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room. ‘Or perhaps I should not ask …’ he drawled speculatively as he detected a lady’s perfume in the air.

      ‘Perhaps you should not,’ Dante Carfax, Earl of Sherbourne, bit out. ‘Nor do I need bother in asking what—or should I say, whom—is succeeding in keeping Benedict amused?’

      ‘Probably best if you did not,’ Rupert chuckled softly.

      ‘Would you care to join me in a brandy?’ The other man held up the decanter from which he was refilling his own glass.

      ‘Why not?’ Rupert accepted as he closed the library door behind him. ‘I have long suspected that my stepmother would eventually succeed in driving me either to drink or to committing murder!’

      Pandora—having found herself trapped in a corner of the ballroom with Lord Sugdon once their dance came to an end, and only managing to escape his company a few minutes ago when another acquaintance had engaged him in conversation—could not help now but overhear the two gentlemen’s conversation as she stood on the terrace directly outside the library.

      ‘Then let it be drink this evening,’ Dante Carfax answered his friend. ‘Especially as the Duchess has been thoughtful enough to conveniently leave a decanter of particularly fine brandy and some excellent cigars here in the library for her male guests to enjoy.’ There was the sound of glass chinking and liquid being poured.

      ‘Ah, much better.’ Devil Stirling sighed in satisfaction seconds later after he had obviously taken a much-needed swallow of the fiery alcohol.

      ‘What are the three of us even doing here this evening, Stratton?’ his companion drawled lazily as he threw wide the French doors out on to the terrace with the obvious intention of allowing the escape of the smoke from their cigars.

      ‘In view of your dishevelled state, your own reasons are obvious, I should have thought,’ the other gentleman remarked. ‘And Benedict kindly agreed to accompany me, once I told him of my need to spend an evening away from the cloying company of my dear stepmama.’

      Dante Carfax gave a hard laugh. ‘I’ll wager the fair Patricia does not enjoy being referred to as such by you.’

      ‘Hates it,’ the other man confirmed with grim satisfaction. ‘Which is the very reason I choose to do it. Constantly!’

       Devil by name and devil by nature …

      The thought came unbidden to Pandora as she remained unmoving in the shadows of the terrace, having no wish to draw the attention of the gentlemen to her presence outside by making even the slightest of noises.

      The aroma of their cigars now wafting out of the open French doors was a nostalgic reminder to Pandora of happier times in her own life. A time when she had been younger and so very innocent, with seemingly not a care in the world as she attended such balls as this one with her parents.

      Occasions when she would not have felt the need, as she had this evening, to flee out on to the terrace in order to prevent any of Sophia’s tonnish guests from seeing that Pandora had finally been reduced to humiliated tears by Lord Sugdon’s blatant and crude suggestions …

      Not that most of the ton would care if she did find herself insulted, many of society not even acknowledging her existence, or troubling themselves to speak to her, let alone caring if she constantly found herself being propositioned by those gentlemen brave enough to risk her scandalous company.

      Indeed, if it were not for the insistence of Sophia and Genevieve in having her also received at whatever social functions they chose to attend, then Pandora believed she would have found herself completely ostracised since she had ventured to return to society a month ago.

      ‘A futile exercise, as it happens,’ Rupert Stirling continued wearily, ‘now that my father’s widow is also recently arrived at the Duchess’s ball.’

      ‘Oh, I am sure that Sophia did not—’

      ‘Don’t get in a froth, Dante, I am not blaming your Sophia—’

      ‘She is not my Sophia.’

      ‘No? Then I was mistaken just now in the perfume I recognised as I entered the room?’

      There was the briefest of pauses before the other gentleman replied reluctantly, ‘No, you were not mistaken. But Sophia continues to assure me I am wasting my time pursuing her.’

      Pandora’s mind was agog with the implication of this last conversation. Sophia? And Dante Carfax? Surely not, when Sophia lost no occasion in which to criticise the rakishly handsome Earl of Sherbourne …

      ‘Would not the taking of a wife solve at least part of your own problem, Rupert, in that the Dowager Duchess would then have no choice but to leave off living openly with you in your homes, at least?’ Dante now asked.

      ‘Do not think I have not considered doing just that,’ the other man rasped.

      ‘And?’

      ‘And it would no doubt solve one problem, but surely bring about another.’

      ‘How so?’

      ‘In that I would then be saddled for the rest of my life with a wife I neither want nor care for!’

      ‘Then find one you do want, physically, at least. There are dozens of new beauties coming out each Season.’

      ‘At two and thirty, my taste in women does not include chits barely out of the schoolroom.’ The to-ing and fro-ing of Rupert Stirling’s voice indicated that he was pacing the library in his agitation. ‘I cannot see myself tied for life to a young woman who not only giggles and prattles, but knows nothing of what takes place in the bedchamber,’ he added disdainfully.

      ‘Perhaps you should not dismiss the existence of that innocence so lightly, Rupert.’

      ‘How so?’

      ‘Well, for one thing, no one could ever accuse you of a lack of finesse in the bedchamber, which would surely allow you to tutor your young and innocent wife as to your personal preferences. And secondly, innocence does have the added benefit of ensuring—hopefully—that the future heir to the Dukedom would at least be of your own loins!’

      ‘Which may not have been the case if Patricia had succeeded in giving my father his “spare”—an occurrence which would have succeeded in rendering me fearful for my very life whilst I slept,’ the Duke of Stratton stated venomously.

      Pandora was aware she no longer remained silent outside on the shadowed terrace merely to avoid detection, but was in fact now listening unashamedly to the two gentlemen’s conversation. Two gentlemen, having seen them from a distance but a short time ago, it was all too easy for Pandora to now envisage.

      Dante Carfax was tall and dark with wicked green eyes, his impeccable evening attire fitting to perfection his wide and muscled shoulders, flat abdomen and long powerful legs.

      Rupert Stirling was equally as tall, if not slightly taller than his friend, his golden locks fashionably styled to curl about his ears and fall rakishly across his intelligent brow, his black evening clothes and snowy white linen tailored to emphasise the powerful width of his shoulders, narrow waist and long and muscled legs. His eyes would no doubt be that cool and enigmatic grey set in his haughtily handsome fallen-angel face, with a narrow aristocratic nose, high cheekbones and a wickedly sensual mouth that could smile with sardonic humour or thin with the coldness of his displeasure.

      A displeasure that at present appeared to be directed at the woman his late father had married four years ago.

      Pandora had been only twenty at the time, and not long married herself, but she remembered that the whole of society had then been agog with the fact that the long-widowed seventh Duke of Stratton, a man already in his sixtieth year, had decided to take as his second wife the young woman it was strongly rumoured had been romantically involved with that gentleman’s son before he returned to his regiment to fight in Wellington’s army against Napoleon …

      Pandora,

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