And if it isn't? Quentin considered. Was he willing to spend the next week dancing attendance on her? Devoting his time and risking comment over his supposed pursuit of a girl who was barely out of the schoolroom? Then again, he'd never cared much for other people's opinions, so why should he start now? Quentin considered. Was he willing to spend the next week dancing attendance on her? Devoting his time and risking comment over his supposed pursuit of a girl who was barely out of the schoolroom? Then again, he'd never cared much for other people's opinions, so why should he start now?

Of course, he could do the easy, straightforward thing and have a chat with the encroaching puppy. He had no doubt a few well-chosen words would convince Peter Harte to leave Miss Byron alone. And if that still wasn't sufficient, he knew that Lord Pettigrew would be only too happy to kick him out at Quentin's request.

But where will that leave me for the week?

He'd barely arrived, and already he was feeling vastly entertained by her antics. When he considered the situation, he realized he rather fancied the notion of spending the next week in mock pursuit of the irrepressible Miss Byron. Her suggestion promised to provide a game that was both lively and delicious-as well as the opportunity to flirt with her as much as he wished.

So why not indulge?

There was his earlier vow to keep his distance from her, he admitted, but he could handle himself. Their encounter this week would amount to no more than an innocent, casual dalliance. Once over, the two of them would part with smiles and fond recollections-neither the worse for the experience.

"So," she asked with a sweetly expectant murmur. "Will you help me?"

"Given all you've told me, my dear girl, how can I possibly refuse?"

Her eyes brightened, sparkling with delight as she let out a happy little laugh. The sound went straight through him, leaving in its wake a sudden craving to hear it once again.

He was just about to make the attempt, when another young woman walked into the room. A young woman he knew quite well.

"Quentin!" Lady Mallory Byron exclaimed, her lovely features lighting with undisguised pleasure. "You've arrived. Oh, it's so good to see you. Come here this instant and give me a hug."

So his name is Quentin, India thought. A India thought. A t least I know that much now. t least I know that much now.

She watched him go to her cousin, her chest tightening in a strangely uncomfortable way, as he enveloped Mallory in a warm, heartfelt embrace. Moments later she relaxed, however, when it became apparent that his and Mallory's affection went no deeper than that of platonic friends.

Clearly, the two of them were comfortable with each other, but in a manner that reminded her of the way Mallory behaved around her brothers. Fleetingly, she considered the Banbury tale she'd told about his having been a longtime friend of her own branch of the family. If that were actually true, might the two of them now share the same kind of casual relationship he enjoyed with her cousin?

As soon as the thought crossed her mind though, she dismissed it, knowing she was far too aware of him as a man ever to be able to see him in such a light-not even if she had known him since infancy.

"So you've both met, I see," Mallory said, separating from Quentin before motioning India forward to join them. "Was it just now?"

India was trying to decide how to answer, when he stepped into the breach.

"Actually, Miss Byron and I have not been formally introduced," he said. "Perhaps you would care to do the honors."

"Oh, of course. It would be my pleasure, "Mallory said, her eyes brightening. "Your Grace, allow me to present Miss India Byron. India is my first cousin from Uncle Charles' side of the family, if you didn't know. India, this inestimable gentleman is Quentin Marlowe, His Grace, the Duke of Weybridge."

"Weybridge!" India said without thinking. "You're Weybridge?"

He raised one dark brow. "Indeed. Have you some prior knowledge of me?" Other than our secret pact and the torrid kisses we shared in the garden of your cousins' London town house, Other than our secret pact and the torrid kisses we shared in the garden of your cousins' London town house, his gaze seemed to say. his gaze seemed to say.

She swallowed. "No, none really. Only what is said in the Society pages."

Which, as it happened, was a very great deal indeed. Even as sheltered as she was, she'd read enough about him to fill a book-and a very naughty one at that. His exploits with sword and pistols were legendary, as were his impressive skills at driving horses and playing cards. He was even better known for his liaisons with women-worldly, experienced beauties, who were reported on occasion to swoon at his mere entrance into a room. No wonder she'd melted at his first touch-and his second and third.

Warmth spread through her body, making her wish she'd brought her fan. To think I've been consorting with "Devil Weybridge" himself. To think I've been consorting with "Devil Weybridge" himself.

His eyes narrowed, his countenance taking on a sardonic cast. "So, you read the Society pages, do you?"

She shifted her feet. "Well, there isn't a great deal else to do in the country, Your Grace."

His features didn't soften. "And your mother approves of you filling your head full of scandal broth and tawdry gossip?"

