ouisa had not told Lord Wrenworth everything about Mr. Charles, the butcher who fancied her.

Mr. Charles was indeed a good man and an excellent butcher, but he had a brother who drank and gambled and often came to him with one hand outstretched. He also had a widowed sister who depended heavily upon him to support her and her two young children. So even if he were desperate to marry Louisa, he would have to think twice—thrice—about taking on an invalid sister-in-law who needed looking after round the clock.

And suppose Mr. Charles somehow overcame his own qualms—could Louisa really marry him? There was an enormous difference between marrying a man one did not love wildly and marrying a man while wildly in love with someone else.

Who’d have thought, at the beginning of the year, that she had such a capacity for trouble? Everyone, herself included, had believed her the most placid, most levelheaded girl on earth, or at least in their part of the Cotswold. Had anyone told her that she would be brought low by romantic love, she’d have snickered. Had that sage prophet warned her about sexual infatuation, she’d have laughed hard enough to crack a rib.

And yet here she was...

“Louisa, won’t you do us the honor?” asked Lady Balfour.

“Yes, of course, ma’am.” Louisa rose from her corner and poured tea for the latest batch of callers.

Wednesday was Lady Balfour’s at-home day. This afternoon, callers were particularly numerous due to the large dinner Lady Balfour gave two days ago. The women in their fine afternoon dresses stayed precisely a quarter of an hour, barely sipped their tea, and rose to pay their respects at the next house.

Louisa’s embroidery needle moved slowly, absently. Five days had passed since the carriage ride with Lord Wrenworth. It was now the second week of July, and words like Cowes and Scotland were being thrown like grains of rice at a wedding.

People were making plans for the end of the Season, for where to go next to amuse themselves.

The end of the Season.

She ought to worry about the future, but like a lovesick girl half her age, she thought of Lord Wrenworth instead. Would she ever see him again after she left London? Ten years, five years, or even twelve months down the road, would he remember her with a pang of regret or a mere shrug?

Whether anyone else noticed her distress she could not say. In the middle of June, Lady Balfour had confidently predicted proposals by the first week of July. That particular week had come and gone with no matrimonial commitment from anyone; Lady Balfour, however, remained as ebullient as ever about Louisa’s eventual success.

“Have I told you our story from last week?” she smugly asked her guests. “No, of course I haven’t—I’ve been saving it for today.”

It was past four o’clock. Those now occupying the drawing room were Balfour intimates whose long-standing friendship with the hostess gave them license to stay a bit longer than the allotted fifteen minutes.

“Recall, if you will, the torrential downpour of a few days ago,” Lady Balfour continued.

“Quite ruined the hemline of my walking dress, it did,” said Lady Archer, who had known Lady Balfour since before the queen was on the throne.

“Precisely. That afternoon, my dear Tenwhestle needed to bring Miss Cantwell home from the bookshop. But rain came all of a sudden. He was stranded at his club without a conveyance, there were no hackneys to be had, and of course, in a cloudburst of that magnitude, he couldn’t simply pitch an umbrella and walk.”

“Indeed not,” concurred Mrs. Constable, who had gone to finishing school with Lady Balfour.

“Tenwhestle fretted. You know how seriously that man takes his obligations. But no sooner had he spoken aloud Miss Cantwell’s name than a knight in shining armor stepped forth—or perhaps I should say, a knight in a shining town coach.”

Mrs. Tytherley, Mrs. Constable’s sister, exclaimed softly, “My goodness, do you mean to tell us that it was Lord Wrenworth again?”

Lady Balfour preened. “I do indeed.”

A small crescendo of “oohs” and “ahhs” rose.

“We all know that boy protects himself beautifully from adventurous misses. Yet your Miss Cantwell had him for a dinner, a dance, a long walk at a picnic, a drive home on a rainy day—am I missing anything?” asked Mrs. Constable.

“No, ma’am,” Louisa hurriedly said.

“Oh, but I must differ,” said Mrs. Tytherley.

Louisa’s head snapped up.

“I ran into Lady Avery at the modiste’s this morning. And she told me that her nephew, Mr. Baxter, had seen Miss Cantwell and Lord Wrenworth seated together in a refreshments room at the British Museum a while ago. Though Mr. Baxter, being a man, had not bothered to mention it to her until very recently.”

