elix left London for a week. The day of his return, he went to the Reading Room of the British Museum. After two hours with stacks of books before him, he stepped out from underneath the Reading Room’s famous blue-and-gold dome to find himself a cup of tea.

Sitting in a corner of the nondescript refreshment room, a plate of wafer-thin cucumber sandwiches before her, was none other than Miss Louisa Cantwell, in the same green velvet walking dress from the time they had run into each other at the bookshop.

He blinked, not sure he hadn’t somehow conjured her. He’d gone to Huntington, his country seat, because he had not wanted to waste the night skies of an unusually sunny week in the middle of a very wet summer. But one could argue that he had left to prove to himself that he would be quite fine were he to stay away from her.

He was fine, busying himself with his astronomical observations. He thought of her a great deal, but that was only to be expected, given that he had plots in place concerning her. Besides, those thoughts were quite pleasurable and gave him not a moment of distress or angst.

Ignoring her sandwiches, Miss Cantwell played with her napkin—something she would never do at a proper dining table—rolling it into a tight tube, then shaking it loose and folding it into a smaller and smaller triangle. He found her prettier like this, distracted, unsmiling, and without the air of utter agreeableness that she wore like a layer of theatrical makeup.

The next moment, something in her aspect changed. Her fingers, which had treated the napkin as only a napkin, now lingered over the linen, caressing it, then seizing a handful of the cloth as if in agitation—as if the fabric were that of the sheet upon which she awaited her lover.

He felt his own breath quickening. A little disconcerting to realize that she could arouse him even when she was not reacting to his presence.

She glanced up. The expression on her face when she saw him—as if he were a swaying cobra and she a hapless would-be victim, desperate to flee but mesmerized against her will. He wished he could distill and bottle the sensation. One drop of such an essence would turn a eunuch as virile as Hercules himself.

He approached her table. “Miss Cantwell, an unexpected... pleasure.”

The way he lingered over the syllables of that last word—he might as well seduce virgins from good families twice a week.

He was saved from ridiculousness only by her even more disproportionate response. Her pupils dilated. A pulse throbbed visibly at the base of her throat. And she flushed everywhere—or at least all the way to her earlobes.

She cleared her throat. “Lord Wrenworth, we thought you still at your estate.”

“I cannot long forsake the delights of London during the Season. May I join you?” He sat down before she could answer one way or the other and gave his order to the server who had sprung forward to inquire after his needs. “What brought you here to the Reading Room?”

He hadn’t pegged her as the bookish sort. But this particular refreshment room served only to those holding readers’ tickets—the public refreshment room was by the statue of Mercury, in the Gallery of Antiquities.

“Oh, idle curiosity.”

Too bad books and manuscripts could not be taken out of the Reading Room—that would have made it easier for him to discover what she had come for.

She was no longer looking at him—or rather, no longer looking him in the eye. But he could feel her gaze elsewhere on his person, a heat that lingered for a moment at the top of his collar, then journeyed across the width of one shoulder and down the length of that arm, intensifying every inch farther south.

It would be alarming, the degree to which she stirred and tantalized him, fully dressed and sitting a respectable distance away, if he didn’t feel himself completely in control of the situation.

Still, he brought up a sobering subject—sobering for her, at least. “And how goes your quest for a bridegroom, Miss Cantwell?”

Her resentment returned. And he, budding pervert that he was, found her sullen, suspicious glare terribly stimulating—the seemingly even-keeled lady in fact possessed quite a temper.

“You know very well, my lord, how difficult it is for a young woman of unexceptional birth, unexceptional looks, and no fortune at all to win the hand of a man in prosperous circumstances.”

“Come, Miss Cantwell, London all but overflows with gentlemen this time of the year. Surely the loss of a mere pair of candidates should not detract from your chances of a successful match.”

“You think so because you have no need to fret about your budget, sir, but everywhere else gentlemen are hurting in the family coffer.”

“I am well aware of my good fortune in that regard. But I also know that I am not the only one so blessed.”

“Indeed not, but the Duke of Lexington is still at university, as is the youngest Mr. Marsden.”

She had done her homework. Not many people realized that the great fortune of the youngest Mr. Marsden’s godfather would pass to the godson.

“What about the Marquess of Vere? He is not at university.”

Miss Cantwell raised a brow. His question was designed to test the depth and breadth of her desperation and she well knew it: Lord Vere was known far and wide as an arrant idiot. “Yes, I would gladly marry Lord Vere. He is easy on the eyes and certainly rich enough. But Lord Vere prefers his debutantes both beautiful and propertied, and he has not come near me, except once, to spill some lemonade on my dress.”

“And Mr. de Grey? He pays no court to heiresses, from what I have observed.”

“I’m surprised you have not noticed the way he looks at his sister-in-law. He will not propose to anyone, not until he overcomes that obsession. And that would be far too late for me.”

“Well, there is always Sir Roger Wells. He is desperate for a legitimate heir. And if you would but look kindly his way, he would offer his hand to you.”

