ituated in St. James's Square behind a dark green canopy that stretched from the front door to the street, The Strathmore catered to a relatively small, highly select group of the nobility who preferred to gamble in more luxurious surroundings than the glaringly lit, noisy game rooms at White's, and to partake of better fare than the tasteless boiled fowl, beef steaks, and apple tarts served at Brooks's and White's.

In contrast to Brooks's, White's, and Watier's, The Strathmore had been founded by, and was owned by, its one hundred and fifty illustrious members, rather than by an outside proprietor. Membership was handed down from generation to generation and was rigidly limited to the descendants of its original founders. The club existed, not to make a profit, but to provide an unbreachable, comfortable fortress where members could bet staggering fortunes on a hand of cards, talk in desultory tones without having to shout to be heard, and dine on superb fare prepared by its French and Italian chefs. Discretion was expected from—and granted to—each member. Gossip about members' giant losses and gains at the gaming tables spread from White's and Brooks's and then all over London like wildfire. At The Strathmore, where the stakes were astronomical by comparison, not a word about such things ever passed beyond The Strathmore's green canopy. Within the club's confines, however, gossip was passed from member to member and room to room with astonishing alacrity and considerable masculine enjoyment.

Guests were not allowed beyond the marble pillars that flanked the front door, even if accompanied by members, a discovery that had enraged Beau Brummell when he attempted to gain entry during the days he reigned supreme at every other fashionable gentlemen's club in London.

Prinny himself had been denied membership on the grounds that he was not a descendant of the founders, which caused the then-Prince Regent to react with as much ire as Brummell but with uncharacteristic common sense and foresight: He founded his own club, installed two of the royal chefs in prominent positions, and named it Watier's, after one of his chefs. The Prince Regent could not, however, replicate the aura of hushed dignity—of utter exclusivity and understated elegance—that pervaded the spacious rooms.

Nodding absently to the manager, who greeted him with a bow at the door, Stephen wended his way through the large, oak-panelled rooms, paying scarcely more attention to the members conversing in comfortable, high-backed dark green leather chairs or seated at the gambling tables, than he had to the club's employee. The third room he came to was virtually deserted, which suited him perfectly, and he sat down at a table with three vacant chairs. Staring fixedly into the empty fireplace, he considered the grave contents of the letter and contemplated the most momentous decision of his life.

The more he thought about the problem the letter created, the more obvious the solution became… and the better he felt about it. In the space of half an hour, Stephen's mood veered from grim to thoughtful to philosophical—and finally to gladness. Even without the letter, Stephen knew that he probably would have ended up doing exactly what he was about to do. The difference was that the contents of the letter virtually obliged him to do it, which meant he could act on his desire without surrendering all claim to honor and decency. From the moment he'd told Sherry that he wanted her to consider other suitors, he'd regretted it. He could hardly contain his jealousy if she praised DuVille, and he had no idea to what irrational lengths he might have gone when other suitors started appearing at his door. No doubt the day would have soon come when some besotted suitor screwed up the courage to ask Stephen for her hand, and found himself sprawled in the street instead.

Whenever she was in a room with him, Stephen had trouble keeping his eyes off of her, and if they were alone, it took all of his control to keep his hands off of her. If she was gone, he couldn't seem to keep his mind off of her. Sherry wanted him too. He'd known that from the very first, and she hadn't changed, no matter how much she tried to behave as if he were merely a distant acquaintance with whom she had little in common. She'd melt in his arms again if he kept her there for longer than a few moments, he was certain of it.

His brother's joking remark made Stephen look up in surprise. "At the risk of intruding on what appears to be a complicated discussion you're having with yourself," Clayton drawled, "would you care to include me in it, or would you rather play cards?" A half-finished drink was on the table in front of him, and as Stephen glanced around the room, he noticed it had filled up considerably since he had arrived.

While Clayton waited with lifted brows for his decision, Stephen leaned back in his chair and contemplated for the last time the decision he'd made and the desirability of acting on it at once. Since that was exactly what he wanted to do, he considered only the advantages of haste and ignored any disadvantages. "I'd prefer to talk," he said. "I'm not in the mood for cards."

"I noticed that. So did Wakefield and Hawthorne who invited us to join them while you were lost in thought."

"I didn't realize they were here," Stephen admitted, looking over his shoulder for the two friends he'd inadvertently offended. "Where are they now?"

"Nursing their affronted sensibilities at the faro table." Despite his offhand manner, Clayton was very aware that something important was on Stephen's mind. Hoping for an explanation, he waited patiently for a few moments, and finally said, "Did you have any particular topic of conversation in mind, or should I choose one?"