Her gaze darted to Mallory, who was looking on with amazed curiosity. She would find no help there, she realized. Straightening her shoulders, she continued. "Actually, Mama and I read the papers together every morning over breakfast. The Society pages are her very favorite."

His lips tightened.

"Oh, but I am sure what is printed about you you is nothing but half-truths and lies," she rushed to a.s.sure. is nothing but half-truths and lies," she rushed to a.s.sure.

"What those publications claim to be news is is mainly a collection of half-truths and lies." His warm brown eyes met hers, something shifting deep in his gaze. "But in my case, you'd be wise to believe every word." mainly a collection of half-truths and lies." His warm brown eyes met hers, something shifting deep in his gaze. "But in my case, you'd be wise to believe every word."

Then he winked.

Surprise leapt through her, together with the sudden realization that he'd only been teasing her.

While she visibly recovered, he began to laugh. "This gathering may prove memorable yet. Come, Miss Byron, let me procure a libation for you." He offered his arm. "You will excuse us, will you not, Lady Mallory?"

Mallory blinked, looking from one to the other of them for a long moment. "Of course. In fact, I see Mama and Major Hargreaves have arrived and are talking across the way. I believe I shall join them."

Only after Mallory left did India notice how many other guests were now a.s.sembled in the room. She'd been so engrossed in her conversation with Quentin that she hadn't even been aware of their entrance. Among their number stood Peter Harte, who was glaring across at her and Quentin with a disapproving frown.

What would Peter think when he learned his compet.i.tion was none other than Devil Weybridge himself? Considering Quentin's reputation, she hoped Peter would decide he was beaten before he'd even begun.

Cheered by the thought, she took Quentin's arm.

"India, hmm?" he said, as they crossed the room together. "It's a lovely name, but if you don't mind my saying, a rather unusual one as well."

"Oh, I don't mind. And it would be unusual, except for the fact that I've always believed it demonstrates a marked lack of originality on my parents' part."

"How so?"

"Because my father was stationed with the military in India at the time of my birth, and it's where I was born. I've always been grateful he wasn't a.s.signed to a post in Egypt or Gibraltar, or just think of the name I'd have now."

He laughed, his deep brown eyes twinkling with undisguised humor. "The prospect does give one pause. Although I must say you would have made a very pretty Gibraltara, or Egyptia perhaps?"

"Please, don't even jest," she said with a mock shudder. "The thought is too dreadful to contemplate. Believe me, I like India just fine."

Their gazes met. "I like India, too," he said in a serious tone. "In fact, the more I know of her, the more I am finding to admire."

Her heart pounded, the smile sliding from her mouth as she lost herself in his beautiful eyes.

"I've brought you a lemonade, Miss Byron," interrupted a defiant, young male voice. "I thought you looked a bit warm and in need of refreshment."

Turning her head, she saw Peter Harte hovering close by. "Mr. Harte," she said.

"Here"-he thrust the gla.s.s toward her-"this is for you."

Seeing no other option, she accepted the beverage.

The moment she did, Quentin reached out and gently removed it from her hand, setting it onto a nearby tray. "Miss Byron doesn't care for lemonade. She told me she is more in the mood for tea."

Peter bristled, thrusting out his chin. "And who are you to decide what Miss Byron does and does not like?"

"The gentleman she has chosen to procure refreshments for her this evening." Using a look only a duke could carry off, Quentin stared down his nose with bored hauteur. "And you are, sir?"

Peter shifted, clearly discomfited. "Peter Harte, Esquire."

"Ah," Quentin replied. "Come, my dear India. Let us get that tea for you."

Recovering herself, she moved to obey.

"And who are you, sir?" Peter demanded, obviously not about to be put off.

Quentin stopped and turned back. "I am Weybridge. Anything else you should like to know?"

Wheels turned almost visibly inside Peter's brain as he pondered the import of Quentin's reply. His eyes widened as comprehension dawned. Mouth agape, he stared.

"I thought not," Quentin said.

Turning again, he led her away.

"That was amazing," she whispered. "I've never seen him rendered speechless."

"It was one way of handling him. We'll see how long it lasts."

"Surely, that will do the trick, and he will cease this futile pursuit."

"Perhaps. For now though, my dear, you have some tea to drink."

Chapter Four

Peter Harte stared at them through dinner and cards that evening, then again through breakfast the following morning-his relentless hazel gaze so intrusive it nearly put India off her eggs and b.u.t.tered toast.

