Lord Delacre led her capably through the dance. He was so elegant a dancer, she scarcely had the opportunity to misstep. “Only this week,” Pauline answered truthfully. “And you, my lord?” “We were at Eton together. Close friends ever since.” He fixed her with an unreadable gaze. “We have a pact, you know.” “A pact?” “Yes. A pact, blood-sworn on our crossed blades. To protect one another in the face of all threats—treachery, betrayal . . .” “Death?” Pauline finished. “No, worse. Marriage.” She laughed. She couldn’t help it. “How old were you when you swore this pact?” “Nineteen. But it never lapses, you know. It automatically renews.” “I see.” She tried to look thoughtful. “Lord Delacre, if a duke wishes to avoid matrimony, isn’t he capable of protecting himself?”
