"I fear to ask what you've been made to wager." Jason crossed his arms.

"Dances." Miss Forrester cocked a brow.

"Dances?" Jason repeated.

"I've lost three quadrilles, one waltz, and one dance of the gentleman's choosing. And the way I play, I have no hope of winning them back."

"Huh," was all that Jason could think of in reply. "And who did you lose these dances to?"

"Lord Darabont and Mr. Threshing." She pointed discreetly in the direction of her table, where Lady Forrester sat in between Darabont and Threshing-two men whose fortunes and breeding made up for their advanced age and lack of dental hygiene, respectively.

"Oh dear," Jason replied.

"Precisely," Miss Forrester concurred. "The oddest thing is my mother is normally a magnificent player-routinely winning her table. She must be having an off day," she reflected. "At this rate, I'll not have a free dance to give for a whole week."

Jason's stomach did a little turn. He was not a great dancer; never having had the surety of his steps like his sister, he tended to stick to quadrilles and that was it. But it was on the tip of his tongue to ask Miss Forrester for her next free dance, before she was forced to sell it for a trump card.

"How goes it at your table?" Miss Forrester asked before Jason could give voice to his thought.

"My table?" he squeaked, his eyes falling on the table he had abandoned. "Oh well, it-ah-it goes . . ."

Just then, Jason saw Jane stand up from the table, her voice carrying over the heads of the other players, as if lightly on a breeze, hashing out one of her oldest arguments with Phillippa.

"That midnight tea party was my idea, and you were the one who was terrified we would get caught by the headmistress, and don't you deny it . . ."

"Miss Forrester," Jason said abruptly, "it has gotten remarkably stuffy in here. Would you care to take a turn out on the terrace?"

Uncertainty crossed her face for the barest of moments. She opened her mouth to reply but was swiftly interrupted by another voice, this one coming from her table.

"Oh la, Lord Darabont!" Lady Forrester's voice reached their ears. "Another waltz? I dare say you will keep my pretty daughter on her toes all evening."

"I would love to," Miss Forrester replied. And taking the arm he offered, out the door they went.

The next evening, Jason managed to run into Miss Forrester at Almack's, in between her dances with Lord Darabont and Mr. Threshing. He also managed a whole five minutes of conversation before Threshing came by to claim his dance partner. Two days later, he saw her at a lecture and artifact display, her vague interest in the people and culture of India matching Jason's, which came as a surprise and delight.

"My father likes it when I attend lectures like these," she whispered to him as the crowd was gathering and finding their seats. "And my mother detests it. I find that sufficient reason to go-Indian silks and spices aside."

It was at that lecture that he asked her to call him Jason, and she gave him permission to call her Sarah.

Over the next few weeks, Jason ran into Sarah at a number of functions, and at each one she became the highlight of his evening. In fact, if anything or anyone was going to reduce Miss Winnifred Crane and her mission to little more than background chatter in Jason's mind, it was Sarah Forrester.

They talked about the weather, and somehow, it turned into an inane discussion of which person at the assembly looked the wettest, which turned into a fit of giggles at their own ridiculousness.

He told her of the horses he had growing up, and how much he loved riding.

She told him about the cherry tree behind the parsonage near where she grew up, and how many times she had to do penance for stealing the vicar's wife's cherries.

And on those occasions, when her smile was so wide and her eyes were so bright that Jason thought he might just be happy in this moment, she would laugh musically and thus confirm that he was.

He'd hoped to get Jane's opinion of Miss Forrester, but more than once, when he turned to introduce his sister, she was off somewhere arguing with Phillippa. It was only at the Whitford banquet-an evening of such food and wine that it practically wrought its own harvest festival-when Jason left Sarah's side to go fetch his sister and noticed Jane take Phillippa's arm and pinch her, thus beginning another argument, that he became suspicious.

"What are you doing?" he whispered to Jane once he finally got her alone, which happened to be on the carriage ride home that evening.

"Doing?" Jane asked innocently. "Nothing. We're going home. Hopefully the wet nurse got Lissa down in good order, else Byrne will be up half the night with her. He won't let me take her, you know-he always wants to be the one to rock her."

