Across the ballroom floor, Carter met the duke’s gaze straight on. The older man narrowed his eyes. Carter braced himself. At times like this it was essential that he remember his father was descended from generations of ruthless, strong-willed men.

That blood ran through his veins also, yet somehow Carter had been spared the full intensity. Or perhaps it was not yet fully developed?

Carter calculated it would take several minutes for the duke and Lady Audrey to reach them. At that point introductions would be made, some inane conversation exchanged, and then he would ask Lady Audrey to dance.

Once that was done, he could leave. And in the morning he would tell the duke he was not interested in the lady.

“Good luck, my friend.” Benton thumped him on the back. “As much as I would relish the fun of staying and watching you make an ass of yourself with the childlike Lady Audrey, the card room calls. Come along, Dawson.”

Peter Dawson looked hastily from one man to the other. “Perhaps Atwood would appreciate some moral support?”

“Hell, no,” Carter replied emphatically. “I counsel you both to save yourselves while you can.”

The two men slipped away into the crowd, which had mercifully lessened, Dawson looking concerned and Benton appearing amused.

Carter glanced again in his father’s direction and saw he and Lady Audrey were now engaged in conversation with the Earl of Wessex. It gave Carter a few moments to collect his thoughts, calm his emotions. Then suddenly the duke turned and caught his son’s gaze. He lowered his chin slightly in greeting, then gestured with steely gray eyes.

The marquess bristled. Clearly, he was being summoned. It would be prudent to obey, yet Carter’s feet stood firmly in place. The duke gestured a second time, the shade of his eyes darkening. Carter’s eyes also darkened. But his feet never took a step.