She loved her relatives; if she was honest she preferred them to her own family. Whatever the outcome of this venture she was determined to enjoy her stay in Town. She would attend all the soirees and at homes with good grace, but when everyone else was still abed she would ride in the park and visit the sights. Her lips curved at the thought of her trip to Hatchards that morning when she had been able to purchase several promising novels.

Her smile froze as a tall gentleman dressed entirely in black caught her attention. Her knees almost buckled. He was the one gentleman she didn’t want to meet. Her enquiries had assured her Lord Bentley did not attend balls or parties, was a dissolute aristocrat, more interested in gaming and drinking than finding a wife. There was a sudden flurry of movement and the crowd parted like the Red Sea to let him through. He was staring directly at her.

Had he recognized her as the young lady who had tipped him into a ditch? That strange heat flickered through her, her cheeks coloured and her chest tightened. She couldn’t look away, was held by the gaze of his blue-black eyes and the arrogant thrust of his chin. This time he was smiling and she could not help responding. The master of ceremonies announced his name with due aplomb.

“His grace, The Duke of Rochester, Lord Bentley.” She dipped in a deep curtsy wondering if he knew who she was. Presumably his invitation card would have stated her name. Her cousin was the image of Aunt Laura so it must be immediately obvious she was Lady Isobel Drummond and not Miss Petunia Illingworth. She straightened, raising her head to discover him watching her. His smile made her toes curl.

“Lady Isobel, I am enchanted to make your acquaintance. I hope you will honour me with a dance or two.” This was not a question but a bald statement of fact.