“Louisa!” exclaimed Lady Balfour, almost making Louisa prick her finger. “Mr. Baxter didn’t know any better, but why have you not brought it up either?”

“It was the merest coincidence!” Louisa protested; at least this time she wasn’t lying. “I certainly never thought to see him there, and I daresay the same for Lord Wrenworth.”

“The meeting might have been a coincidence, but Lord Wrenworth could have simply nodded and moved on. That he sat down at your table was indisputably a conscious choice.”

“I cannot agree more,” said Mrs. Tytherley. “Furthermore, taken as a whole, I feel quite strongly that so many occasions cannot possibly all be coincidences. There must be some design to it—on Lord Wrenworth’s part.”

“I say whether it is design or coincidence, you are one lucky young lady, Miss Cantwell,” opined Lady Archer. “In fact, you might prove to be the luckiest lady in London, if this current course holds.”

“I do not mean to disagree with you, Lady Archer, but I—”

The rest of Louisa’s argument never saw the light of the day, as the drawing room door opened, and Lady Balfour’s footman announced, “His lordship the Marquess of Wrenworth.”

• • •

The four older women in the room, with identical expressions of surprise—eyes wide, jaws slack—swung to face Louisa. Who stared back at them, similarly agape.

Lord Wrenworth strolled in, looking relaxed and stylish in a dove-grey Newmarket coat. Louisa closed her mouth and bent her face to her embroidery frame, trying not to stab herself as she pushed the needle through the velvet silk.

Afternoon courtesy calls were those threads in the fabric of society woven almost exclusively by women. Given that Lady Balfour ran no salon and belonged to no “fast” set, the presence of a man at this feminine place and hour—when he should be snoozing off his postluncheon stupor at his club—was extraordinary.

What did he want?

A theatrical rendition of normalcy was put on: Lord Wrenworth was offered a seat, fresh tea was called for, and comments on the weather—a bright afternoon, for once—were exchanged all around.

Some of the ladies were better actresses than others: Lady Archer was a natural, chatting about her meteorological apparatuses at home, her husband being very particular about the measurement of rainfall and of atmospheric pressure. But none of them were as good as Lord Wrenworth, who made it seem as if he took tea with ladies of his mother’s generation every Wednesday during the Season.

He asked after Lady Archer’s son, currently on a tour of the Continent. He inquired into a fence of Lady Tytherley’s, which had apparently been giving all sorts of offense since the previous autumn. And he brought up the subject of Lady Constable’s hybrid roses, which quite surprised and flattered the latter—even Louisa had no idea that she experimented with new varietals.

Was it possible that he had come on a whim? Perhaps he missed her a bit. Perhaps he missed her more than a bit. And perhaps he happened to be nearby and decided that he would rather cause brows to rise than go another day without seeing her.

She grimaced at her dangerously self-indulgent thoughts. More evidence of her besottedness, that: The old her would never have woven an entire tapestry of starry-eyed amour out of spools of a man’s sexual curiosity.

The clock struck half past four. He had been in Lady Balfour’s drawing room for ten minutes—five minutes left before etiquette dictated that he take his leave.

She wished she could understand what went on behind those hypnotic eyes of his. The man would not cause rampant speculation without a good reason. But if that good reason existed, she could not fish it out of the chaos in her head.

“And they are truly excellent on an arbor,” Mrs. Constable said with a flutter of her hands, imitating the motion of a climbing rose. “In a few years you will have a profusion of blooms, exceptionally lovely in early summer.”

“I will be sure to pass on the knowledge to my head gardener,” replied Lord Wrenworth, looking for all the world as if he had nothing in mind except summer roses.

“I can have mine send the design for the arbor, too, if you like,” offered Mrs. Constable, a little breathlessly.

“It will be most sincerely appreciated, my dear Mrs. Constable.”

He smiled at the older woman and Louisa could feel her own heart pitter-patter. Now Lord Wrenworth reached for his tea—poured by none other than Lady Balfour herself—and took a sip.

