Later that week, Gareth's brother asked him to go out with him to dinner. Naturally, Gareth assumed Dane meant dinner at White's or one of the other gentlemen's clubs. It wasn't till they were seated across from each other in an enclosed carriage, rolling through the streets of Mayfair—but not toward St. James's Street, where most of the clubs were—that Dane announced they were actually dining at the London residence of their uncle, the Marquess of Frampton.

For some reason, Gareth smelled a trap. Or maybe, in the wake of his brother's dubious betrothal, everything made him suspicious now. "I didn't even know Uncle Frampton was in Town. We only ever see him in August."

"And it is August." Dane lightly tapped the floor of the carriage with his walking stick.

"Yes, but usually at FramptonCastle for the grouse," Gareth countered. "What brings him to London?"

Dane shrugged. "The Peace Celebrations, I should think. I suppose he wanted to see a few crowned heads. Ones that aren't mad, like our own. Or just as mad, I should say. He was at Lord Tyndall's wedding."

"That doesn't mean I saw him or spoke to him," Gareth replied. "I returned to London to find a wedding celebration in progress, and naturally I thought it was yours till you told me it was Lord Tyndall's."

"As you may have noticed the other day, Tyndall doesn't have as big a ballroom. Come to think of it, he doesn't even have a chandelier in his front hall. Otherwise, the new Lady Tyndall might have tossed her bridal bouquet without the thing catching fire."

And Gareth would never have encountered Miss Evangeline Benedict. At least not that day. Sooner or later, both of them would have learned about her mother and his brother.

With that in mind, he asked, "Will you inform our uncle of your betrothal this evening, or does he already know?"

Dane grinned. "I've told him nothing. I thought I might let him figure it out for himself."

So Gareth did have reason to be suspicious. He stiffened in his seat. "What do you mean?"

"Only that I prevailed upon him to invite Lady Milner and her daughter. And—strictly to make up numbers at the table, mind you—Lady Cranston, who's been staying at Tyndall House recuperating from wounds she suffered when her carriage was waylaid by highwaymen near Tyndall's ancestral home in Derbyshire."

Gareth eyed him askance. "Surely you don't mean to match Frampton with Lady Cranston?"

Dane chuckled, his large hands grasping the head of his walking stick as he leaned forward just a notch. "Does it not occur to you that perhaps I mean to match you with Miss Benedict?"

"Not if you're marrying her mother." The carriage halted.

"Here we are," said Dane. "Berkeley Square's not so far to drive. And we're just in time. It looks as if the ladies arrived at the same time we did."

Twilight was falling as they emerged from the carriage. There was just enough light remaining for Gareth to discern three female figures ruffling their plumage outside the carriage ahead. One wore a turban, while another sported large feathers that wavered over her head.

For reasons Gareth did not understand, he hoped that wasn't Miss Benedict.

Dane strode past him to greet them. "Good evening, ladies. Allow me to assist two of you. My brother has come, and perhaps he'd like to escort a third. May I suggest Miss Benedict?"

Of course. Not that Gareth had any particular objection. Besides, this would give him the chance to speak to Miss Benedict about a daring plan now brewing in his mind.

"Oh, Your Grace!" gushed the woman in the turban, who had to be Lady Cranston, as Gareth didn't recognize her as Lady Milner or Miss Benedict. "I was dreadfully afraid we'd arrive after you."

"You have nothing to fear on that score, my lady," Dane assured her. "I'm not one to stand on ceremony, especially when we're all practically family, are we not?"

"I suppose we are," she agreed. "Though I'm only family through marriage. My niece, Lady Flora, is married to Lord Tyndall's first cousin—and heir—Mr. Gerald Benedict..."

And on and on. Gareth shut out her prattling as he sought out Miss Benedict who, to his relief, wore neither feathers nor turban, though she did wear a circlet of small flowers around the knot of hair crowning her head, with dark ringlets dripping from either side. Her gown of periwinkle blue was likewise free of furbelows, save for a couple of silvery bows under each puffed sleeve and a third beneath the high bodice, drawing his eyes to her gently curved bosom.

He'd enjoyed kissing her the other day, and she seemed to have enjoyed it, too—until his brother came knocking. Naturally, he wondered if she would enjoy other things with him. She might be an ideal prospect for a wife, if not for his scandalous encounter with her mother. For that alone, Evangeline Benedict was better suited to his brother, much to Gareth's chagrin.

