ichard was contemplating another evening alone. He'd turned down a dinner invitation, but knew he was not going to be able to do that for much longer. He strolled into the library and looked at the thousands of books. In his old life, when he'd had an evening free from business meetings or social events— which were also all about business— he'd enjoyed the occasional novel.

But now he looked about the room, and all he could feel was exhausted. He had spent the entire dinner willing poor little Stephen to keep his secret. Every time the boy had opened his mouth, Richard's stomach had clenched in worry. He would have to get used to this feeling, because Stephen would be spending every day with Meriel Shelby, a woman who could probably sense a lie.

As if thinking about her had magically conjured her, she appeared in the doorway, hesitating, one hand on the frame. He stopped his pacing and stared at her. She'd been gone four days. He was dismayed by how gladdened he'd been to see her again. Now it took him a moment to raise the façade of Cecil's smiling leer. Slouching into a chair seemed so difficult.

"Why, Miss Shelby. Did I call for a pianist?"

"No, Your Grace," she said solemnly. "I need to speak with you."

With a languid hand, he waved her in. He wanted to stand, to offer her a chair of her own, but he held fast to his masquerade.

"We need to discuss Stephen, Your Grace."

Richard crossed his feet on a low table, trying to act as if he didn't fear the worst. "Did we do something inappropriate while you were gone?"

"Of course not."

She bit her lip, and that gesture betrayed her femininity as no other way could. He found it intoxicating, arousing, and he was glad he'd kept his coat buttoned.

Lifting her chin and speaking in a firm voice, she said, "Might I speak freely, Your Grace?"

His interest only increased. "Of course."

"I'm worried about the effect that your mistress will have on Stephen."

He wanted to gape at her, but he settled for a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, I know you have not chosen one yet," she continued quickly. "But the servants assure me that it's only a matter of time, that you're usually as regular as a ticking clock. Surely you can see how frantically the women are preening for you."

Richard continued to smile, but inside everything began to fall into place: all the lovely servings girls, the maids fighting over the chance to be near him, Metcalfe at the assembly asking if Meriel was the one he'd chosen.

Good God, did Cecil choose mistresses from within his own household?

He shouldn't be surprised, he thought bitterly. Richard's own father, the last duke, had gotten his Irish maid pregnant, and Richard had been the result. The ducal power to abuse the helpless staff sickened him. Though the old duke had set his mother up in her own household, Richard remembered her loneliness and isolation. He had lived at Thanet Court, the only child for five years, and had not realized how his mother had felt, especially with the duchess's cruelty toward her. She had died when he was in his teens, still far too young.

And Cecil continued to contribute to this cycle?

What was Richard to do? He had to convince everyone that he was Cecil. By delaying in taking a mistress, had he already contributed to his own downfall?

"This is an unusual situation we find ourselves in," he said to Meriel. "I've never discussed a mistress with a lady."

"I am your son's governess, Your Grace. I am in charge of his well-being. How do you think it would affect him to see you treating so casually a woman that you do not plan to marry? You, who've already discussed not mixing too freely with the servants?"

"I would hardly flaunt my private life, Miss Shelby."

"From what I understand, you have no problem doing that very thing! Your mistresses are given generous gifts and money, and treated very well during the month you…require them. Then you release one woman— admittedly giving her a generous reward— and devote the next month to another woman. How could Stephen not notice this?"

A monthly rotation of mistresses? Richard thought in shock. However was he going to keep up the fiction that he was the duke, when he certainly would not sleep with his staff?

But maybe he could pretend to be indecisive. Maybe for once there were too many beautiful women for the duke to choose from. At least for a while.

"You need not worry, Miss Shelby," he said, rising to his feet and walking toward her. "I find I'm having a very difficult time choosing from among all the lovely maids."

"Then perhaps your conscience is trying to tell you that you should find a suitable woman— perhaps a widow— elsewhere."

Her skin took on a rosy blush the closer he got to her.

And inside him a little devil started whispering about how easy it was to tease Meriel. He felt like Cecil more and more, but he couldn't stop himself.

He wanted to touch her. She was breathing rapidly as he closed the distance between them. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts, and the way a little pulse beat at the hollow of her throat. He wanted to know the taste of her moist lips, to finally satisfy his curiosity about her passionate nature. He slowly lifted his hand, just meaning to touch her cheek with his fingers…

But that was something his father would do— what Cecil would do.

And Richard couldn't allow himself to go that far, to be what they were.

"I'll take your words under advisement, Miss Shelby," he said, bothered by how hoarse his voice sounded. "Go enjoy the rest of your evening."

She escaped from him so quickly that he was sickened by his own behavior. Had he frightened her? Did she feel that she would have no choice but to please him however he wanted?

Not Meriel Shelby, not that strong woman who confronted a duke about his misdeeds rather than risk harming her pupil. She would keep her distance and keep herself safe from him.

But he could still smell the scent of her skin after she'd gone.

"Your Grace?" said a voice from the doorway.

He shook himself out of his musings, and found Hargraves and Mrs. Theobald. They waited calmly, but he sensed an underlying tension.

"Come in," he said, going to fix himself a brandy.

"Allow me to do that, young sir," Mrs. Theobald said, hurrying toward him.

He froze with a decanter lifted in the air. That's what she'd called him his whole life. What she'd called Richard, not Cecil.

He stared at her, but she wouldn't meet his eyes as she poured him a brandy. When she held out the glass to him, she lifted her gaze, and he searched it. Hargraves, seeming embarrassed, went back and closed the door.

"How long have you known?" Richard asked softly.

Mrs. Theobald sighed. "Not at first, young— Your Grace. You were very convincing, even with the reasons for your sudden concern about young Lord Ramsgate. But though the maids flung themselves across your path, you didn't care. And then…fishing? The duke was too concerned with his clothing even as a child to allow himself to get that close to dirt."

