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Olivia could feel James's body close against hers, his breath warm against her cheek. Her own breathing became dangerously shallow. Neither spoke as her aunt searched the room, muttering about disappearing dukes and troublesome young ladies.

At last, the door closed. Neither moved.

Olivia could still hear James's breathing, could feel the warmth of him beside her, and suddenly the entire world seemed reduced to the tiny space behind the curtain.

"Your decision?" he whispered.

Olivia swallowed. Her heart was pounding so fiercely she was certain he could hear it.

"Yes," she breathed.

James remained still for one long moment, and then his hand tightened gently around hers.

Three days had become two.

And somehow, Olivia had just chosen madness.

Chapter Eight

"Iwant to thank you for your help in private matters, Uncle. You are the only one I can trust," James said.

"Of course, my boy. Your father is my dearest brother. You are like my own son," Hubert replied.

James dined with his uncle Hubert at Glenmore Manor. The dining room was an imposing chamber, built to remind every guest that the Delves family had been wealthy for generations and intended to remain so. Tall windows were draped in heavy blue silk, their folds catching the glow of dozens of candles burning in an enormous crystal chandelier, while gilt-framed portraits of stern-faced ancestors watched from the walls with varying degrees of disapproval.

Hubert carved another slice of pheasant and regarded it with open appreciation before glancing across the table at James.

"I must say, the cook here is far better than my own," he remarked, helping himself to another spoonful of peas. "I had thought my cook perfectly respectable until tonight. Now I fear I shall have to dismiss the poor man."

James lifted one eyebrow, amused despite himself. "It is a fine meal," he said, reaching for his wine. "That does not mean you must ruin a man's livelihood merely because my cook knows how to season pheasant."

Hubert gave him an offended look. "You have no sympathy for a man whose dinner has been ruined by excellence."

James took a slow drink, wondering if this was why he had invited his uncle. Hubert could turn a discussion about treason into an argument over gravy, which was either a useful quality or an alarming one.

The long mahogany table gleamed beneath silver candelabra, polished wine glasses, and an extravagant arrangement of white roses and greenery. Dinner itself was equally grand, beginning with a delicate soup of asparagus and herbs, followed by roast pheasant, glazed carrots, buttered potatoes, fresh peas, and a magnificent fish prepared with lemon and cream, before a succession of puddings, tarts, and sugared fruits appeared as though the kitchen had decided starvation was a personal insult.

The conversation continued for several minutes in that vein, largely because James was in no particular hurry to introduce the real reason for the invitation. He had been thinking about the matter since the letter had arrived that morning, turning it over in his mind until the words had become almost irritatingly familiar.

He disliked threats, not because they frightened him, but because they were usually so unimaginative. Most men who wished to frighten a duke relied upon vague references to death, scandal, or ruin, as though those three things had not already been staples of aristocratic conversation since the invention of the peerage.

This particular note, however, had contained something different, and that difference had bothered him.

James set down his glass and studied Hubert across the candlelit table. "There is a reason why I invited you to dine this evening," he said quietly. "I want to show you something."

Hubert immediately stopped eating. "That sounds ominous."

James reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a folded piece of paper. "It may be," he replied, unfolding it carefully. "Though I confess I was hoping for something more entertaining."

Hubert leaned forward as James read the words aloud. "‘A duke with secrets does not deserve the title.’"

For a moment there was only the soft crackle of the fire and the faint clink of crystal as one of the candles guttered in its holder. Hubert's expression lost its amusement. James folded the note again, turning it between his fingers.

"It is one of the few threatening notes I have received since inheriting the title last month," he said. "Most have been considerably less imaginative. This is the first time anyone has mentioned secrets."

Hubert leaned back slowly, his dark eyes narrowing. "What secret could they possibly mean?"

James looked toward the portraits lining the wall, particularly the one of his father, whose painted expression had always possessed an irritating talent for making James feel judged.