A small silence descended. And extended, as Lord Wrenworth unhurriedly ate a piece of Madeira cake, seemingly unaware of the breathless anticipation building in the drawing room. Louisa doggedly wielded her needle—push, pull, push, pull—while her heart thumped like a war drum in the middle of a battle.

Finally, Lady Balfour could stand it no more. “Now, would you care to divulge what brought you here today, Lord Wrenworth? It can’t be just to sample my Madeira cake.”

Lord Wrenworth set aside his plate. “Had I known how excellent your Madeira cake is, Lady Balfour, I would have presented myself at every one of your at-home days this Season. But you are right. I did come with a different purpose in mind.”

Lady Balfour’s voice rose perceptibly. “And that is?”

Another small silence. Louisa, her eyes fixed firmly to her embroidery frame, imagined him turning toward her, studying her with that sometimes inscrutable look of his.

“With your permission,” he said, “I would like to speak privately with Miss Cantwell.”

She neither dropped her embroidery frame nor poked herself with the needle. Such clumsiness would have required the ability to move. She only stared straight ahead, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“Louisa, Lord Wrenworth wishes for a word with you.” Lady Balfour’s voice boomed in her ears. “Show him to the morning parlor, won’t you?”

And then, to Lord Wrenworth, “We expect her restored to us in ten minutes, sir.”

Louisa carefully set aside the embroidery frame and rose. Looking only at the floor before her—a proper display of modesty, she was sure, except she did not feel bashful, only flabbergasted—she preceded Lord Wrenworth to the morning parlor.

The moment he closed the door, she spun around. “Have you lost your mind? What do you think you are doing? Those women in the drawing room are expecting a proposal. Of marriage. What am I to tell them when you leave? ‘No, ladies, his lordship does not wish to take me for a wife. He merely wanted to hear me recount another one of my unseemly dreams.’”

He drew close—she noticed for the first time the understated swagger of his gait, that of a man who’d always had everything he wanted.

“Have you been having more of those dreams?” he asked, speaking into her ear.

She shivered as his breath brushed her skin. And the woods-after-a-thunderstorm scent of him—she wanted to bury her face in his neck and inhale for all she was worth. “Of course I have. But that is not the point. The point is that—”

“Narrate one of your unseemly dreams.”

Was that the pad of his thumb tracing the line of her collar? She could barely feel it for the electricity racing along her nerve endings. “Now?”

“We still have a good few minutes. Why not?”

“Why not? I will tell you why...” Her voice trailed off as he undid the top button of her blouse. She gawked at him, her throat closing with both fright and thrill. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? Do as I say or I’ll keep opening your blouse.”

She blinked, not sure whether she wanted him to stop.

He laughed softly. “My God, don’t tell me you want me to go on.”

“When have I ever given you the idea that I wouldn’t want you to go on?”

He shook his head. “You give me no choice. Fine. I’ll ask nicely. Please tell me one of your dreams, my dear Miss Cantwell.”

She swallowed. “That isn’t nice enough. You have to say ‘my dear Louisa.’”

He looked at her strangely for a moment. “Won’t you please, my dear, dear Louisa?”

Her name on his lips was pure music. She wanted to hear it again and again.

My dear, dear Louisa.

“For the past three nights I have dreamed that we are riding in a carriage together, a town coach not unlike yours, except it is made entirely of glass, even the floor. And... and I’m na**d.”

His eyes were a deep, dark green, almost wintry—like a pine forest in December—yet his gaze was all volcanic heat. “Go on.”

“I... I fret about my na**dness. So you fashion a blindfold from your necktie and tell me that if I cannot see out, then I will not worry about those who might be peering in.”

“Impeccable logic, that. What happens next?”

“Once I’m blindfolded, you touch me with something. You say it’s your walking stick, but I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Why the doubt?”

“Because... it is hot.” Her face scalded. “And please don’t ask me what happens next. There is no next.”

In her dreams, she simply carried on in that state of horrified arousal.

He smiled slightly. “Do you like it when I touch you with my not–walking stick?”

She could see her hand reaching up, but she could not quite believe what she was doing, even when she had a lock of his hair between her fingers. “In my dreams, there is nothing you do that I do not like.”

