“Helen? Which Helen? Not Freddie Maybridge’s sister?”
“The very same.” He took another gulp of whisky. “I saw her at Lady Hargrave’s afternoon-at-home, and she asked for my help.”
She groaned. “Really, Max, you simply must curb this inclination to help every young lady you meet.”
“Don’t exaggerate. And,” he added with studied indifference, “Helen is not just any young lady.”
His cousin’s eyes widened in astonishment. “She’s the reason you’re in town? Are you thinking of pursuing Helen Maybridge?”
On that question, he drained his glass and decided that if Delia’s expression was anything to go by, he was going to need another. “Yes,” he answered as he rose to his feet and crossed to the liquor cabinet. “I don’t see why you should be surprised. Helen is—”
He broke off, Evie’s words echoing in his head.
Beautiful. Charming. Perfect for you.
“I am surprised, I admit. I didn’t realize you even knew the girl.”
Delia’s remark hauled him back to the moment at hand. “We met last year when I was in town for the Lords. We were introduced at Ascot. We’ve seen each other several times since then.”
“Several times? And that’s enough to decide you want to pursue her?”
He turned. Lifting his glass, he leaned back against the liquor cabinet and smiled. “I am a rather impulsive man, as everyone in the family knows.”
“Impulsive, my foot. I think you made a very deliberate decision here. If you were to pick the one girl on earth who is the complete opposite of Rebecca in every way possible—except perhaps in beauty—you couldn’t choose better than Helen Maybridge. Have you invited her family to the house party?”
“Helen’s family has their own plans for that weekend. But I intend to see a great deal more of her when I return to town.”
“Why? To be sure she’ll make a good duchess?”
His smile vanished. “I’m already sure of her abilities on that score,” he said coolly. “I expect she’ll be excellent at the job.”
“Oh, Max.”
Delia’s disappointment was evident, but he had no intention of asking the reason for it. “Let’s leave off discussion of my matrimonial prospects, shall we, and return to the matter of Evie Harlow’s. You have just over three weeks until the ball. Do you think you can introduce her to enough young men beforehand to fill her dance card?”
“Your hundred pounds is safe, don’t worry.”
That acerbic comment ignited his temper. “Sod the hundred pounds,” he shot back, his voice hard. “I want the girl to have fun, damn it. Do you know she’s never been to a ball in her life?”
Delia’s appalled reaction to that was all he could have hoped for. “Never?”
“Never. And given that’s the case, you might see that she has a few lessons with a dancing master. She’s a bit out of practice since finishing school, I daresay. And I want you to see that she has the most stunning ball gown Vivienne has ever made. Spare no expense. Is that understood?”
Delia nodded, her eyes wide, though he wasn’t sure if her surprise stemmed from Evie’s woeful lack of society and amusements in the past or his outburst of temper. Taking a deep breath, he went on, “Bet or not, I want her to have plenty of partners, Delia. You know enough suitable young men for that?”
“Heaps of ’em,” she answered, and began counting off on her fingers. “There’s Desmond Hunt, Earl of Ashvale. He’s still single. So is Earl Hayward, the Marquess of Wetherford’s son. And Baron Holbrook. And there’s Lord Longford’s son, Viscount—”
“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “None of those men will do. They’re all peers.”
“Of course.” Delia stared. “Why shouldn’t I introduce her to peers?”
“You know the girl. Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me,” she said, setting aside her drink, folding her arms, and giving him a pointed stare.
“Delia, be honest. Can you really imagine Evie would be content as the wife of a peer?”
“What I’m imagining right now,” she said with asperity, rising to her feet, “is slapping your face. If you weren’t a duke, I’d do it, too. Max, really! Do you hear how you sound?”
