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Hart turned toward her and let his eyebrows rise in surprise as he looked her over. It wasn't often one met new women at a ton gathering, and certainly not lovely young matrons.
"I can't think what you mean, sir," she laughed, her hazel eyes sparkling. She glanced at Hart, then away just as quickly.
"How could you do it, Lady Denmore? Put money on another man?"
She reached a gloved hand out and touched Matherton's sleeve. "I am deeply wounded, my lord. Surely you can see that I had complete confidence in you. I thought only to salvage Osbourne's pride, fully expecting you to trounce him."
Matherton snorted. "You, madam, would do the country a great service if you were to offer yourself as a diplomat. Words flow so prettily from your mouth that it matters not in the least if they are true."
She laughed again, and Hart took in the sound with pleasure. What a bedroom voice she had, soft and rich. It didn't quite match the rest of her. She was pretty in a mild way, certainly not exotic.
"Lady Denmore, may I present the Duke of Somerhart? Your Grace, this lovely woman is Baroness Denmore."
He watched her curtsy, her dark lilac skirts crumpling a bit. Those hazel eyes crinkled in a smile as he took her hand.
"Lady Denmore. A pleasure. And no 'Your Graces' if you please. Just Somerhart."
"You do not employ your title, sir?" she teased.
"Oh, I make full use of it. To the extent that I command how others may address me."
"Ah. A man heady with his own power."
Hart smiled, watched her full lips curve in answer, and wondered quickly if her husband were in attendance. If not. . .
"Madam," Matherton interrupted, eyes darting toward the open doorway to his left. "I believe my table awaits me. May I leave you in Somerhart's care?"
"Certainly. I will, however, be in to take your money soon."
Hart smiled at Matherton's sigh, happy to be left alone with this appealing woman. "Shall I escort you to your husband?" he drawled.
"Ah. I am a widow, Somerhart. The Dowager Baroness Denmore."
Hart blinked, surprised by both the information and his faux pas. "My apologies." This girl was a widow! She looked no older than his baby sister. "And my condolences for your loss." His mind began to tick through the history of the Denmore line.
Baron Denmore. He had known the ninth Baron Denmore, that lecherous, perverted drunk, but he'd died years ago. Hart had no idea who'd inherited the title. No one of his circle, certainly. A servant passed, and he plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray.
"Have you been in London long?"
Her pink mouth smiled at the glass he urged into her hand. "No. Not long."
"And will you be staying with us through the Season?"
She glanced up at the word "us," a flash of surprise lighting her eyes. She recognized his flirtation. Good. He did not like obvious women. He was a man of su
btle tastes and subtle actions, or he was now at any rate.
"For a little while, certainly," she murmured before raising the glass to her lips.
Hart's eyes widened as he watched her, this modest young woman, drain a full glass of champagne and pop it back into his hand.
"Thank you. A pleasure."
And then she spun away and disappeared into the card room, leaving behind the faint scent of citrus and one startled duke.
Chapter 2
Crystals glinted in her hair, caught by the flickering gaslight as she glanced at her cards. Hart glanced too. "Split," she murmured, and placed another bet.
