Twenty-Seven

If anything, Cassy noted he'd grown even more handsome in the past few years. He'd just turned thirty, the dowager duchess had said, and "none of his excesses show the slightest bit on his face, the dog!"

Cassy agreed. His dark-complexioned features were still as heart-stoppingly handsome as always, and his eyes were just as vivid a green. Jonathan had told her that the duke spent several hours a week at the boxing salon, and was known to be in excellent physical shape. Though his cutaway jacket ended at his lean waist and was buttoned over his chest, it was evident that he had no use for buckram padding as some of the other gentlemen were forced to use. Inexpressible, or skin-tight trousers, showed off his superbly muscled legs to perfection, and his movements were as graceful and predatory as she remembered them. Three years had hardly changed him at all.

The years had, however, changed Cassy a great deal. Henry noticed it immediately and congratulated himself on his wise decision in