She leveled him with a nasty look—he relished her displays of testiness; they made him feel supremely accomplished. “Now you are just toying with me, my lord. But I will tell you this: I do not want to be Sir Roger’s wife, not because of that unspeakable disease of his, but because several reliable sources have assured me that he has squandered his fortune and is now deep in debt.”

“So would you have married him if his fortune had remained intact?”

“No.”

“No?”

“He is a despicable man even without that dread disease. I have come to London to help my family, not to martyr myself.”

“But what if you have no choice at the end of the Season? What if Sir Roger becomes your only viable alternative?”

“My family is not so destitute as that, sir. We are not going to be turned out of our house at the end of the Season. My mother is in good health and can be reasonably expected to live many more years.”

“But not forever. And when she passes on, what will happen to your sister, the one who is epileptic?”

She blinked, as if wondering how he could know so much about her family when she’d never brought up the subject before him. “We will take care of her, of course.”

“How? If you were to find a position as a governess or lady’s companion, you would not be permitted to bring her with you. Someone has to be with her all the time, I understand. Which means you need two people in that position, so that she is never left unwatched. How do you propose to finance that?”

A shadow crossed her face, but her words were relentlessly optimistic. “When God closes a door, He opens a window. I have other marriageable sisters. Not to mention Matilda herself is both lovely and sweet—some lucky gentleman just might win her hand and ensure himself a very felicitous domestic union.”

He leaned in slightly. “Do you believe that?”

She had been looking either to the left or the right of him, but now she met his gaze squarely. “Perhaps not. But while I will marry a man I do not love, I will not take a husband I cannot stand.”

Her eyes were large and wide-set, but, rather unusually, slanted slightly downward toward the outer corners, giving an impression of tremendous transparency, of being unguarded and trusting. He began to understand why most people considered her a darling innocent.

And why Mr. Pitt and Lord Firth both found her so appealing.

But she was, if not a shark, then at least a dolphin: smiling and sweet-faced, yet ferociously intelligent and undeniably a predator.

An interesting woman even when she wasn’t quivering in unfulfilled lust for him.

“So... what are you willing to do?” he murmured.

Her lips parted, as if she found it difficult to breathe. And suddenly she and he were once again braced in that erotic tension that was infinitely addictive to him.

But before she could answer, someone called his name. “Wren!”

Startled, Felix looked up into the smiling face of John Baxter. Baxter by himself was more than harmless, but he happened to be the nephew by marriage of one Lady Avery, noted gossip.

He rose, shook hands with Baxter, and introduced him to Miss Cantwell. “It was quite a surprise when I saw Miss Cantwell here—not often do our most popular young ladies frequent the dusty environs of the Reading Room.”

It would not do to give the impression of a prearranged meeting—not when it was the farthest thing from the truth. And certainly not when he had plans that depended on his not being seen as an admirer of hers.

Baxter took his leave quickly to get his sandwich. Felix did so immediately afterward, making sure Baxter witnessed his departure. “I’m afraid I must also give up the pleasure of your company. The books I have selected do not read themselves.”

“Send Lord Vere my way, will you, sir?” she said by way of good-bye. “I do believe I shall be very happy with him.”

He nodded pleasantly. “I will see what I can do.”

• • •

Felix saw Miss Cantwell at the opera two days later. Lady Balfour’s box was well visited during intermission, including stops by Mr. Pitt and Lord Firth, the latter of whom Felix considered his biggest obstacle. But the tête-à-tête at the Fielding ball had its desired effect: Miss Cantwell was quite cool toward Lord Firth and he did not stay long. Otherwise she listened, talked, and laughed, her manner all vivacity and animation.

He spied her again at the races and spent more time studying her than he did the horses—even his own. She looked quite fetching, which ensured a steady stream of gentlemen paying their respects.

Such was the fate of a pretty but penniless young lady—gentlemen still liked to look at her and even spend time with her. But they lacked the courage to marry her, not when a better-dowered wife could put lobsters on the menu and ensure that they need never descend a rung or two from their accustomed place in the world.

Felix was quite confident that Miss Cantwell would prove the rule and not the exception. Still, every time a likely gentleman was introduced to her, he grew uncharacteristically tense. Two men in particular, a Mr. Peterson and a Mr. Featherington, preoccupied him for days.

Mr. Peterson was a scion of industry, with pockets deep enough for a dozen epileptic sisters-in-law. It took Felix the better part of a week to find out that Mr. Peterson must marry the daughter of at least an earl and preferably a duke, or risk having his allowance cut off.

Mr. Featherington, a country squire with an income of eight thousand pounds, caused Felix to lose actual sleep. Until it became apparent that Mr. Featherington was leveraging Miss Cantwell’s warm reception to gain the hand of a different lady.

The almost dizzying relief Felix experienced, as he read of Mr. Featherington’s engagement in the papers, gave him pause. But he dismissed his responses as perfectly natural for a man no longer accustomed to failure, or even the possibility of it.

Of course he would be tense: He had a plan in place and he was invested in the plan’s outcome.

