THE LETTER arrived with his breakfast.

It was written in an unmistakably feminine hand and it smelled faintly of jasmine perfume.

Sebastian, Duke of Fleet, was not pleased to see it. Letters from ladies, especially those that arrived early in the morning, usually presaged bad news. Either some misguided woman was threatening to sue him for breach of promise, or his great aunt was coming to stay, and he welcomed neither.

“Perch, what is this?” the Duke asked, tapping the parchment with his finger.

His butler continued to unload the breakfast from the silver tray, placing the coffeepot at an exact degree from the cup, and the milk jug at the perfect angle from both. Perch was a butler of precision.

“It is a letter from a lady, your grace.”

The duke’s brows drew together in an intimidating frown. He had spent much of the previous night at Whites; both the drink and the play had been heavy, and this morning his mind was not very clear. At least he had the sense to reject the amorous advances of one of London’s latest courtesans. He had had no wish to wake up with her painted face beside him.

He had an unwelcome suspicion that he was getting too old for drinking and debauchery, a superannuated rake. Once he started to wear a wig and use face paint to cover the ravages of age, he would have to ask Perch to shoot him.

He pushed aside the dispiriting thought. Without the wine and the gambling and the women there was little left for him, except a rambling old mausoleum of a house that, on this December day, was particularly difficult to heat. Indeed, his hot water bottle had burst in the night, adding another unpleasant dimension to his night’s slumber.

“I perceive it is from a lady,” he said coldly. “I simply wondered which lady was attempting to communicate with me?”

Perch’s expression suggested that his master might consider breaking open the seal in order to find out, but after a moment he answered him.

“The letter was delivered by a man in the Davencourt livery, your grace.”

The duke reached thoughtfully for the coffeepot and poured for himself, then he slid his knife under the seal, scattering little bits of wax across the table, where they mixed with the crumbs from the toast. Perch winced at the mess. Seb ignored him. What benefit was there in being a Duke if one could not scatter crumbs as one pleased? After all, he attended to his ducal responsibilities in exemplary fashion. He had improved the family seat at Fleet Castle, he was generous to his tenants, he had even been known to attend the House of Lords if there was a particularly important debate taking place. His days were perfectly ordered—and damnably boring. Life was hard when one had done everything there was to do. He unfolded the letter and looked at the signature.

Yours sincerely, Miss Clare Davencourt.

He was aware of rather more pleasure than seemed quite appropriate. He had not seen Clara Davencourt for almost eighteen months and had not known she was currently in London. He sipped his coffee,rested the letter on the table and swiftly scanned the contents.

Your Grace. . .

That was rather more formal than some of the things Miss Davencourt had called him during their last encounter. Arrogant, conceited and rude were the words that sprang immediately to his memory.

I find myself in something of a dilemma. . .

Seb’s blue eyes narrowed. The combination of Miss Davencourt and a dilemma was sufficient to strike dread into the strongest constitution.

I find that I need some paternal advice. . .

A smile curled the corner of Seb’s firm mouth. Paternal advice, indeed! If Miss Clare Davencourt had deliberately set out to depress his pretensions as the most notorious rake in Town she could not have done a better job. He was only twelve years her senior and had not begun his life of dissipation at so young an age that he was qualified to be her father.

My brother is preoccupied with affairs of state and all the more suitable of his friends are unavailable at present, which only leaves you. . .

Seb winced. The minx. She knew how to deliver a neat insult.

I therefore have no alternative than to beg your help. If you would call at Davencourt House at the earliest opportunity I should be most grateful.

Seb sat back in his chair. Calling on young ladies in order to play the role of paternal confidant was so foreign to him as to be ludicrous. He could not imagine what had possessed Clara even to ask. Of course, he would not comply. It was out of the question. If she needed advice she should be sending for a female friend, not the greatest rake in London.

He glanced out the window. The winter morning looked crisp and bright. There was a dusting of frost on the rooftops. There were so many possibilities for a clear Yuletide morning. He could go riding. He could go to Tattersalls and spend more money. On horses. He could go to Whites and read the paper, chat with his cronies, drink some more fine brandy. He yawned.

He could go to Collett Square and call upon Miss Clara Davencourt.

It would be something to do. He could teach her that summoning rakes to one’s drawing room was in every way a poor idea.

He folded the letter and slid it into his pocket. Draining his coffee cup, he stood up and stretched. He was aware of a most unfamiliar feeling, a lifting of the spirits, a sense of anticipation. He took the stairs two at a time, calling for his valet as he went.

MISS CLARA DAVENCOURT was sitting in the library of the house in Collett Square, listening with a quarter of an ear while her companion, Mrs Boyce, read to her from the female spectator. She checked the little marble clock on the mantelpiece. The Duke of Fleet would surely have received her letter by now.