In answer, Stephen reached into his pocket and withdrew the letter that had arrived from Charise's father's solicitor. "This is the topic on my mind at the moment," he said, handing it to his brother along with the modest bank draft that accompanied it.

Clayton unfolded the letter and began to read.

Finished, Clayton handed the letter back, his somber expression reflecting the same regret and concern that Stephen felt for Sherry… and the same puzzlement over some of what he read. "A pity about her father," he said. "She has had a staggering run of ill luck. Although it is probably fortunate that they weren't close." After a moment's hesitation, he frowned and added, "What do you make of the solicitor's tone? The young woman he referred to in that letter is nothing like the one I've met."

"Nor I," Stephen confirmed. "Except for her willfulness and temper," he amended with a wry grin. "Other than that, I can only assume her father—and his solicitor—must have been of like minds when it came to raising females, and both regarded any sort of spirit as intolerable defiance."

"That is the same conclusion I reached, based on my knowledge of my father-in-law."

"Lancaster must have been quite a pinchpenny if he regarded that ugly serviceable brown gown she was wearing on the ship as giving her 'everything,' " Stephen remarked as he stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossed them at the ankles, and settled more comfortably into the chair. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he glanced over his shoulder to signal a servant. "Champagne," he requested in answer to the servant's inquiry.

In the immediate aftermath of such grim news and its dire ramifications for Sherry, Clayton thought Stephen's indolent posture, and his request for champagne, were both a little odd. He waited for some indication as to how and when he intended to break the news to her, but Stephen seemed perfectly content to watch the servant pour champagne into two glasses and place them on the table.

"What do you intend to do next?" Clayton finally demanded.

"Propose a toast," Stephen said.

"To be more specific," Clayton said, growing extremely impatient with his brother's deliberate obtuseness, "when do you intend to tell her about the letter?"

"After we're married."

"I beg your pardon?"

Instead of repeating his answer, Stephen quirked an amused brow at his brother, picked up his champagne, and lifted the glass in a mock toast. "To our happiness," he said dryly.

In the moment it took Stephen to drain the glass, Clayton recovered his composure, carefully disguised his delight with that turn of events, and stretched out in his own chair. He picked up his glass of champagne, but instead of drinking it, he turned it absently in his fingers while he eyed his brother with unhidden amusement.

"Are you wondering if I'm making a mistake?" Stephen asked finally.

"Not at all. I am merely wondering whether you're aware that she seems to have developed a certain, shall we say, 'mild aversion' to you?"

"She wouldn't throw water on me if I were on fire," Stephen agreed. "At least not if she had to come close to me to do it."

"And do you see that as an obstacle to her accepting your generous offer of marriage?"

"Possibly," Stephen said with a chuckle.

"In that case, how do you intend to persuade her to agree?"

"Actually," Stephen lied straight-faced, "I thought I would point out how wrong it was of her to mistrust my intentions and integrity, and then I'll prove it to her by proposing. Afterward, I'll tell her that if she cares to ask my forgiveness, I'll grant it to her."

He was so convincing that his brother gave him a look of sarcastic disgust. "And then what do you suppose will happen?"

"And then I will spend the next few days and nights in the pleasant confines of my home."

"With her, I presume?" Clayton mocked.

"No, with compresses on both my eyes."

Clayton's laughing rejoinder was interrupted by the return of Jordan Townsende, the Duke of Hawthorne, and Jason Fielding, Marquess of Wakefield. Since Stephen had nothing more to discuss with his brother, he invited them to stay and the four friends got down to the serious business of high-stakes gaming.

Concentrating proved to be difficult, however, because Stephen's thoughts kept drifting to Sherry and their immediate future. Despite his joking banter about how he intended to propose to her, he had no notion of what he would actually say. It didn't even seem important. All that mattered was that they were going to be together. She was actually going to be his, and without the taint, the lifelong guilt, that had made Stephen recoil from marrying young Burleton's fiancée. Her father's death made it imperative that she have someone to care for her—and for whom she cared—when she learned about it.

Their marriage would have happened anyway. Stephen accepted the truth of that now. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd known it from the moment she had confronted him in a robe tied with a gold curtain cord and her hair covered with a blue towel, reminding him of a barefoot Madonna—a Madonna with a horrifying problem. "My hair—it's red!"

No, Stephen thought, he'd felt something for her even before that… from that very first morning when he awoke beside her bed and she'd asked him to describe her face. He'd looked into those mesmerizing gray eyes of hers and seen such courage, such softness. It had started then and was strengthened by everything she did and said. He loved her irreverent wit, her intelligence, and her unaffected warmth toward everyone she encountered. He loved the way she felt in his arms, and the way her mouth tasted. He loved her spirit and her fire and her sweetness. And especially her honesty.

