No spinsters and no debutantes left him with an extremely curtailed list. Julian adored extremely curtailed lists. For any conundrum, there was always a right answer.Oneright answer. One perfect duchess. The more he trimmed the list, the better.
He had thought he liked blondes well enough, but for some reason the thought did not inspire, so he struck those names from his mental list. Same for those with ghostly pale countenances. Yes, yes, porcelain white skin was perenniallyà la mode, but a chit too rigid to set down her parasol for a moment would not survive a day under this roof with Julian.
Which also meant, she must be nice, but nottoonice, polite but not obsequious, tough enough to weather the judgments of women like the patronesses and the old dragon Lady Pettibone, but not so prickly as to invite censure upon herself or her children. Someone who—
“Is it true?” asked a skeptical voice. “Can the scandalous Duke of Lambley possibly have voluntarily stepped foot into the marriage mart?”
Julian gave his haughtiest, most forbidding stare to his good friends Lord X and Lord X—known outside these walls as the unwed Duke of Courteland, as well as Heath Grenville, a future baron.
“No one has ever succeeded in forcing me to do something against my will,” Julian said repressively.
Grenville chortled with laughter. “If I had any doubts upon the matter, that little speech would have put them to rest. By taking issue with a single word instead of answering the question, Lambley has shown his cards. I’m afraid our dear reprobate has indeed entered the marriage mart, my friend.”
“Devil take you,” Courteland said morosely. “I might have had a chance as the sole unmarried duke actively in search of a bride if you had stayed out of the way just a few months more.”
“Iaman attractive man,” Julian said with false modesty.
The Duke of Courteland snorted. “No one cares about your handsome face. They want your title, your gold, your vast estate—”
“Trust me,” Grenville said wryly. “A high percentage of the ladies in this very room are passionately interested in Lambley’s handsome face. I am glad to already be married. If you knew half the things I’ve overheard women whisper about His Grace, the Duke of Masquerades...”
Julian was no longer attending.
He had just caught sight of a slender neck that absolutely, positivelymustbelong to Miss Thorne. There were too many milling people for him to glimpse the rest of her body, and the distance stretching between them made it hard to determine the exact golden-brown of her skin, but he was certain—
“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.” Julian strode away from his friends without a word of explanation or a glance at their expressions.
There was no time.
The woman who probably, definitely, was the missing Miss Thorne was gliding toward the opposite side of the ballroom, drawing farther from Julian by the second. Already she had caught the eye of a dozen different men, all of whom started at once in her direction. If Julian did not make sufficient haste, one of them would beat him to her side and whisk her out of reach onto the dance floor.
He did not like being curt to guests, but tonight it seemed as though they were conspiring against him by putting themselves in his path to enquire or comment or compliment or—who even knew? He gave each of them a nod and promised to find them later when he was not so incredibly busy.
And then there she was.
Her attire tonight was Elizabethan. Tall red wig, low square-necked bodice, improbably small waist, impossibly wide hips, all draped in crimson velvet with white and gold taffeta. She had never looked so arresting. She—
Was not Miss Thorne. She had just turned, and in her profile—a profile that looked almost exactly like Miss Thorne’s, Julian would swear to it—he could now see that the little black mole was missing from her face. It was not slathered in cosmetics or replaced by a scar. It was as though it had never existed.
Her cheekbones were different, too. He could not see them fully because of the crimson mask covering the top half of her face, but they seemed sharper tonight, as though this woman weighed a full stone lighter than curvy Miss Thorne. Even her nose seemed thinner, and the bodice of her gown fit differently.
Did she have a sister? A twin? Was that what was happening?
One of the other young bucks reached her first.
Julian had stopped moving. This was not his prey. The young buck said something that was clearly inappropriate, and the woman who was not Miss Thorne laughed—
Exactly like Miss Thorne.
He cut between the two within the space of a breath and pulled her into his side. “Itisyou.”
“I... You...” She stared up at him. “How did you know?”
Miss Thorne looked shocked that he’d figured her out.
Julian was shocked he’d doubted himself at all, even for a moment.
“What happened to your mole?” he demanded.
