Chapter Two
An evening in early June, London
Oliver had enjoyed being a soldier. Not the killing, of course, but the camaraderie, the sense of purpose, the challenges, the fun. When the letter had arrived informing him that he’d inherited his Uncle Reginald’s dukedom his first emotion had been astonishment. His second had been chagrin. He’d planned to be a colonel by the time he was forty; instead, at twenty-nine, he was a duke. Not that being a duke wasn’t without its challenges or its sense of purpose. Or its fun, for that matter.
Oliver glanced around the ballroom. His gaze passed over shimmering silks and spangled gauzes, glossy hair and rosy lips—and the bright eyes of young ladies searching for husbands.
He’d enjoyed balls when he’d been a cavalry captain in India. They’d been ra