After an adulthood surrounded by women who hid avarice behind inviting smiles and ambition behind lingering glances, and who pretended passion for a man when the only passion they were capable of feeling was for possessions, Stephen Westmoreland had finally found a woman who wanted only him.

And he was so damned happy, that he couldn't decide what to buy her first. Jewels, he decided, as he paused to bet on his hand of cards. Carriages, horses, gowns, furs, but first the jewels… Fabulous jewels to set off her exquisite face and more to twine in her lustrous hair. Gowns adorned with…

Pearls! Stephen decided with an inner laugh as he recalled her mirthful commentary on the Countess of Evandale's gown. A gown adorned with three thousand and one pearls. Sherry didn't seem to have any interest in gowns, but that particular gown would appeal to her sense of humor, and she would like it because it was a gift from him.

Because it was from him…

He knew she would feel that way as surely as he knew Sherry wanted him. From the moment he brushed his mouth over her lips and felt them tremble, felt her body strain instinctively closer to his, he'd known she wanted him. She was too inexperienced to hide her feelings, too candid to want to try.

She wanted him, and he wanted her. In a very few days, he would take her to bed for the first time, and there he would teach her the delights of "having."

Jason Fielding spoke his name, and Stephen glanced up, realized they were all waiting for his bet, and tossed more chips onto the stacks in the middle of the table.

"You've already won that one," Jason pointed out in an amused drawl. "Wouldn't you like to clear it away, so you can win a nice fresh pile of our money?"

"Whatever is on your mind, Stephen," Jordan Townsende remarked, eyeing him curiously, "it must be damned engrossing."

"You looked right through us earlier," Jason Fielding added as he began to deal the cards. "The most crushing setdown I've had in years."

"Stephen has something very engrossing on his mind," Clayton joked.

As he finished that sentence, William Baskerville, a middle-aged bachelor, strolled over to the table, a folded newspaper in his hand, and idly watched the play.

Since Stephen's courtship of Sherry would be common gossip by morning, and his betrothal a fact by the end of the week, Stephen saw no reason to conceal what had been on his mind. "As a matter of fact—" he began, when he suddenly thought to glance at a clock. Three hours had passed already. "I'm late!" he said, startling the others as he shoved his cards back into the center, and abruptly stood up. "If I'm not inside Almack's before eleven, they'll have locked the damned doors."

Three astounded males watched his retreating shoulders as Stephen stalked swiftly out of the club—evidently in a hurry to reach a destination that no man of sophistication or maturity ever set foot in willingly, let alone anxiously. The thought of Stephen Westmoreland willingly setting foot in that place with its ballroom filled with blushing misses fresh from the schoolroom and eager to snag an eligible husband was utterly ludicrous. Baskerville spoke first. "Egad!" he breathed, looking around at the others in stunned horror, "did Langford say he was bound for Almack's?"

The Marquess of Wakefield tore his amused gaze from the doorway and looked at the others. "That's what I heard."

The Duke of Hawthorne nodded, his voice dry. "Not only did I hear him say Almack's, but I noticed he seems to be in rather a hurry to get there."

"He'll be lucky if he gets out of there alive," Jason Fielding joked.

"And still a bachelor," Jordan Townsende agreed grinning.

"Poor devil!" said Baskerville in a dire voice. Shaking his head, he departed to join some acquaintances at the hazard table—and to share the highly diverting information that the Earl of Langford had rushed off in order to make it into the "Marriage Mart" before the doors were closed.

The consensus of opinion among the hazard players, who were throwing dice on long tables with high wooden sides, was that Stephen had yielded to the deathbed wish of a dying relative to appear at Almack's on behalf of some young chit to whom the dying person was related.

At the green felt-covered faro tables, where gentlemen were placing bets on what card a dealer was going to draw, face up, from a box, the general opinion was that the unfortunate Earl of Langford had lost a wager that required him to spend a night at Almack's as his noxious forfeit.

Gentlemen who were playing even-odd, wagering on the numbers most likely to appear when the rotating even-odd wheel came to a stop, were of the opinion that Baskerville had lost his hearing.

Whist players, concentrating on the cards they held, were of the opinion that Baskerville had lost his mind.

But whatever opinion the particular individual held, his reaction was always the same as everyone else's: hilarity. In every one of The Strathmore's rooms, the refined atmosphere was repeatedly disrupted by loud guffaws, hearty chuckles, and snorts of laughter as word circulated from member to member, and table to table, that Stephen Westmoreland, Earl of Langford, had gone to Almack's for the evening.