“It’s worth abducting you from Lady Balfour’s drawing room, before a full crowd of onlookers, just to hear that.”

Dear God, Lady Balfour and all her friends. “Please tell me that wasn’t what you came for.”

“Of course not. I came to tell you that I have decided to rescind my offer. The idea has run its course—and expired.”

The contents of her skull imploded. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t breathe.

He wasn’t a good man and she hadn’t cared. She was willing to overlook any number of staggering faults, as long as he felt at least something of what she felt for him.

When he had been toying with her all along.

As if from a great distance away, she heard herself say, “You might as well, I suppose. I never would have cheapened myself by accepting that particular offer.”

It was a lie. She would have hated to become his mistress—because it would mark the beginning of the end—but she had never, at any point, eliminated the choice from consideration.

“You don’t look as righteously vindicated as you ought to,” he pointed out, his voice insidiously soft, insidiously close.

“Rest assured my immortal soul is pleased. It’s only my vanity that is crushed.”

And her pathetic heart.

“My poor, darling Louisa,” he murmured, the evil, evil man.

“It is still very ill done of you to come here and single me out, just to tell me you’ve thought better of your nefarious plans. What am I supposed to tell Lady Balfour in”—she glanced at the clock—“precisely forty-five seconds?”

And once those forty-five seconds flew by, once he walked out Lady Balfour’s door, she might not ever see him again. Who else would like her for her scheming ways? Who else would applaud her for thinking of herself? And who else would ask her about the telescope she had loved and lost?

He touched her face—but to her horror, she realized he was only wiping away her tears.

“You may tell Lady Balfour that in exactly three weeks, you will be married.”

She stared at him through the blur of her tears. “To whom?”

He only looked at her as if she were a very slow child who couldn’t grasp that one plus one equaled two.

“I don’t understand,” she said, though understanding was beginning to penetrate her woolly brain.

“What is there to understand? I have made you an offer of marriage. Will you take it, or must I rescind that offer, too?”

Suddenly she felt as if she’d drunk an entire gallon of coffee. Her fingertips shook. “Of course I will take it—I came to London to marry the largest fortune I could find, and there is none available larger than yours. But why would you marry me?”

“Because young ladies who confess to pornographic reveries ought to be rewarded with riches beyond their dreams?”

But that made no sense at all. “I don’t—”

“Our ten minutes are up,” he said, buttoning her blouse and wiping away the rest of her tears, his fingers sure and warm. “I will not allow any eclipsed second to besmirch my sterling reputation. Time for us to return to the drawing room, Louisa.”

He was already turning away when she gripped his hand.

Kiss me. Shouldn’t you at least kiss me when you propose to me?

But when she opened her mouth, out came, “I still want my house and my thousand pounds a year—for the duration of my natural life. And I want those conditions written into the marriage settlement.”

He tilted his head. She could not tell whether he was vexed or amused. “You do?”

She gathered her courage. “If something seems too good to be true, then it probably is. For all I know, you are secretly readying your solicitors for an annulment as soon as you’ve tired of me.”

“Such a cynic.”

“Better be unromantic than thoroughly used and still poor.”

He took her chin in hand. “And if I refuse?”

“Then I will tell Lady Balfour that I turned down your proposal.”

She could scarcely believe it, but she was extorting the most eligible bachelor in London.

“I will give you a house and five hundred a year,” he countered.

Her heart was in her throat. “I won’t marry you for a penny less than eight hundred. And it had better be a house with at least twenty rooms.”

His fingers cupped her cheek. The pad of his thumb rubbed against her lips. His gaze was cool and severe, and she was suddenly in a panic.

No, no, it’s quite all right. I will marry you for five hundred a year and a hovel. In fact, take my mother’s pearl brooch. Take my great-aunt Imogene’s jet pin. And you can also have the emergency money I’ve hidden away at home, all eleven pounds and eight shillings of it.

He smiled. “You will pay for this. You know that, right?”

The way he looked at her, so much wickedness, delight, and camaraderie. If she hadn’t been born with the constitution of a horse, she would have fainted from both relief and a tsunamic surge of sheer happiness.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

A thousand yeses.