“It’s yours?” Pride lit in his eyes, and something tightened in her chest. “It is.” “It’s magnificent.”

Her mother inclined her head—tacit acknowledgment. “He’s rich as the devil, I’m told.” Felicity refrained from telling her mother that she knew the Devil, and he was richer than anyone she’d ever known.

Before she could respond, he was pushing her out of the way and bounding for the hedge, moving branches aside and reaching one long arm into it. He was mad. Clearly. She took a tentative step toward him. “Um . . . Duke?” He grunted his reply, half inside the bush. “At the risk of being impertinent, may I ask why you are so interested in the

Whit looked to Devil. “She seems unhappy.” “Unhappy?” With lightning speed, Grace boxed Whit’s ear. “Oi!” Whit danced backward, a hand at the offended body part. “Fucking hell!”

Another warning sounded from Whit, and the woman looked over her shoulder. “That’s a very persistent nightingale.” “He’s irritated.”

Out of curiosity, who has usurped my throne?” No one. If anything, the scar makes you more handsome.

Whatever it was, you did something to make them realize you were no longer interested in licking their boots. And there is nothing like the loss of a sycophant to anger gasbags like those four.”

“I heard she clocked him.” Whit paused. “Felicity Faircloth, name like a storybook princess, right hook like a prizefighter.”

“It’s difficult, as at this point, my mother has strict requirements for any suitor.” “For example?” “A heartbeat.”