"I don't care about your child-rearing arrangements with your husband. I want to know why is it every time I try to have you speak with Miss Forrester, you are magically in some sort of fight with Phillippa Worth?" he asked, laziness in his voice but directness in his question.

"Oh." Jane blushed. "That."

"Yes, that," Jason replied coldly. "If you have something against Miss Forrester, I warn you, Jane, I'll have none of your snobbishness-"

"Snobbishness?" Jane cried, offended. But then, letting the offense go, raised her hand. "I have nothing against Miss Forrester. Quite to contrary. She seems a lovely young woman."

"But . . ." he supplied for her.

"But, my concern is about you," Jane countered. At Jason's lifted brow, she hemmed a moment before going on. "Byrne told me what he said to you-about having me court the girls for you."

Jason's brow shuttered down. "What he meant was that there would be no chance of getting locked in a cellar again, if you did the courting," he argued.

"Yes, I know," Jane replied drily. "But once I thought about it, I realized that is exactly what would end up happening."

Jason stared at his sister in confusion. "You think I would simply . . . hand over the task of choosing a wife to you? Forgive me, Jane, but I doubt we'd have the same taste in wives."

Jane crossed her arms over her chest. "If you were to introduce her to me any time in the past few weeks, I would have invited her to tea, to Mariah's charitable dinner, to just about every event I could think of."

"Which is how I'm told these things go."

"How long before you get bored of attending musicales and afternoon teas and picnics? How long before you start begging them off? You would have considered your duty done, gone off to the Historical Society or maybe one of the estates, and effectively pawned your courting of Miss Forrester off onto me!" Jane cried.

"I would not!"

"For heaven's sake, Jason!" Jane rolled her eyes. "I was told by your valet that before we arrived last month, you left the house intending to attend a play and turned up again only after spending a weekend in Brighton."

"I . . . told my man that I was going."

"You told him, 'This little adventure may take longer than anticipated,' " Jane quoted back to him.

"And it did," Jason countered.

Jane looked at her hands, gathered herself, then replied quietly, "When Father fell ill, I wanted to brain you on a daily basis for behavior like that."

"That's not fair," Jason replied, ashamed enough of how he acted five years ago without being reminded of it. He sighed deeply. "When I went to Brighton, I had just turned over all my account books to my stewards, and I thought I deserved a little fun. I disappointed no one." Jason forced Jane's gaze up with a gentle hand on her chin. He looked her dead in the eye. "I do not . . . abdicate my responsibilities anymore. I hope I've proved that."

"You have. But, you have a tendency-you do, Jase-to delegate. As Duke of Rayne, this is a useful attribute. I cannot think it possible to run half a dozen estates and sit in the House of Lords without delegation to stewards and gamekeepers and secretaries. But while I am more than happy to help keep you safe from the vultures of society while you chose a bride, I will not court her for you. The longer I am more or less unacquainted with Miss Forrester, the harder you must work to know her and learn if you like her."

Jane sat back in her seat and nonchalantly looked out the window, all the while keeping a suspicious peripheral eye on Jason as he stewed. In many respects, Jane was right-his life required constant delegation, but he hated to think he would delegate this.

Then again, how desperate had he been to run away from almost every Jane-sanctioned event before he met Miss Forrester . . . Sarah? He had waited a full year for Jane to be able to come to town and help him choose a bride simply because the entire process made him itching to run. Was his delegation a product of that desperation? Was he less authentic of a man, a Duke, because of it?

Well, no more.

"I suggest you stop fearing my flightlike impulses and start making friends with Sarah," he drawled as Jane's eyebrow went up, matching his own. "I have an audience with Lord Forrester, Sarah's father, tomorrow."

He had the distinct pleasure of watching Jane's eyes nearly pop out of her head. He smiled. "Did you have so little faith in me that you think I would ask permission to marry his daughter via delegation as well?"

Tomorrow came quickly, and before he knew it, Jason found himself sitting in his carriage, rumbling his way up Strand, on his way to the Historical Society.

