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work . . . yes. It just might.”
    “Oh, Margaret, I quite love it when you get that look in your eyes! What do you have planned?”
    Margaret smiled, and for the next half hour, they plotted. And when they were done, they were both beaming with hope.

Four
    From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe
    I did not place Miss Balfour near Lord Kirk at dinner last night. After the scene Charlotte and I witnessed, it would be an error to allow Dahlia to think for a second that I was promoting Kirk as a potential match. Yet.
    If there is one thing I know about the Balfour women, it’s that they possess pride and stubbornness in abundance, and must make up their own minds about whom they wish to pursue and be pursued by. That can make assisting them quite difficult. Still, I’ve never before allowed personal preference, mistaken as it can sometimes be, to get in the way of a good match and I shall not do so now.
    Of course, last night was not without some glimmer of hope. Several times I caught Dahlia glancing toward Lord Kirk, and even though it was only to deliver the most burning of looks, it was good that she looked at him at all.
    Still, we must change this. Over the course of her stay, we must find ways to remind her of the things she has in common with Lord Kirk. Meanwhile, he must show her that in order to please her, he is willing to leave his least desirable traits behind. If a man or a woman loves another—and I believe Kirk is in love with Miss Balfour, though he has not yet admitted such—he must be willing to improve .
    We all must do so for those we love.
    Bringing these two stubborn souls together will be a daunting task, and yet the match will be all the more worthwhile because of the difficulty—nay, the impossibility of it.
    *   *   *
    “Yer waistcoat, me lor’.” MacCreedy placed the garment upon the bed.
    Kirk turned from the mirror where he’d just finished tying his cravat, yet another skill the valet had taught him. “Hand me a waistcoat, please. I’m— Oh. Not that one. Find another, please.”
    “Me lor’?”
    “It’s red satin .”
    MacCreedy’s lips twitched. “Och now, can ye no’ wear satin, me lor’?”
    Kirk lifted his brows in disbelief. “Do I appear to be the type of man who would wear satin?”
    “I’ll no’ be answerin’ tha’, me lor’.” The valet chuckled. “ ’Tis satin, but ’tis the fashion fer all tha’.”
    “Which I’m constrained to follow.” Kirk couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. Last night’s dinnerhad been an unmitigated failure. Reluctantly taking the duchess’s advice, he’d given Dahlia a wide berth, though he’d wished for just a few moments to speak to her. But judging from her icy glares, the time wasn’t right.
    This morning, after a restless night during which he’d assigned the duchess’s advice to hell, he’d gone in search of Dahlia before breakfast, determined to have a much-needed conversation, but she was nowhere to be found. Later, he learned she’d left with her grace and Lady Charlotte to run errands in town. That had left him to mingle with the other guests, who treated him much as they had last night, with a mixture of awkward glances or morbid stares.
    He ran his thumb along his scar, wondering if he’d have to put up with such looks for the entire three weeks.
    “Is yer scar hurtin’ ye, me lor’?”
    “No. I was just wondering how long it would take her grace’s guests to stop staring at it.”
    “Och, ’tis rude o’ them.”
    He shrugged. “It’s easier to get used to rude guests than to deal with this damnable neckcloth. It seems that since I’ve been buried in the countryside, fashion has taken a decidedly French turn. That is not a compliment.”
    MacCreedy chuckled. “Fer all ye’re complainin’, fashion has no’ changed so much fer gentlemen. Is it possible tha’ ye’ve ne’er been one to dress, e’en afore ye buried ye’self in the country?”
    “Perhaps. My first