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He’d wager every cent in his ducal coffers that none of the young ladies who’d crossed his threshold this morning had come all the way to Annan to meet Gabriel Scott, the man. They’d come for His Grace, and His Grace alone.

Therein lay the problem. “They haven’t come for me, Rowan. They’ve come for the Duke of Hawthorne.”

Rowan frowned. “You and the Duke of Hawthorne are one and the same person, Your Grace.”

An inconvenient truth, to be sure. “Yes, but no one needs to know that, Rowan.”

Rowan stared at him for a moment before carefully setting his clothes brush aside. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I still don’t understand.”

How to explain? “I only mean to point out that none of our guests know anything about me. Not even one of them could pinpoint me as the duke if their life depended on it. We might present George, the first footman, as the Duke of Hawthorne, and none of them would know the difference, so … are you quite well, Rowan? You look a trifle green.”

“Quite well, yes,” Rowan replied faintly. “You’re not suggesting we do present George as the Duke of Hawthorne, surely?”

“No, no. I haven’t utterly lost my wits, Rowan.”

“That’s a great relief, Your Grace.”

“George is a good fellow, but a footman won’t do at all in this instance.”

They needed someone with gracious manners and brilliant conversation. Someone elegant and gentlemanly. Someone who was confident, clever and amusing.

Someone impeccable. Someone like … well, like Rowan.

Yes, Rowan would do very well, indeed. He was the appropriate age, and he was intelligent, handsome, gracious and kind. He was everything a duke should be. Rowan was more ducal than he was, for pity’s sake.

Once they outfitted him in properly ducal clothing, no one would ever guess he wasn’t the Duke of Hawthorne. “I, ah … I have someone else in mind for it.”

Gabriel didn’t say any more, but Rowan must have guessed what he had in mind, because the color drained from his face.

“Ah, I see you understand me, Rowan. Shall we get on with it, then? Here, try on the blue coat.”

Gabriel leapt from the settee, seized the coat and held it out for Rowan, who looked as horrified as if he were attempting to drape a venomous snake around his neck. “I-I … but Your Grace, I …” Rowan trailed off, his mouth opening and closing like a gasping fish.

They’d never come to an agreement at this rate. “Go on then, man. Just say what you wish to say, so we can get on with it. We’re wasting time.”

“I … you … we …” Rowan sucked in a deep breath and managed to collect himself. “Is there some reason we need a counterfeit duke?”

“Of course there is, Rowan. There’s a reason for everything. But perhaps I should clarify that we only need a counterfeit duke for a fortnight, just for the duration of the house party.”

“But I don’t want to be a duke!” Rowan blurted, his eyes wide.

“Neither do I. Not just now, anyway. That’s rather the problem, you see.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I didn’t mean to suggest there’s something wrong with being a duke—”

“Never mind, Rowan.” Gabriel waved the apology away. “I daresay you’re in shock. I realize this is a bit sudden. Perhaps you’d better sit down. You don’t look at all well.”

Rowan collapsed onto the settee as if his knees had just given way beneath him. “I’m quite well, Your Grace, just, er … a bit shocked.”

But Rowan wasn’t well. He looked as if he were on the verge of casting up his accounts. Damn it. He was making a mess of this. “Forgive me, Rowan. Perhaps I’d better explain myself.”

Rowan dabbed his forehead with the perfectly pressed handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket. “Yes, that would be most welcome, Your Grace.”

“I confess it’s a trifle unorthodox.” Some might even call it madness, but once one got over the unconventionality of the thing, it made perfect sense. Really, he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it sooner.

“I’ve reconciled myself to the need for a wife. Not only because I am now the duke, but also because I believe it’s necessary for my future happiness.”

“I agree wholeheartedly, Your Grace.”