Truth be told, he had not disclosed everything to Jane in his declaration last evening. Oh, she tried to get him to say more, but eventually gave up-or more to the point, her husband, Byrne, pulled her away from her relentless interrogation.

Sometimes he was awfully glad that Jane had married him. Sometimes.

No, he had not told Jane everything, and one of the most salient points he had not brought up was that Lord Forrester had asked for the audience, not Jason. He had no idea why, but if the man was as savvy as his reputation would lead one to believe, it must have to do with the inordinate amount of time Jason was spending in Sarah's company.

And like any love-struck young swain, Jason was certain he was about to get politely raked over the coals for not having called on Lord Forrester before now. For not having made his intentions clear.

Thus Jason decided that he would not let this opportunity slip by. His intentions would not only be clear, they would also be more than the old man was expecting or indeed, likely could have hoped for. His daughter would marry a Duke! Let Lord Forrester rake him over the coals for that!

It may have been an impulsive decision, borne of his conversation with his sister last evening, but once he'd said the words "permission to marry," it felt . . . right. Or, if not right, then . . . conclusive.

It was what came next.

So as his boot heels clacked down the hallway and he entered the great rooms of the Historical Society, he ignored the stares that followed him as he crossed the room-in fact, he did not see them. He greeted a few gentlemen, unknowingly startling them into returning the greeting and an awkward few moments of small talk as Jason waited for Edwards to inform Lord Forrester of his arrival.

"Erm," said the gentleman to his left, a Sir Gordon, whose most identifiable feature was his oversized mustache. "We have not seen you recently, Your Grace. You missed the lecture on classical reinterpretations of Greek architecture in the Tudor era."

"Yes," agreed the next gentlemen over, who Jason knew sat three rows up and two seats over from him in the House of Lords but whose name eluded him, "would have thought it right up your alley, Your Grace."

"I was sorry to miss it. I was otherwise occupied that evening," Jason replied. And he had been-that had been the evening of a Jane-approved musicale. A routinely painful affair that on any ordinary day he would have avoided and happily attended the lecture, except that . . .

Except that he hadn't really felt comfortable or, dare he say it, welcome at the Historical Society since the afternoon with Miss Crane. And thus hadn't been back since.

"Yes, the last time you were here was rather exciting," Sir Gordon continued. "Perhaps overly so. Perhaps some reflection is required?"

As Sir Gordon and the other gentleman looked at him pointedly, Jason glanced around the room and saw that every other man there was equally curious to hear what he had to say. And that lovely, floating feeling of purpose he had walking into the room smashed flat on the floor and broke into pieces.

It was safe to say he had not thought out the consequences of his actions that fateful day, but really, there was no harm in them. And he certainly hadn't thought he would end up with strange looks and pointed sentences leveled at him. Persona non grata-well, as persona non grata as a wealthy Duke and member could be.

This was why, he thought peevishly, this was why he had avoided coming back to the Society in the past few weeks. Normally, Jason would have felt agitated, confined. Felt like he should run away from the scrutiny of these men for his recklessness in supporting Miss Crane. The establishment never takes well to being rocked. But, running, that was the old Jason.

This Jason was just annoyed.

"I fear reflection would require a mirror, gentlemen. And I'm not surprised this room is without one." He leaned in conspiratorially. Sir Gordon and his companion (and the rest of the room) did the same. "I doubt you'd like what you see."

Sir Gordon sucked in his breath, his face turning redder than the carpeting beneath their feet.

Luckily, before Sir Gordon could become so ruffled as to locate a glove and slap him with it, the butler came over and whispered in Jason's ear.

"Well, gentlemen," Jason said, rising, "I'll leave you to your reflecting."

Jason would have heaved a great sigh of relief upon leaving them. Once away, he would have loosened his cravat, leaned against the door, and sent a thankful word up to the Saint of Sticky Situations.

He would have.

But he could not.

Because he was promptly escorted into Lord Forrester's offices, greeted, and seated across from the father of the young lady he intended to marry.