"Good evening, Miss Benedict." He offered her his arm, and she slipped a hand into the crook of his elbow as they slowly mounted the steps behind the others. He lowered his voice. "I've come up with an idea that might work to our mutual benefit—our common goal of ending a certain situation. This evening might well be the perfect occasion to execute that plan."

"Indeed? I'm all ears, my lord. Pray, what is this plan?"

Gareth gazed down into her brown eyes that shone as if they reflected the moonlight, only the moon wasn't out yet. "It's quite simple, really. And you did seem rather amenable to the notion at your brother's wedding. I propose that you lure Bradbury into what might be construed as a compromising situ—"

"I beg your pardon?" She snatched her hand away as if he'd told her, instead, that his coat was made of genuine snakeskin. He fully expected her to dash ahead of him indoors. Instead she halted on the top step as if determined not to go inside, as if doing so would commit her to his proposed scheme. "I don't recall ever saying that I was amenable to some notion of—of—luring the duke into any sort of situation."

"I'm afraid I didn't make myself clear," he said ruefully. "I meant you seemed amenable to marrying him."

Her dark eyes no longer shone. They blazed. "Seeming and being are two different things, my lord. Perhaps I seemed amenable, but only because I had no wish to offend you, since he is your brother. But the more impolitic truth is that I am not."

"But he's a duke," argued Gareth, as if that should have made all the difference.

"And that's the only reason you think I should marry him? What if he doesn't want to marry me? Which he doesn't, in case you haven't noticed. He'd rather wed my mother. Pray, why would I wish to shackle myself to a man who prefers my mother?"

"Very well, you don't have to marry him if you'd rather not." His voice hovered just above a whisper, even though the others were already inside. Yet there might be a footman still hovering out of sight over the threshold, waiting for the two stragglers so he could close the door. "You can always cry off. The object is to get your mother to do so first. All you have to do is get caught with him in the library—"

"The library," she said with a roll of her eyes. "Why is it always the library? Doesn't anyone ever go into the library to read anymore? How do I persuade the duke to join me in Lord Frampton's library? As for crying off, how can I do that if everyone thinks he's compromised me? Doesn't that defeat the whole purpose of the exercise? Not to mention, who's going to let me cry off marriage to a duke? Not my brother. And not my mother, either. She'll just find herself another duke—maybe this time a royal one."

Gareth hated to admit it, but admit it he had to, albeit only to himself. Miss Benedict would make the better spycatcher.

"Furthermore," she added in a furious whisper, "if I jilt a duke, who in their right mind would marry me after that? I know—it's not as if I'm bombarded with offers now. Besides, what if your brother happened to find out that you kissed me the other day? Do you sincerely believe he'd want to marry me then? And even if he did, how could I bear to face you at every family gathering with the knowledge that you once kissed your brother's wife?"

Good God Almighty, but she wasn't just cutting too close to the bone. She was down to the very marrow. Gareth raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. It was either that or clutch one of them to his chest, and he was determined never to do that again in her presence.

"It was just a suggestion," he said gently. "You don't want your mother to marry him, and I don't want him to marry your mother. I'm only trying to conjure ways to separate them before anything becomes formalized, because once the betrothal becomes public, it'll be next to impossible to sever it without causing any further scandal."

"You still haven't told me why you object."

"I don't want to inherit the responsibilities of the dukedom. Now that the war is over, I'd like to pursue a diplomatic career and maybe undergo a few missions abroad." That was true, but not as true as the real reason, and he didn't dare tell her that.

Her eyes no longer blazed but glimmered, as she arched her brows and tilted her head to one side. "Indeed? That sounds adventurous. I—" Then she abruptly fell silent.

He leaned forward a couple of inches. "You were about to say...?"

I wish I could go with you. But then he'd have to marry her. She'd never suggest that. Maybe she meant to say, I wish I could do that. Alas, she was a woman. She couldn't travel abroad unless she married—or went with a relative or as someone's companion.

She looked a bit flustered now, and averted her gaze. "I think we'd best go inside before they wonder what happened to us, or assume I'm in a compromising situation with you." She continued over the threshold. "I'll warrant you'd just as soon be caught with my mother."

He almost was. And he almost wished that had been the case. Then everyone would know, including Bradbury—especially Bradbury—and her daughter wouldn't be on the verge of becoming Gareth's step-niece. One thing was certain: No one would have expected Gareth to marry Lady Milner as a result.

He followed Miss Benedict into the drawing room, where she was already answering questions about where they'd been. "Oh, I left my fan in the carriage, and Lord Gareth very kindly went back and fetched it for me."

Bloody hell. All of her ideas were better than his.

