in the morning, when I am all alone, and I have not yet spoken to a soul. I look outside the window, and it is…serene. As if I could be the only person left in the world, and yet…somehow I am not lonely. I am…comforted. At peace."

Silence followed, and Lily rushed to fill it. "The others are certainly very grand and impressive, but this one…This one is…intimate."

Fingers brushed inside her palm, and Lily's heart leapt into her throat as she glanced down at their hands, barely touching, and then up at James, already looking at her with a look she didn't know how to read, something as intense as before and yet softer at the same time.

His hand slipped further into hers, his clasp gentle, as he murmured, "Physical, and yet…"

"Intangible," Lily breathed. Suddenly, with no fanfare besides a thumping heart and a quickened breath, she got it—or at least she got it more than she did before: what it meant to want, to yearn, to connect to another person so deeply it almost didn't feel real. Because what she felt for James, in that moment, was something she couldn't reach, couldn't explain, and could only attempt to translate by grounding it in something of this earth.

Though her mind didn't know what she was doing, her body somehow remembered the motions they'd never done, like they were ingrained in her very bones and had sprung into action, pushing her on her tip-toes, reaching for his shoulder, finding his lips with a press of her own. And maybe he'd moved at the same time, because while one hand tightened its hold on hers, the other gripped her waist, tighter than he'd ever held it while dancing, and his mouth opened slightly against hers with more of that wet heat she'd felt before on her wrist, tasting faintly tangy with the lingering traces of lemonade.

She kissed him again, the slide of his lips over hers suddenly familiar, the heat of his presence engulfing her in sensations she'd never known were possible. He pulled back on their next breath, whispered a hushed, "Lily"—and all of her senses knocked back into her like a charging horse.

"I"—panic rose in waves as coherent thoughts returned—"I shouldn't have done that—"

"No—" He sounded winded.

She stumbled backwards, letting go of his shoulder and pulling away from his hand like he was an open flame. "I shouldn't even be here, with you—"

His eyes were glazed, cheeks flushed, lips glistening. "Lily—"

But she shook her head, rejecting any plea that could follow, and fled from the room.

Though she'd long day-dreamt of leaving this version of life, with the balls and suitors and season, and even teased her mother, father, sister, Sirius, Dorcas, on more than occasion that she might as well ruin herself to get out of the market as fast as possible, the fact that she had now crossed a boundary she could never take back, had now ceded control of her fate to anyone who may have witnessed her indiscretion—to the man she had kissed—made her feel sick.

Joking about being ruined was one thing; realizing she was ruined unless her new secret managed to hold was another thing entirely.

Lily swiped the first glass of champagne she spotted on a passing tray, not caring in the slightest that it was meant for adults and not young ladies; she needed something, anything, to dull the pounding mantra of her heart: what have I done, what have I done, what have I done.

Be it shame or slander, seduction or smear, there is but one thing that humbles even the most highly-regarded members of our dear ton: a scandal. Well, dear reader, it should seem that all of Grosvenor Square has been left to ponder some rather scandalous questions, indeed. Why did London's notorious duke leave so hastily from Somerset House? Could it have anything to do with the Prince's apparent inclination for a vibrant ruby amidst a sea of plain diamonds? And might one rare jewel's choice between a foreign royal and a determined rake be the most damning scandal of all?