"Your Grace," Lord Forrester said companionably. "Thank you for coming to see me so quickly."

"My pleasure, sir," Jason replied, equally companionably. Trying to keep himself level. "I am at your service."

"Excellent," Lord Forrester smiled. "Because it is a service I require of you."

Jason's eyebrow went up. Maybe this was not about Sarah after all. "Sir?" he asked, his voice pitched a mite too high for a man of thirty years.

"You have not been to visit us for quite some time," Lord Forrester began, standing and opening the heavy shades on the window. The window faced east, and it was far enough into the day now that no direct sunlight would come streaming in, causing harm to the multitude of paintings situated on the walls.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Lord Forrester. I have never been to visit you. Although that is a situation I mean to rectify posthaste," Jason rambled. "After all, your daughter and I have been spending a great deal of time in each other's company, it is only right that I call upon . . ."

But at Lord Forrester's look of quizzical amusement, Jason's rambling died.

"Yes, my little Sarah," Lord Forrester said, the smallest of smiles lifting his lips. "Your attention to her has not gone unnoted by her mother, her sisters, or myself. And while I commend your taste, we must save that subject-and your lack in properly calling upon my household-for another time."

Jason's other eyebrow joined his first. At this rate, he was going to go through his entire life looking terribly surprised.

"You meant that I have not been to visit the Society in recent weeks," Jason surmised, and was rewarded with a nod. "I fear that true as well. I confess I did not feel wholly comfortable with my peers after . . . my last visit."

"You mean after you played the logistician and argued on behalf of Miss Crane's suit." Lord Forrester grinned, his oversized belly shaking with mirth at the memory. "My God, that woman walking into this office is the most refreshing bit of air we've had in years. Alexander would be proud. I cannot think of the faces of the fellows without laughing."

"Yes, well, you should see their faces now," Jason muttered, causing Lord Forrester to laugh again. "Is that why you did it?" Jason asked.

Now it was Lord Forrester's turn to look surprised.

"You were under no obligation to accept her bargain. You could have patted her on the head and sent her away without a by-your-leave." Jason regarded the older gentleman. "Did you indulge her to shock the system, and for that look on the old men's faces?"

"Careful, Your Grace, I happen to be a contemporary of most of the 'old' men out there," Lord Forrester cautioned, but kindly. He took a moment, stared out the window at the people milling about the courtyard by the fountains of Somerset House. "Yes, it is interesting just how much attention the Historical Society has garnered in the last few weeks. We've had more than our fair share of press, more people than ever applying for membership, and certainly more than a few museums interested in that." He pointed to the Adam and Eve painting on the wall. So innocent, so innocuous, and yet at the center of the biggest scandal in the Society's existence. "It is amazing how knocking the dust off old men's spectacles makes everything look new. And as president, I have to relish the attention."

He took a deep breath, then turned away from the window and met Jason's gaze.

"You'll forgive me if I speak bluntly, but do you know how many fellows we have that have little or no academic background? Over seventy percent." Lord Forrester sighed. "But they have money, and enjoy stature."

"And I would be included in that seventy percent, I assume," Jason drawled, leaning back in his chair.

"I'm afraid so, yes. You, however, did more than most for your membership. You actually had your paper published," Lord Forrester said, clearly commending him. Jason felt it wise to not mention at this juncture that he had had his paltry ten-page paper published by a press he happened to own. "Like the Royal Society, the Society of Historical Art and Architecture of the Known World was founded with the intention of fostering new ideas and thoughts, of learning about our past with a hope to directing our future. And those gentlemen who were academically minded but underfunded could meet up with better-heeled men who had an interest in this field of study but other obligations that kept them from pursuing it."

"In other words, academics that needed patrons, and patrons who needed a hobby."

"Precisely. And like the Royal, somewhere along the lines we lost sight of that. And so, once more like the Royal, I intend to do what I can to rectify the situation, before our Society becomes little more than a club like White's, simply with better art." Lord Forrester had put his hands behind his back and taken to pacing, as if giving a lecture. Likely one he had been composing for quite some time, Jason thought.