And now Elizabeth was jabbing her in the ribs, as if she needed the alert.

And now-oh, she could see it all in her head-the crowds were doing their Red Sea imitation, and here strode the duke, his shoulders broad, his steps purposeful and proud, and here he was, almost, almost, almost-

“Lady Amelia.”

She composed her face. She turned around. “Your grace,” she said, with the blank smile she knew was required of her.

He took her hand and kissed it. “You look lovely this evening.”

He said that every time.

Amelia murmured her thanks and then waited patiently while he complimented her sister, then said to Grace, “I see my grandmother has allowed you out of her clutches for the evening.”

“Yes,” Grace said with a happy sigh, “isn’t it lovely?”

He smiled, and Amelia noted it was not the same sort of public-face smile he gave her. It was, she realized, a smile of friendship.

“You are nothing less than a saint, Miss Eversleigh,” he said.

Amelia looked to the duke, and then to Grace, and wondered-What was he thinking? It was not as if Grace had any choice in the matter. If he really thought Grace was a saint, he ought to set her up with a dowry and find her a husband so she did not have to spend the rest of her life waiting hand and foot upon his grandmother.

But of course she did not say that. Because no one said such things to a duke.

“Grace tells us that you plan to rusticate in the country for several months,” Elizabeth said.

Amelia wanted to kick her. The implication had to be that if he had time to remain in the country, he must have time to finally marry her sister.

And indeed, the duke’s eyes held a vaguely ironic expression as he murmured, “I do.”

“I shall be quite busy until November at the earliest,” Amelia blurted out, because it was suddenly imperative that he realize that she was not spending her days sitting by her window, pecking at needlework as she pined for his arrival.