"Never play whist with the devil, my dear. He cheats." Rafe lifted her icy hand and gave it a light farewell kiss. "Should your husband resist your blandishments, feel free to let me know if you want a pleasant, uncomplicated affair." He released her hand. "You'll never get more than that from me, you know. Many years ago I gave my heart away to someone who dropped and broke it, so I have none left."

It was a good exit line, yet as he looked into the girl's lovely face, he found himself saying, "You remind me of a woman I once knew, but not enough. Never enough."

Then he turned and walked away, out of the house and down the steps into the civilized confines of Upper Brook Street. His curricle was waiting, so he swung up and took the reins.

The part of him that laughed at his own vanities found mocking amusement in how well "The Duke" had carried off the scene. The Duke was Rafe's private lame for the public image he had spent a dozen years rafting and polishing. As The Duke, he was the perfect, imperturbable English gentleman, and no one played the role better than Rafe.

Everyone needed a hobby.

Yet as he turned the corner into Park Lane, he was uneasily aware that he had shown a little more of himself than was comfortable. Fortunately Jocelyn was unlikely to spread the story, and Rafe certainly wouldn't.

He pulled the curricle up in front of his Berkeley Square house, gloomily thinking that he would have to start looking for a mistress again. In the weeks since he had ended his last affair, he had been unable to find a woman who caught his fancy. In fact, he had begun to wonder if he should give up on the compliant matrons of his own class and hire a courtesan. It would be simpler to keep a professional mistress, but such females were usually greedy and uneducated, and not infrequently diseased. The prospect did not enthrall him.