So she would not go back to Markle even for Miss Leavensworth’s wedding? The Duchess of Dunbarton he had thought he knew—the one the ton thought it knew—would surely have loved nothing better than to return home with a large entourage of servants to flaunt her title and wealth before the rural yokels among whom she had grown up.

Was it true that she had no family?

“She has no family with whom to stay?” he asked.

“She could stay with my parents,” she said. “They would be delighted to have her.”

Which could mean yes or no. But he must leave this. He felt vaguely guilty. Perhaps even a little more than vaguely. He was prying.

“Have you visited the Tower of London yet?” he asked.

“I have not,” she said. “But I am very much hoping to do so before I return home.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “you and the duchess will allow me to escort you there one afternoon.”

“Oh,” she said, “that is very obliging of you, Mr. Huxtable. I am not sure how interested Hannah is, though, in—”

“I shall remind her,” he said, “that she will be able to stand on the very spot on which Queen Anne Boleyn, among others over the years, had her head chopped off. I daresay that will draw her interest.”

She laughed.

“You are quite possibly right,” she said. “It is one spot I will quite studiously avoid, however.”

“I shall make arrangements with the duchess,” he said.

And he concentrated upon the dancing. It was an activity he had always enjoyed. He looked along the line of ladies opposite and could see his cousins—all of them, including Vanessa, and including Averil and Jessica, Elliott’s sisters. Only Cecily was absent, at home in the country awaiting her third confinement. The duchess was there too, looking stunningly beautiful. Next to her was the Countess of Lanting, Monty’s younger sister. And of course there were all the young misses who had recently been launched upon society and the marriage mart, some of them bright and eager, some affecting a fashionable ennui, as though this was something they were so accustomed to doing that it really was a quite colossal bore.

And on his side of the line, all the gentlemen.

The orchestra was lively. Feet thumped rhythmically on the wooden floor, a sound that always set his toes to tapping even if he was standing on the sidelines merely looking on. The air had become heavy with the scent of flowers and perfume and human exertion.

The Kitteridges must be breathing a sigh of relief. Their young daughter was dancing with Viscount Doran, an eligible young gentleman who had doubtless been hand-picked for the occasion, and they might deem their ball a grand success.

Constantine and Miss Leavensworth were approaching the head of the line again.

HANNAH DANCED the opening set with Lord Netherby, the second with Lord Hardingraye, a particular friend of hers with whom she could relax and converse at her ease. She was feeling the pleasure of anticipation. She would waltz later with Constantine. She would dance only that once with him, but it would be enough. There was no dance more splendid than the waltz when one was with an attractive partner, and none was more attractive than Constantine Huxtable.

She would waltz with him and then, after the ball was over, he would follow her carriage home, as he had done last evening, and she would go with him to spend the night—or what remained of it.

And this would be the pattern of her days—and her nights—for the rest of the spring. Oh, she wished it would go on forever. For once she was not at all eager for the summer to come. Let it linger. She did not feel guilty about Barbara. She was not going to neglect her friend, after all. They would spend all day every day together.

Oh, this all felt very, very pleasant indeed after the dreariness of the past year. And it had been dreary. The duke would not have expected her to pretend that it was not. She had grieved for him—she still did—but grieving in virtual solitude and in black for a whole year had been tedious in the extreme. He would have told her to go out and enjoy herself—she knew he would. But she had not done that except to ride and ride about the countryside near Copeland and visit her friends at Land’s End every few days. She had been a faithful wife while the duke lived. She had been a faithful widow for the full year of her mourning.

And now—well, now she was enjoying herself enormously. She was not even going to pretend that she was not. She had dreamed of this, planned for it, and it was happening. And the best of it was that the duke would not resent it. She knew he would not.

“One would have to say, Your Grace,” Lord Hardingraye said, “that you have been positively glowing since your return to town. Indeed, if you were to glow any brighter I should have to don an eye shade, and I would be accused of all sorts of eccentricity.”

“You already are eccentric,” she said, smiling at him. “Everyone says so.”

His eyes twinkled back at her.

Constantine was dancing with Lady Fornwald.

Barbara was … not in the ballroom. Hannah looked all about the room, but her friend was nowhere to be seen. She was not even lurking in the quietest corner. She had excused herself after the opening set to go to the ladies’ withdrawing room. But that had been ages ago.

She still had not reappeared when the set was finished. Hannah looked around again at the milling crowd to be sure and then went to check the withdrawing room. But Barbara could not still be in there, surely.

She was, though.

She was sitting in a corner, facing away from the door, ignoring and ignored by a small knot of twittering young ladies who were giggling over something and talking in high squeals. In another corner a maid sat silently waiting to help anyone who needed a torn hem mended or an errant curl returned to its coiffure.

“Babs?” Hannah went to sit beside her. “Are you unwell?”

Barbara would not look at her. She was twisting a handkerchief in her lap. There was no sign of tears on her cheeks, but she looked on the verge of weeping.

“You are going to hate me,” she said. “You will not trust me ever again.”

“Babs?” Hannah said again.

“I betrayed you,” Barbara said. “I know how much you value your privacy, and I betrayed you.”

Extravagant words. Hannah waited for an explanation.

“I told Mr. Huxtable the name of our village,” Barbara said. “I told him about S-Sir Colin Young. I almost told him about … about Dawn. I stopped myself just in time. And I told him Sir Colin was a distant relation of the Duke of Dunbarton.”

“And this is betrayal?” Hannah said after a brief silence. “Did you pour out all this information uninvited, Babs?”

“No,” she said. “He asked me. And I told him. I am so sorry, Hannah. I do not know how you will ever forgive me. You will not even allow me to mention those names to you. And yet I blurted them out blithely to your—To Mr. Huxtable.”

“Were they idle questions?” Hannah asked. “The ones he asked, I mean?”

“I don’t believe so,” Barbara said, and tears welled in her eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. “No, I don’t believe so. He wanted to know, and so he asked a country bumpkin unwise in the ways of the ton. I am so sorry.”

“Silly goose,” Hannah said, setting one hand against the back of Barbara’s bowed neck. “You told him nothing but facts he could have discovered some other way with the greatest ease. You did not exactly inform him that I was a murderess or a bigamist or a … What else might I have been that would have made for a ghastly revelation indeed?”

“A highwayman?” Barbara suggested through her tears.

“Or a highwaywoman,” Hannah said. “You told him almost nothing at all. And really, there is not a great deal to tell anyway, is there? Only a lot of sordid nonsense. There is no grand secret. If I have guarded the details of my past, it is only because I have chosen to do so. I have nothing to hide. Or to hide from.”