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royal kind. But this, Sherring Cross, the ducal estate of Ambrose Devlin St. James, outshone any palace in sheer size, stretching out over acre after acre of beautifully manicured lawns. It was intimidating to say the least, and she was already nervous enough.
    The more she had thought about her reason for being here, the less she liked it. Imagine, asking someone of such consequence as the Duke of Wrothston to assist in finding her a husband. Her father’s gall knew no bounds. And His Grace, the duke, couldn’t be any more pleased about doing this favor than she was to reap the benefits.
    Nor had it been a pleasant journey getting here. It wasn’t enough that she was bone-weary from three straight days of traveling, but during that time, the carriage also lost a wheel and she hadto stand around for hours while that was fixed. Then the weather turned even colder than normal for this time of year, and the little coal-burner she had in the carriage wasn’t enough to take the chill off.
    Then she had a bad experience at one of the inns she stayed at, where a group of rowdy Scots in the room next to hers kept her up half the night. She had nothing against Scots herself. It was her father who denounced them all because he blamed them for the death of the woman he loved. A death that in her opinion, and the opinion of the courts, had been accidental.
    Even having been reared with his sentiments—he’d never kept his undying love for another woman from his wife; it was something he brought up quite frequently, in fact—she wasn’t affected by his prejudices, likely because she felt no true closeness toward her father. Actually, she had on occasion felt that that other woman was lucky she had escaped a life with the earl, even through death. But those occasions were rare, and usually when she really detested something her father had done.
    But she did have something against blatant public disturbances of the kind those Scotsmen had created that night at the inn. Three complaints to the manager and those men still didn’t quiet down. But at least her father hadn’t been there to cause a scene. As much as he hated Scots, it would have turned into an embarrassing situation, rather than just an annoying one.
    It was bad enough that she had herself snapped at one of those Scots when she ran into him in the hall the next morning. The poor fellow had barely had his eyes open yet, but they were agogby the time she flounced off, after having vented her spleen on him. It wasn’t until hours later, back on the road, that she regretted her rash words. She so rarely lost her temper. Being tired, and therefore irritable, was no excuse.
    And her new maid was no help. Mary took to traveling even worse than Kimberly did. Her constant complaints at every little bump, delay, or drop in the weather would have tried a saint. But at least she had been able to get some rest each night in the rooms she shared with Kimberly. The girl slept sounder than the dead.
    And if all that wasn’t enough, Kimberly had caught a cold. Her nose was likely as red as a cherry from all the sneezing she’d been doing. Her body ached from the jarring ride. Her head felt like it was splitting apart. And protocol insisted she put her best foot forward to make a good impression on Their Graces? That was a laugh. They’d take one look at her and wonder what they’d gotten themselves into.
    Yet there was no help for it. She’d arrived at Sherring Cross. Footmen in fancy livery were already stepping forward to assist her out of her carriage. And the massive front doors were swung wide. There was really nothing to do but step through them.
    Under the circumstances, she had hoped, prayed even, that she would be shown to a room and could be presented to Their Graces after she’d had sufficient time to recover. No such luck. The Duchess of Wrothston herself was standing in the large entryway to greet her.
    Meeting for the first time, they were both, to a degree,