* * *

The Marquess of Frampton was a widower somewhere in his late forties, just as fit as the younger men present, with piercing, silvery-blue eyes and an aquiline nose that lent him a hawkish mien. If Evie's mother had to marry anyone, why not Frampton? He seemed thrilled to see her mother, smiling and kissing her hand. And he already had an heir. Why wasn't he here? Her mother inquired as to his whereabouts.

"Kirtland is in Bath dangling after some young widow," Frampton replied. "In my opinion, a bachelor should never marry a widow. If a widow remarries, she should choose a widower."

Evie stole a glance at Lord Gareth, who in turn was stealing a glance at his brother. She wondered if she could have been wrong all this time about why Gareth objected to his brother marrying her mother. Or maybe his desire for a non-ducal life of his own was the only reason he could give her. He wasn't about to reveal that his main objection was his belief that he'd already been somewhat intimate with his brother's putative bride. He even remembered the butterfly necklace, and why wouldn't he?

He would because he'd remarked on it the night Evie wore it, holding the butterfly pendant in his hand, his knuckles brushing over the curve of her breasts, causing them to tingle at their very tips. "I've never seen a necklace like this before. Is it real?"

"Do you mean the stones? Or the butterfly? I can certainly feel it fluttering."

"That would be your heartbeat." And then, to her astonishment, he'd brushed his lips over her breast, nudging aside the pendant. Evie had never felt anything like it. She'd closed her eyes and sighed, and next thing she knew, he'd tugged down her bodice on one side, completely exposing her breast.

She still couldn't believe what he did next, but she'd certainly enjoyed it. It had led to further tingles and throbs in other parts of her body. She'd wanted more.

She still did.

Lord Frampton jolted her out of her steamy reverie. "My dear Miss Benedict! You look more and more like your mother every time I see you."

She didn't dare glance at Lord Gareth as she smiled and said, "Then I wonder, my lord, how you're able to tell us apart. Many people can't."

Lord Frampton nodded and smiled back. "Indeed, I've often wondered if Lord Milner eloped with your dear mother here because he mistook her for you all those years ago." Then he frowned and shook his head.

"The poor man was rather near-sighted," her mother said with a sigh. "Still, I don't think Evie was all that keen to marry him, and we've always agreed 'twas for the best."

The Duke of Bradbury chuckled. "Then I suppose I should be careful that I don't end up mistaking one for the other."

Frampton raised his quizzing glass to survey the duke. "Oh? Should I hear wedding bells pealing at last for my firstborn nephew?"

Evie suddenly felt queasy as Bradbury reached for her mother's hand and said, "Shall we tell him, my dear?"

"I think they just did," came Lord Gareth's grim whisper from just over her shoulder.

Lord Frampton dropped the quizzing glass along with his jaw.

"Tell us what?" cried Lady Cranston, who lifted her own quizzing glass.

"My lord?" This from the butler, who stood in the doorway. "Dinner is served."

Lord Frampton, however, looked as if he didn't hear. He stood rigidly, staring into space, mouth agape.

Lord Gareth swept past Evie to take hold of the marquess before he toppled to the floor. "No wedding bells, Uncle. You don't hear them."

"Well, I jolly well heard something!" Frampton burst out. "And I saw something, too. Bradbury holding Lady Milner's hand. Or has he already mistaken her for Miss Benedict?"

Evie was tempted to seize Bradbury and stake some sort of claim on him, just to keep Lord Frampton from having an apoplexy. She scurried over to the duke's left, while her mother continued hovering on his right, though he no longer held her hand, thank heavens.

Still clutching the marquess, Lord Gareth gazed at them in apparent disbelief. His green eyes shifted from Evie to her mother and back to Evie, as if even he was having a difficult time now trying to tell them apart.

"Who do you see, Uncle?" he calmly asked, fumbling for Frampton's quizzing glass and holding it up in front of his befuddled face.

Frampton swatted it out of his nephew's hand. "Get that dashed thing out of the way. I'm still in my prime, and I'm certainly not as blind as old Milner. Yes, anyone can see how easy it is to confuse the mother with her daughter, but only at first glance. For a moment, I thought he might be betrothed to Lady Milner. Very well. Let us go in to dinner."

"Then allow me to escort Lady Cranston," Bradbury volunteered.

Frampton gestured toward Evie and her mother. "Well, don't just stand there, Gareth. Pick whichever one takes your fancy."

For the space of one mere heartbeat, Lord Gareth looked as if he'd just been given a choice between hanging and beheading.