The rattle of the curtain rings sounded like thunder. The head of the huge four-poster bed remained wreathed in shadow yet Max was aware that for some mysterious reason Masterton was trying to wake him. Surely it couldn’t be noon already?

      Lying prone amid his warm sheets, his stubbled cheek cushioned in softest down, Max contemplated faking slumber. But Masterton knew he was awake. And knew that he knew, so to speak. Sometimes, the damned man seemed to know his thoughts before he did. And he certainly wouldn’t go away before Max capitulated and acknowledged him.

      Raising his head, Max opened one very blue eye. His terrifyingly correct valet was standing, entirely immobile, plumb in his line of vision. Masterton’s face was impassive. Max frowned.

      In response to this sign of approaching wrath, Masterton made haste to state his business. Not that it was his business, exactly. Only the combined vote of the rest of the senior staff of Delmere House had induced him to disturb His Grace’s rest at the unheard-of hour of nine o’clock. He had every reason to know just how dangerous such an undertaking could be. He had been in the service of Max Rotherbridge, Viscount Delmere, for nine years. It was highly unlikely his master’s recent elevation to the estate of His Grace the Duke of Twyford had in any way altered his temper. In fact, from what Masterton had seen, his master had had more to try his temper in dealing with his unexpected inheritance than in all the rest of his thirty-four years.

      “Hillshaw wished me to inform you that there’s a young lady to see you, Your Grace.”

      It was still a surprise to Max to hear his new title on his servants’ lips. He had to curb an automatic reaction to look about him for whomever they were addressing. A lady. His frown deepened. “No.” He dropped his head back into the soft pillows and closed his eyes.

      “No, Your Grace?”

      The bewilderment in his valet’s voice was unmistakable. Max’s head ached. He had been up until dawn. The evening had started badly, when he had felt constrained to attend a ball given by his maternal aunt, Lady Maxwell. He rarely attended such functions. They were too tame for his liking; the languishing sighs his appearance provoked among all the sweet young things were enough to throw even the most hardened reprobate entirely off his stride. And while he had every claim to that title, seducing débutantes was no longer his style. Not at thirty-four.

      He had left the ball as soon as he could and repaired to the discreet villa wherein resided his latest mistress. But the beautiful Carmelita had been in a petulant mood. Why were such women invariably so grasping? And why did they imagine he was so besotted that he’d stand for it? They had had an almighty row, which had ended with him giving the luscious ladybird her congé in no uncertain terms.

      From there, he had gone to White’s, then Boodles. At that discreet establishment, he had found a group of his cronies and together they had managed to while the night away. And most of the morning, too. He had neither won nor lost. But his head reminded him that he had certainly drunk a lot.

      He groaned and raised himself on his elbows, the better to fix Masterton with a gaze which, despite his condition, was remarkably lucid. Speaking in the voice of one instructing a dimwit, he explained. “If there’s a woman to see me, she can’t be a lady. No lady would call here.”

      Max thought he was stating the obvious but his henchman stared woodenly at the bedpost. The frown, which had temporarily left his master’s handsome face, returned.

      Silence.

      Max sighed and dropped his head on to his hands. “Have you seen her, Masterton?”

      “I did manage to get a glimpse of the young lady when Hillshaw showed her into the library, Your Grace.”

      Max screwed his eyes tightly shut. Masterton’s insistence on using the term “young lady” spoke volumes. All of Max’s servants were experienced in telling the difference between ladies and the sort of female who might be expected to call at a bachelor’s residence. And if both Masterton and Hillshaw insisted the woman downstairs was a young lady, then a young lady she must be. But it was inconceivable that any young lady would pay a nine o’clock call on the most notorious rake in London.

      Taking his master’s silence as a sign of commitment to the day, Masterton crossed the large chamber to the wardrobe. “Hillshaw mentioned that the young lady, a Miss Twinning, Your Grace, was under the impression she had an appointment with you.”

      Max had the sudden conviction that this was a nightmare. He rarely made appointments with anyone and certainly not with young ladies for nine o’clock in the morning. And particularly not with unmarried young ladies. “Miss Twinning?” The name rang no bells. Not even a rattle.

      “Yes, Your Grace.” Masterton returned to the bed, various garments draped on his arm, a deep blue coat lovingly displayed for approval. “The Bath superfine would, I think, be most appropriate?”

      Yielding to the inevitable with a groan, Max sat up.

      ONE FLOOR BELOW, Caroline Twinning sat calmly reading His Grace of Twyford’s morning paper in an armchair by his library hearth. If she felt any qualms over the propriety of her present position, she hid them well. Her charmingly candid countenance was free of all nervousness and, as she scanned a frankly libellous account of a garden party enlivened by the scandalous propensities of the ageing Duke of Cumberland, an engaging smile curved her generous lips. In truth, she was looking forward to her meeting with the Duke. She and her sisters had spent a most enjoyable eighteen months, the wine of freedom a heady tonic after their previously monastic existence. But it was time and more for them to embark on the serious business of securing their futures. To do that, they needs must enter the ton, that glittering arena thus far denied them. And, for them, the Duke of Twyford undeniably held the key to that particular door.

      Hearing the tread of a masculine stride approach the library door, Caroline raised her head, then smiled confidently. Thank heavens the Duke was so easy to manage.

      By the time he reached the ground floor, Max had exhausted every possible excuse for the existence of the mysterious Miss Twinning. He had taken little time to dress, having no need to employ extravagant embellishments to distract attention from his long and powerful frame. His broad shoulders and muscular thighs perfectly suited the prevailing fashion. His superbly cut coats looked as though they had been moulded on to him and his buckskin breeches showed not a crease. The understated waistcoat, perfectly tied cravat and shining top-boots which completed the picture were the envy of many an aspiring exquisite. His hair, black as night, was neatly cropped to frame a dark face on which the years had left nothing more than a trace of worldly cynicism. Disdaining the ornamentation common to the times, His Grace of Twyford wore no ring other than a gold signet on his left hand and displayed no fobs or seals. In spite of this, no one setting eyes on him could imagine he was other than he was—one of the most fashionable and wealthy men in the ton.

      He entered