She wondered when he might call. Then she was struck by the thought that perhaps he might not call at all. Given that they had parted on the worst possible terms eighteen months before, she supposed it was quite possible he would not wish to see her again. She fidgeted with the material of her skirt, smoothing away imaginary creases. Seb Fleet was a rogue, but on this occasion that was what she needed. A gentleman simply would not do.

Clara wrinkled her nose slightly as she recalled their last meeting. She had called Fleet a callous, coldhearted scoundrel when he had rejected her admittedly unconventional but honest offer of marriage. It had taken all her courage to propose in the first place, and to be turned down had been a dreadful blow. In her pride and unhappiness she had told him that she never wished to see him again so she could understand if he chose not to respond to her plea now.

“The Duke of Fleet, ma’am.” Segsbury, the Davencourt butler, was bowing in the doorway. Clara jumped. Despite the fact that she had been half-expecting him, she felt shock skitter along her nerves. Mrs. Boyce jumped, too. She dropped the newspaper and her hand fluttered to her throat. Clara noted the pink color that swept up her companion’s neck to stain her cheeks, and the brightness that lit Mrs. Boyce’s eyes. She bit her lip, hiding a smile. She had seen Sebastian Fleet have this effect on many ladies, no matter their age.

The Duke was bowing to Mrs. Boyce and smiling at her in a way that made the woman’s hands flutter like nervous moths. Clara watched with a certain cynicism. Charm was as effortless to Fleet as breathing.

Nevertheless, as he turned towards her she could not quite repress the flicker of awareness that he kindled inside her. She had assured herself that the previous eighteen months had taught her indifference where the Duke of Fleet was concerned. Now she knew that she lied.

It was impossible to be indifferent to Sebastian Fleet. He was a big man, both tall and broad, and his command of any room and any situation appeared natural. Despite his size he moved with a nonchalant grace that compelled the gaze. Clara reminded herself not to stare. She dropped her eyes to the embroidery that rested in her lap. She hated embroidery and would leave the material sitting around for months with absolutely no work done on it at all, but at a time like this it was a useful subterfuge.

Fleet was standing before her now. She could see the high polish of his boots. She resisted the urge to look up sharply. Instead she raised her chin slowly, composedly, every inch a lady of quality.

His eyes were very blue and lit with a devilry that told her more clearly than words that he was remembering their last meeting. Her heart thumped once with a mixture of nostalgia and relief. Now, she was sure, they could behave as mere acquaintances.

She saw the look in his eyes and amended the thought. She was far too aware of his physical presence to be comfortable with him. She felt her color rise and silently cursed him. He had taken her hand although she had not offered it. Neither of them were wearing gloves, and his fingers were warm and strong against hers, sending a shiver along her nerves.

“It is a great pleasure to see you again, Miss Davencourt.” He held her hand for a moment longer than was quite respectable. A rakish smile curved his firm mouth. “I was afraid we might never meet again.”

Clara cast her gaze down. “I regret there was no other course open to me, your grace.”

The Duke’s smile grew. He turned to Mrs. Boyce. “I wondered whether I might have a little time alone with Miss Davencourt, ma’am? We are old friends.”

For a moment Clara thought her companion was so swept away by Fleet’s charm that she was actually going to agree. Then the happy light died from Mrs. Boyce’s eyes. Clara had impressed upon her many times that she was not to leave her alone with any gentleman, least of all a certified scoundrel. This, the one time Clara did wish to be left alone, was the first occasion on which Mrs. Boyce had remembered what her duty entailed.

“I am sorry, your grace, but that would not be in the least proper of me.”

Mrs. Boyce sat up straighter, looking fully prepared to take up residence on the gold sofa until the Duke had departed.

It took more than a mere refusal to stop Seb Fleet. “I had actually intended to take Miss Davencourt driving, ma’am,” he said. “It is such a beautiful day.”

Mrs. Boyce’s face cleared. “Driving! Oh, I see. Well, in that case there can be no objection. Nothing untoward could possibly take place in a curricle.”

Fleet smiled broadly. Clara knew with an instant’s insight that he was thinking of all the disreputable things that could happen in a curricle. No doubt he had indulged in them all at one time or another. But he spoke quite gravely.

“I assure you that Miss Davencourt will be completely safe with me, ma’am. I view her in a strictly paternal fashion.”

Clara cast him a demure, sideways glance, which he met with his bland blue gaze. She had hoped that her reference to his paternal advice in the letter would vex him, since he had spent so much time at their last meeting telling her that he was too old for her.

“Then I shall fetch my cloak,” she said, dropping a slight curtsey. “Thank you, your grace.”

The flash of amusement in Fleet’s eyes told her that he was not fooled by this show of meekness. She felt his gaze follow her out and almost shivered under the cool blue intensity of it.

She kept him waiting only a few minutes and he was openly appreciative when she rejoined him in the hall.

