Leslie Lafoy by The Dukes Proposal

be saved, but he’ll manage just fine on the three he has left.”
    Simone gently laid her hand on her shoulder, saying, “Oh, Fi. I’m glad he’s going to be all right. I know he means the world to you.”
    “Thank you.”
    Her sister reached up and smoothed a curl off her shoulder. “I’d really like to think that the man you’re going to marry means just as much to you as your cat does.”
    Yes, well … in a perfect world, in girlish fairy tales … “It will work out for the best,” Fiona assured her.
    Simone pursed her lips for a long moment and then slowly arched a raven brow. “Is that conclusion based on pure optimism, or is it one of those things you sometimes know?”
    Optimism? No. Resignation maybe. Or perhaps it was more a stoic sort of guarded hope.
    “Never mind,” Simone said. “I can see the answer in your eyes. Carrie said that the engagement is going to be announced at her and Drayton’s annual ball. Which gives you three weeks to make sure you really want to do this. Backing out after that would be possible too, of course, but a lot more difficult. Especially considering your aversion to scandal.”
    “Scandal or not,” Fiona countered, “I’ve given Lord Dunsford my word, Simone. I’m not going to change my mind.”
    Simone’s brow arched higher. “In that case,” she drawled, “I’d like to meet my future brother-in-law. Is he here this evening?”
    The chill that had been confined to Fiona’s stomach suddenly spread into the marrow of her bones. Simone and Ian together? Simone who had never once in her life behaved in a manner even close to circumspect? Ian who was so keenly aware of appearances that he was willing to marry a physically deformed stranger to keep them from being tarnished?
    “I promise to be nothing short of thoroughly proper and delightfully congratulatory,” Simone cheerily offered, slipping an arm around Fiona’s shoulders and giving her a quick hug. “Since he’s obviously not out here,” Fiona went on, turning her away from the balustrade, “he’s probably in the ballroom. At least that would be my first guess. Shall we?”
    Fighting the inclination to dig in her heels, Fiona allowed her sister to guide her toward the French doors. Maybe, she offered herself as she blinked into the bright light of the ongoing party, she might be lucky and Ian had already ducked into one of the males-only gaming rooms. If she were really lucky—and there was a truly benevolent God—Ian had decided to stay home this evening.
    And if she wasn’t lucky … “Perhaps we should freshen ourselves a bit before we start a serious search.”
    *   *   *
    If a bird in hand was worth two in the the bush, what, Ian wondered, was a duke in the palms worth? “Not much” seemed to be the only answer, and it so disgusted him that he stepped out into full view of God and every professional gossip in London. He’d no more than made one passing glance around the ballroom and snagged a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter than Harry was at his side.
    “Where have you been all day?” his cousin asked. “I’ve looked high and low for you.”
    “You didn’t look at Lord Ryland’s townhouse.”
    Harry took a half step back, his eyes wide in horror. “Good God, you haven’t taken up politics, have you?”
    “I was getting myself engaged.”
    “No,” Harry countered, laughing.
    “Yes.”
    His cousin instantly sobered, blinked several times, and then quickly glanced over both of his shoulders before leaning close to ask, “To Lady Fiona Turnbridge?”
    Fiona worried about having children that limped? He was far more concerned with the likelihood of producing a village of idiots. “Is there,” he dryly asked, “another Ryland female who’s unattached whom I don’t know about?”
    Again Harry looked over his shoulders before saying in a furtive whisper, “Good God, Ian. Why her?”
    Ian shrugged. “She showed up on my doorstep in the wee hours