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“Your Grace.”

He turned to the voice, low and breathless. Two more stragglers, young women, one fair, one dark, hovered in a classroom doorway. They looked far more conventional than their male counterparts, with smooth, upswept hair, jewelry, and neat muslin dresses protected by pinafores. They looked like debutantes. Eager and dewy, conscious of their charms. His hackles rose. He’d never developed a taste for them, as George had.

Palate cleansers, George had called them, and he’d set himself to seducing one, or two, between more elaborate debauches.

He himself had no desire for morsels. Nor was marriage in his immediate purview. Forming a new family under the present conditions . . . it would be a grotesquery.

The fair girl caught his eye and dropped into a flawless curtsey.

“We met at a musicale given for Miss Pitcairn. I daren’t presume that you remember.”

He didn’t. Despite her lack of presumption, the pause she provided plainly invited him to supply her name.

The dark-haired girl also curtseyed.

“Your Grace!” she trilled.

The provided pause lengthened uncomfortably.

Once upon a time, Anthony Philby went out of his way to put girls at their ease, even the petted, irksome ones who pretended their heads were stuffed with goose-feather down and fairy dust. He’d gotten on well with girls, perhaps because he understood that they were people, not poppets, however they were presented in mixed company. Any man with a sister should know as much. From the moment Effie learned to talk she’d tried to boss him, showing a strong-mindedness that only intensified with age. Most of their misadventures in the nursery were undertaken at her initiative. After he went off to school, she’d howl him down at holidays if he showed her the slightest hint of condescension.

There was an obvious flaw in his theory, however. Effie’s humanity had never kindled in George a respect for the female sex. To him, women were disposable. But then, so were men.

None of that mattered now.

The Duke of Weston put no one at ease.

They recognized him? Fine. They would get the ducal treatment.

His expression was pure ice.

“Maude Newcombe.” The fair girl smiled, a pretty smile. Determined to ignore his bad behavior. Such girls were trained to it. So men could act all the worse. It wasn’t fair, but what was?

“Susan Pickering.” The dark girl curtseyed again and Miss Newcombe slanted her a furious glance before smiling at him more widely.

“What do you think of our Schools?” Miss Newcombe edged forward and Miss Pickering had no choice but to fall back a step. Miss Newcombe lowered her voice even further, drawing him into her confidence.

“It’s not very cheerful belowground. I’d much prefer the classrooms moved upstairs.”

“Some of the rooms are like crypts,” said Miss Pickering loudly. “There’s one filled with rejected paintings that’s so gloomy I could cry.”

She did look as if she might cry, but out of frustration. Miss Newcombe, with almost imperceptible movements of her hips, was continuing to maneuver her backward.

He frowned equally upon them both. “Is this your classroom?”

They were standing in front of the room in which he’d encountered the peculiar Miss Lucy.

Miss Newcombe pulled a face.

“Unfortunately.” She sniffed. “It’s horribly stuffy. And today the weather is so enchanting. Shall we walk in the park, Your Grace?”

Miss Pickering gave a tiny gasp. “Maude! Our lesson.”

“Oh, hush. I finished my picture.” Miss Newcombe tossed her head and stepped forward, her arm sweeping up, anticipating his proffered elbow.

“Shall we?” She was really quite lovely. No doubt in her experience the elbows she anticipated materialized posthaste.

“A tempting offer.” Anthony looked at her arm but made no move to intercept it. “I’m waiting for your Visitor.”