"Yes, you're right," Richard mused. "But I had to get Stephen alone, to confirm my suspicions. He already knew the truth."

"He's a perceptive lad," Hargraves said. "But what we need to know is why?" He lowered his voice. "And where is the duke?"

"Then you don't think I'm here for nefarious reasons?" Richard asked dryly.

"Mr. O'Neill, I could never believe such a thing!" Mrs. Theobald said with outrage.

"It's strange to hear my own name again, but thank you. Cecil is still very ill. His doctors prescribed complete rest and silence for recovery. Our cousin Charles is pushing Cecil to be named Stephen's guardian, and Cecil was worried that if he looked too ill, Charles would try to exert even more control. He is the next in line for the dukedom after Stephen."

"Has he made threats?" Hargraves asked.

Mrs. Theobald wrung her hands with worry.

"No, not yet. But at the assembly the other night, someone spread a rumor that the duke cheated at cards. I can't imagine Cecil would stoop so low."

"Of course not!" Mrs. Theobald said, aghast. "You think Sir Charles could gain something by doing such a thing?"

"He wants control of Stephen— and Stephen's inheritance," Richard said grimly. "What better way than by making the duke look incompetent? Already, the finances are in a shaky state, and I can't tell yet if it's Cecil's ignorance or something more sinister."

Mrs. Theobald put her hand on his arm. "It is good of you to help your brother."

Richard covered her hand with his own. "I could not abandon him. I've done a decent job so far as the duke, but Miss Shelby just told me about Cecil's mistresses."

"Miss Shelby told you such a thing?" Hargraves asked in shock.

Mrs. Theobald shrugged her shoulders. "I told her. The other maids are quite jealous of her, so I finally had to tell her the truth."

Richard smiled. "She's worried that my unsavory life could harm Stephen. I was even asked at the assembly if I'd chosen a mistress. But I simply cannot do such a thing."

Mrs. Theobald looked at him with sympathetic kindness. "Of course not, young sir."

"I've decided to pretend to be indecisive. Mrs. Theobald, maybe you can explain to the maids that they're all so beautiful, I can't make up my mind."

"You'll have to tease them a bit, sir," Hargraves said awkwardly. "They won't understand if you continue to ignore them. They know the duke's usual habits, of course."

Mrs. Theobald hesitated. "Miss Shelby already thinks you pay too much attention to her."

"I know. And I'll have to continue it, I suppose." He wasn't truly reluctant, not with Meriel. He enjoyed her reactions too much. It was a dangerous game he played with her, because he sensed she was capable of making him forget his mission, forget his masquerade, forget everything but how she made him feel.

Richard looked between the two servants, people he'd known his whole life. "I'm glad you both know. It's been hell trying to keep it from you. But please, we must never talk about this, not unless we're certain we're alone. And even then, we should do so infrequently."

"Of course, Your Grace," Mrs. Theobald said, taking a step back. "Is there anything else you need before I retire for the evening?"

"No, go off to bed, both of you. Thank you for your help— and your friendship."

When he was alone, he gave careful thought to how best to flirt with the maids, without leading any to think she'd been chosen. He would do his best not to be alone with any of them; group flirting would suit his purposes.

He told himself that Meriel would always be with Stephen, who could act as a buffer between them. But deep inside, Richard knew that if he wasn't careful, he would find a way to be very alone with the governess.

Meriel hardly slept that night, and she awoke with a headache the next morning. Every time she dozed off, she saw the duke again, standing too close to her. He had lifted his hand, and in her dreams, he finally did touch her. Each time, her traitorous body awoke her, feeling all hot and trembling and…strange.

As she washed and dressed, she tried to tell herself that some women were always attracted to men they couldn't have. Maybe that was her problem. It was as if her brain just…turned off when he was near.

She had to content herself with the knowledge that she'd done all she could on Stephen's behalf. She could not dictate the duke's behavior, but perhaps she'd helped improve his discretion.

At midmorning, Meriel left Stephen in his nurse's care so that she could walk into the post office in Ramsgate. She went back to her room for her bonnet, and was heading down through the house when she passed the red drawing room. She heard the distant sound of giggling. She peered in and saw no one, but the doors to the conservatory were thrown open.

Though it was none of her business, she crept to the inner doors, then stepped behind a giant fern in the conservatory. The voices were more recognizable. It was clearly the duke, but who were the women? Because there were several. She ducked behind a palm tree, then a clump of bushes, getting close enough so that she could peer at the duke through the foliage. He had his back to her. He was dressed in his riding clothing, with boots up to his knees, and a shorter frock coat. He looked so elegant, so above her. He tapped his top hat against his thigh as he laughed.

Three maids gathered in front of him. Meriel wondered sourly if they had followed him, or if he'd found them working and had begun to weave his magic. The women were giving one another nasty looks.

He had told her he was having a difficult time choosing a mistress— foolishly, she'd thought that meant Stephen was safe from such sights for a while. The duke had not bothered to mention that he would be hosting auditions for the role!

As Meriel came close enough to hear what was going on, one of the maid's— Joan? Meriel thought— stepped forward to catch the duke's eye. She had the saucy look of a barmaid rather than a downstairs maid, but surely the duke recruited his staff even from unsavory places.

"Your Grace, you look fine in those ridin' clothes. I never been ridin' because I'm always worried I'd fall off. But if I rode with you, your firm thighs'd keep me up."

Meriel covered her face in shock and peeked between her spread fingers.

"Ladies, I'm afraid I don't have time to teach anyone to ride today," the duke said. "Have a pleasant morning."

Meriel's indignation faded as she finally saw his face. He looked relieved to be escaping.

Didn't he enjoy watching future mistresses fight for his attention?