“It is a rare woman who does not take an hour over her preparations, Miss Davencourt.”

“Rather than not wishing to inconvenience me? I take the snub, but your concern for my team is still admirable.”

Clara gave him a little smile and accepted the arm that he offered. He handed her up into the curricle, tucked a thick rug about her and offered her a hot brick for her feet. Despite the chill of the day she felt snug. Fleet leapt up beside her and took up the reins. Clara noticed immediately that they did not travel with a groom and prayed that Mrs. Boyce had not observed the fact from her vantage point behind the drawing room curtains. It certainly made matters easier for her, for she wished to have no eavesdropper on their conversation; on the other hand it also made her a little nervous. She could not expect standard decorum from Fleet. In fact, she never knew what to expect from him. That was half the trouble.

“I confess I was a little surprised to hear from you, Miss Davencourt,” Fleet said with a quizzical smile, as he moved the horses off at a brisk trot. “The terms of our parting left me in no doubt that you wished never to see me again.”

Clara smile back with dazzling sweetness. “You are quite correct, your grace. As I intimidated in my letter, only the direst need led me to contact you. I hoped that out of the friendship you have for my brother, you would agree.”

Fleet sketched an ironic bow, “And here I am, Miss Davencourt, at your service. How comforting it must be to know that you may appeal to my sense of honor and know that I will respond immediately.”

Clara’s lips twitched. “You are all generosity, your grace.” She looked up and met the intense blue of his eyes. “I hope,” she added politely, determined to get the awkward part out of the way as soon as possible, “that we may put the past behind us. I am older and wiser now, you—

“Yes?”

“You, I suspect, are you exactly as you were two years ago.”

Fleet inclined his head. “I suspect that I am.”

“So we may understand each other and be friends?” Clara finished.

There was a pause before Fleet spoke, as though he were weighing her words and found them lacking in some way she could not quite understand. “If you say so, Miss Davencourt,” he said slowly.

He shot her another look. Clara felt her nerves tingle. She had always known Sebastian Fleet to be shrewd; those members of the ton who declared the duke to be nothing more than an easygoing rake did not understand him at all. The sharpness of mind behind those cool blue eyes had been one of the things that had attracted Clara to him in the first place. But she should not be thinking on that now. Dwelling on his attractions was foolish. She was no longer a green girl of one and twenty to fall in love with the most unobtainable duke in society.

The breeze ruffled Seb Fleet’s dark golden hair, and he raised a hand absentmindedly from the reins to smooth back the lock that fell across his forehead. Contrary to both fashion and common sense, he wore no hat. The very familiarity of his gesture jolted Clara with a strange pang of memory. They had been in company a great deal together at one time but it was illusory to imagine that they had ever been close. Fleet had squashed that aspiration very firmly when he had rejected her proposal of marriage. No one ever got close to Sebastian Fleet. He did not permit it.

She knew she should not raise old memories but Clara had never done as she should. “When I proposed to you...” she began.

Fleet’s brows snapped down in a thoroughly intimidating way. “I thought we were not speaking of the past, Miss Davencourt.”

Clara frowned. “I would like to say my piece first.”

Fleet sighed with resigned amusement. “I was under the impression you said your piece when we parted. Arrogant, proud, rude, vain and self-satisfied were all epithets I took to heart at the time and have not forgotten since.”

“And,” Clara said, “I imagine you have not altered your behavior one whit as a result.”

“Of course not.” Fleet flashed her a glance. “Naturally I was flattered by your proposal but I made it clear I am not the marrying kind.”

“Being too much of a rake.”

“Precisely.”

“I thought it was worth asking you anyway,” Clara said, with a small sigh.

Seb smiled at her, a dangerously attractive smile.”I know,” he said. “It is one of the reasons I like you so much, Miss Davencourt.”

Clara glared at him. “You like me—but not enough to marry me.”

“You are mistaken. I like you far too much to marry you. I would be the devil of a husband.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Clara sighed. She knew he liked her, which was half the trouble. They liked each other very much and it was a perilous form of friendship, forever in danger of toppling over into forbidden attraction.

Fleet turned the conversation decisively. “Tell me what I may do to help you, Miss Davencourt.”

Clara hesitated. “I suppose it was unorthodox of me to write to you.”

Fleet glanced at her. There was a smile in his eyes. “In so many ways. Most young ladies, particularly with the history that is between us, would think twice before pursuing so rash a course.”

They had turned in to the park. It was too cold a morning for there to be many people about, but Clara found it pleasantly fresh, if chilly. Autumn leaves and twigs, turned white with frost, crunched beneath the horses hooves. The sky was a pale, cloudy blue with faint sunshine trying to break through. Clara’s cheeks stung with the cold and she burrowed her gloved hands deeper under the fur lined rug.