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her.
    Therefore, Rosalind did turn her head, and she did look, politely, of course, at the dark man in the black coat trimmed in beaver fur, who had stopped beside her carriage.
    When she saw Devon in Lady Edmund’s sitting room, she’d noted how he’d changed. Now that she was separated from him by nothing more than the thickness of a carriage door, Rosalind noted how he’d stayed the same. His full mouth had kept that slight curl about the edges, as if he wanted to smile, but was uncertain if this was the right moment. The cold still brought a pleasing color to his ruddy cheeks. His breath steamed in the deepening twilight, and the light from the lanterns and flambeaux caught in his gray eyes, which had always been a little too wide and too bright to belong on a man’s face.
    She must stop noticing things about Devon’s person, just as she must quash the rising curiosity about what brought him to this street at this moment. She must also stop thinking of him as Devon. His father and infamous older brother were both dead. This man was the Duke of Casselmain.
    But since she had looked at him, she could not fail to speak without giving him the cut direct, which, considering the difference in their stations, was a ridiculous idea. Reluctantly,Rosalind unhooked the window glass and let it slip down. The winter cold flooded the carriage and she shivered.
    â€œGood evening, Lord Casselmain,” she said.
    He touched his fashionably curled hat brim. “Good evening, Miss Thorne. How are you?”
    Rosalind found she had no interest in answering that question. “How is it you happen to be here?”
    â€œI stopped by Blanchard House earlier, and saw you leaving in Lady Blanchard’s carriage.” He waved his stick vaguely up the street. “It was not much of a guess that you might be here about this time.”
    â€œYou had business with the Blanchards?”
    â€œA friend asked me to deliver a message to Lord Blanchard,” he answered placidly. He might even have been telling the truth.
    â€œYou also had an appointment with Jasper Aimesworth this same day.”
    The corner of Lord Casselmain’s mouth twitched. Twice.
Stop noticing.
“Do you suspect me of following you, Miss Thorne?”
    â€œShould I?”
    â€œYes.”
    His blunt, graceless answer gave Rosalind an excuse to feign anger, which was better than giving in to any of her other churning emotions. “That, sir, is unworthy of you.”
    â€œYes, I suppose it is. I’m sorry.” The soft apology sounded so much like the Devon she remembered that Rosalind felt something twist inside her. He was still there, underneath the shell of Lord Casselmain—her Devon, who was both too direct and too kind for the rest of the fashionables. Rosalind closed her eyes and wished she hadn’t noticed that as well.
    When she was able to open her eyes again, Casselmain was no longer looking at her, which was a relief. Instead, he staredover the hats of the crowd, toward the wide stone steps leading up to Almack’s closed doors. “Are you going to ask me about it?”
    â€œAbout what, sir?”
    â€œMy soon-to-be-announced engagement to Honoria Aimesworth.”
    Rosalind found she wanted nothing more than to climb out of the opposite side of the carriage and disappear into the London streets. Had there been any chance she could even get the door open, she might have done it.
    â€œI have no right to inquire about your personal business,” she reminded him, and herself.
    â€œNot even though we are such old friends?”
    â€œNot even then. Propriety forbids.”
    â€œPropriety. Ah, yes. Where would any of us be without it?” A sneer slipped underneath those words. Rosalind found she had no answer to it. That anger had also always been part of her Devon. Like her, he’d learned to suppress it, because it was of absolutely no use.
    There was something else she needed