For his part, Quentin took it all in stride, seeming to find humor in the other man's fulminating glances when he wasn't otherwise occupied lavishing attention on her.

And lavish attention he did, turning the full force of his magnetic personality her way like the warmth of a brilliant sun. When she'd asked him to pretend to court her, she hadn't realized exactly what that might entail. Yet she could marshal no complaint, quite unable to resist his sophisticated charm and scintillating conversation, regardless of how out of her depth it occasionally left her feeling.

She had to admit to a sensation of relief, however, when Lady Pettigrew announced shortly after breakfast that the gentlemen would be taking to the fields to hunt wildfowl. She was sorry Quentin would be away, but under the circ.u.mstances it was worth the loss, since she would be spared Peter's petulant stares and glares for an entire afternoon. And so with smiles and waves, she and the other ladies saw the men off, remaining behind to indulge in archery and watercolor painting.

Nearly three hours later, India was adding a flourish of vermilion to her watercolor paper when she heard the unmistakable sounds of barking dogs and male voices.

"Home already, are they?" declared Lady Pettigrew. "I wonder if they had any luck? Usually they're out far longer than this."

Over the rise they came. As the group drew nearer, hunting rifles bent open over their elbows, it became apparent that a mishap had befallen the party.

Or rather one one of the party. of the party.

Resembling a drenched cat and looking every inch as miserable, Peter Harte was soaked through. His hair was plastered to his head like a monk's cap, while his once-fashionable country attire clung to his lanky frame in a most uncomfortable manner. To make matters worse, he was stained brown as a nut, doused in a slick gleam of mud that coated him from head to toe.

Laying down her brush, India stood, along with a few of the other ladies.

The Ossley sisters-a pair of young women, who looked so much alike she was never quite sure which one she was addressing-hurried toward the men. The two of them made noises of sympathy, clucking and cooing over Peter, even as they made certain not to get too close for fear of staining their gowns with a stray fleck of mud.

"Stars above. What in the world happened to you, Mr. Harte?" Aunt Ava asked from her seat next to Lady Pettigrew.

A few of the men chuckled under their breaths at the question, obviously amused by whatever it was that had happened.

"He landed himself in the bog, that's what," Lord Pettigrew answered, when Peter did not speak up. "He and Weybridge were competing for the most birds taken, and were tied at six each, when Harte had to try bagging one more. Didn't listen when I told him not to wander off to the east, but he went regardless. Not three minutes later, he was plunged up to his neck in weeds and muck."

"Dear me," Lady Pettigrew said.

Dear me indeed, India thought, lifting a hand to cover a smile. India thought, lifting a hand to cover a smile.

"If not for Weybridge and the rather ingenious use of some fallen tree branches, Harte would probably still be stuck in the quagmire. We were talking about sending for a pair of oxen and a pulley when the duke saved the day."

The men laughed-all of them except Quentin, who remained straight-faced and silent. As for Peter, his cheeks turned pink as a boiled lobster under his coating of grime.

India almost felt sorry for him since she knew exactly why he'd been so determined to take that last bird. He'd wanted to return the valiant warrior and show off for her. Instead, he'd only made a spectacle of himself-and a filthy one at that.

"At least we came away with an excellent brace of birds," Lord Pettigrew continued, turning to address his wife. "Tell Cook to add duck and partridge to tomorrow night's repast. There should be plenty for all. Now come along, Harte, before that muck dries so hard you need a bootjack to sc.r.a.pe it off."

With a m.u.f.fled curse, Peter turned and stalked away. The Misses Ossley followed, skipping along next to him, while they peppered him with a barrage of sympathetic remarks. Unfortunately, Peter didn't seem to appreciate their comments in the least.

Lord Pettigrew and the other men soon followed. As they did, Quentin strolled up to India, leaning close so their words could not be overheard. "Harte is nothing if not entertaining."

"And determined," she replied. "It must have been quite a sight watching him fall into that bog."

"And even more of one getting him out." Quentin grinned, showing his teeth in an irresistible smile that had India smiling back.

Sweeping him with a glance, she noticed streaks of mud on his coat, sleeves, and boots. "Perhaps I ought not mention the fact, Your Grace, but it appears you have carried back a trace of the bog on you as well."

He shrugged. "Nothing a hot bath and a change of attire won't rectify."

An image of him stripped to the skin and stepping into a bath caused her blood to flow faster. She could only imagine how breathtaking he would look without so much as a st.i.tch of clothing on his body.

Quentin arched a brow, his eyes glinting. "Sixpence for your thoughts."