She Was Invited to Tea, Never Imagining It Was a Blind Date With the Duke—Until She Found Three Cups on the Table, His Mother Missing, and the Most Eligible Man in England Waiting for Her Alone

PART 1

The card was cream, the hand elegant, and the name at the bottom sufficiently distinguished to make a refusal impolite.

Evelyn Pembroke turned it over twice in the grey light of the morning room and found nothing written on the back, which was somehow the most suspicious thing about it.

“The Duchess of Alderwick,” she said.

Her father did not look up from his newspaper. “The Duke of Alderwick’s mother.”

“The Duchess of Alderwick, who spoke to me for twenty minutes at Mrs. Harborough’s tea, and who now requests the pleasure of my company on Thursday afternoon.”

“That is either a great compliment or a trap,” Jonathan Pembroke said, “and I have never known the aristocracy to be careless about which.”

From the doorway her mother said, “Not the pearls.”

Evelyn looked at her reflection. “I was not wearing the pearls.”

“I know. I am congratulating you.”

Evelyn turned. Marianne Pembroke, fifty-two and still in possession of the particular warmth that made people tell her things, stood with her arms folded and an expression of deliberate innocence that fooled no one in the house and never had.

“You have been standing behind me for five minutes,” Evelyn said.

“Because mothers are permitted contradictions.”

“Then why have you been standing behind me for five minutes?”

“The Duchess liked you,” her mother said. “You have said so three times, and each time you have pretended not to find it interesting.”

“I find it pleasant.”

“Pleasant.” Marianne adjusted a fold at her daughter’s shoulder. “Being invited privately by the mother of one of the most eligible unmarried men in England is merely pleasant.”

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The reason for the pearls.”

Evelyn took her reticule and left before another genealogical fact could be discovered.

She heard her father’s voice from the morning room as she crossed the hall.

“I stand corrected. You are being fed by a duchess.”

“She was very gracious to Evelyn at Mrs. Harborough’s. What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Then I am suspicious already.”

Evelyn bent to kiss his cheek, and her father caught her hand before she could straighten.

“Enjoy yourself,” he said. “And if the Duchess produces an unmarried nephew from behind a curtain, run.”

“Surely even the aristocracy has progressed beyond storing bachelors behind curtains.”

“I would not rely upon it.”

Those were his last words on the subject, and Evelyn thought of them twice on the drive.

Langford House was a graceful pale country residence used by the family when Alderwick Park felt unnecessarily grand for shorter visits. Evelyn had been inside it once, for a musical evening, and remembered polished floors and a drawing room overlooking a formal garden.

A footman admitted her at once.

“Miss Pembroke. Her grace is expecting you.”

That, at least, was true.

She surrendered her cloak and followed him down the corridor. The house was very quiet. She could hear no conversation from the drawing room, no rustle of a hostess arranging herself — nothing at all.

Perhaps she was the first guest.

The footman opened the door.

“Miss Evelyn Pembroke.”

A man rose from a chair beside the tea table.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Evelyn recognized him. Anyone who had spent even a modest amount of time in society would have recognized Theodore Langford, Duke of Alderwick. She had seen him twice at a distance — once at a concert in London, once crossing the assembly rooms at Bath — and he was not a man easily overlooked. At thirty-five he carried the composure of someone long accustomed to being noticed and equally accustomed to pretending he was not. Taller than she had remembered. Dark hair. Strong features. Serious eyes that seemed almost severe until something softened them.

At that moment, surprise softened them considerably.

“Miss Pembroke.” He bowed.

“Your grace.” She curtsied. Then she looked past him at the empty room.

Theodore recovered first. “My mother will be pleased you have come.”

“I hope so. She invited me.”

Something changed in his expression. “She invited you.”

“Yes. To tea.”

“To tea.”

Evelyn glanced at the tea table. “That was the impression given by the presence of the word tea in her invitation.”

His mouth moved. Not quite a smile. “I see. And you, your grace?”

“My mother requested that I come because she wished to discuss a family matter.”

Now Evelyn looked more carefully at the table.

There were three cups. Three plates. Three chairs.

One of those chairs was conspicuously empty.

A small clock ticked on the mantel. Theodore gestured toward the chair opposite his. “Please.”

She sat. He resumed his place. For the next several minutes they performed the peculiar social exercise of two strangers attempting to behave as though the absence of the person who had brought them together was entirely ordinary.

Theodore asked whether the journey had been pleasant. Evelyn assured him that it had. She commented on the garden. He admitted that his mother understood gardens considerably better than he did.

Another minute passed. Then another.

No duchess.

A maid came in carrying hot water.

“Will my mother be joining us soon?” Theodore asked.

The maid hesitated. It was brief, but it was enough.

“Her grace sends her apologies, your grace. She has been unexpectedly detained.”

Theodore’s eyes narrowed. “Detained where?”

The maid looked as though she would have preferred a military engagement. “She did not say, your grace.”

“Of course she did not.”

The maid escaped.

Evelyn lowered her gaze, because she was suddenly in danger of laughing.

“I am pleased one of us finds this amusing,” Theodore said.

“I beg your pardon.”

“You are laughing.”

“I am doing nothing of the kind.”

“You are looking at the teapot with extraordinary happiness.”

That defeated her. A laugh escaped.

Theodore stared at her for one startled second. Then, against what appeared to be his better judgment, he smiled.

Evelyn looked toward the door through which the maid had gone. “I was told this was tea.”

“So was I.”

Silence. Their eyes met.

The understanding arrived simultaneously.

“Oh,” Evelyn said.

“Yes. Surely not.”

“I am afraid my mother is capable of a great many things that begin with those words.”

“And I am afraid mine is capable of a great many more.”

Evelyn stared at the third cup. Theodore did the same.

She could almost watch the sequence of thoughts pass across his face. Finally he closed his eyes a moment.

“My apologies, Miss Pembroke.”

“For what?”

“For my mother.”

“That seems an ambitious responsibility to undertake.”

His eyes opened. There it was again, that reluctant amusement.

“I assure you I had no knowledge of this.”

“Nor I.”

“If I had, you would not have come.”

He hesitated. Evelyn raised an eyebrow. Theodore exhaled.

“No.”

“Excellent. Neither would I.”

He looked at her — and then he laughed. It was not the controlled social laugh she had heard from gentlemen in drawing rooms. It was brief, and genuine, and it altered his entire face.

For the first time she understood why women watched him when they believed he was not looking.

“I believe,” he said, “that we have just insulted each other with remarkable efficiency.”

“Then perhaps my mother has succeeded in creating common ground.”

He glanced toward the door. “My mother has succeeded in ensuring that I shall never again accept a message from her without demanding witnesses.”

Evelyn looked at the table. The tea was fragrant. There were little sandwiches, and currant cakes, and a plate of lemon biscuits that had clearly been prepared by someone with greater dedication to the afternoon than either of its intended participants.

She removed her gloves.

Theodore watched her.

“Miss Pembroke. If we leave now, she wins twice.”

“How?”

“She has inconvenienced us and wasted perfectly good tea.”

For several seconds he said nothing. Then he reached for the pot.

“Tea, please.”