He decided to adjust the plan, which had been made with a specific date in mind—late July, three days before he left London. But now he was convinced it would not be wise to wait that long. There was too much uncertainty involved. And the possibility of a knight in shining armor, however remote, was nowhere near enough to nil for his liking.

The time had come to preempt her decision, if possible.

• • •

For the venue, Felix chose a picnic organized by Lady Tenwhestle, at which Miss Cantwell was certain to be present. The picnic fell on a rare beautiful day, the sky clean and blue after the previous day’s thunderstorm, the clouds as white and fat as newly fluffed pillows.

Clad in a cream muslin dress, Miss Cantwell played a game of croquet with the ladies. It was clear that she was unfamiliar with the rules of the game and had had very little actual experience with a mallet. Yet throughout the match, she managed to stand or walk in such a way as to always present her figure to its best advantage.

One truly must admire her discipline and dedication.

He waited, participating in a few overs of cricket, then sitting down on a picnic blanket with several members of his usual coterie. After their stomachs had been filled, the young people present decided on a game of blindman’s buff.

She was not one of the participants—which gave him the opening he was looking for. He encouraged his friends to take part. Once they had departed, he eased into a stroll.

Predictably, though he did not venture near Lady Balfour’s picnic blanket, she beckoned him with her fan. As it would be rude otherwise, he answered her summons.

“Lady Balfour, Miss Cantwell, how do you do?”

Miss Cantwell, her cream lace parasol over her shoulder, reached for a cluster of grapes, all the while looking down at the tartan blanket, presenting the very image of becoming demureness.

He, however, noticed that she swallowed even before she inserted a grape into her mouth.

The distance he had kept from her, it would seem, had not diminished his effect on her. The thrill this produced in him was out of all proportion to the observation’s relative lack of significance. Of course nothing had changed in that regard. He hadn’t even worried about it, had he?

Lady Balfour harrumphed. “We were getting on exceedingly well, until I realized you have not complimented Miss Cantwell on her toilette.”

He was becoming rather fond of the old woman—certainly a ferocious champion for her charge. “How unforgivable of me,” he answered lightly. “Miss Cantwell, may I be so forward as to mention how exquisite you look today?”

She glanced up, a soft blush upon her cheeks, and a bright, bright light in her eyes.

Which he realized the next moment was less arousal than a reflection of the panic simmering inside her. So she did feel it, the prospect of a good marriage slipping farther from her grasp with each passing day.

To his surprise, he experienced a twinge of guilt. Perhaps even a stab of it. But nothing strong enough to lead him to apologize. Or reconsider his plans.

“You are too kind, sir,” she murmured.

“Now, now, Louisa,” Lady Balfour objected. “Don’t be so grateful. Lord Wrenworth has committed not a kindness, but a faux pas. And he must now make up for it by escorting you for a round in the park.”

Had he paid Lady Balfour in advance, she could not have better performed her function.

Miss Cantwell objected modestly. “I’m sure Lord Wrenworth has no such—”

“I am determined to commit a multitude of faux pas in the future, if my penances all prove to be so sweet. Miss Cantwell, may I have the pleasure of your company for a short walk?”

“Yes, you may,” Lady Balfour answered for her. “Now, off you go to speak of what young people speak of these days.”

• • •

You should not give her such hope,” said Miss Cantwell, as they left Lady Balfour’s earshot.

She really did have a pretty walk, as if she were gliding, with just enough sway to her h*ps to give interest to her movement.

“I can truthfully avow I have never done anything to give her hope,” Felix answered her charge, a tiniest bit of smugness to his tone.

She heard it. “I have noticed. At the end of the Season, when she looks back and wonders why there is no proposal from you, she will see that every time we have been thrust together, it has been as a favor either to Lady Tenwhestle or herself—and that you have never sought me out on your own.”

“I hope you would approve—that a man in my position does what he can to avoid marrying by accident.”

Her parasol twirled. “I have no doubt you will be ultimately held blameless, but you cannot convince me that you are not aware of the hope you are sowing in Lady Balfour’s heart.”

“I will hold myself forgivable as long as I am not sowing those hopes in your heart,” he answered glibly. And then, in a moment of genuine curiosity, “Am I?”

“I do not pretend to understand what drives your interest in me, save to know that it is not the kind that leads to a church.”

Clever, clever girl. He beamed at her. “Then I need have no fear.”

They passed the cluster of young men and women playing blindman’s buff. Mr. Pitt was among them, standing next to Miss Lovett. He cast a glance of unhappy longing toward Miss Cantwell.

“Any—” Felix began.

“No,” Miss Cantwell said simply.

“A pity. When Parliament repealed the Corn Laws, I’m sure all the eminent gentlemen who voted in favor never thought their decision would have such repercussions on your marital aspirations.”

“You forgot to mention the gentlemen who made rail and steam transportation ever faster and cheaper, as well as those who modernized agricultural machinery,” she replied glumly. “They, too, were not thinking of the future impoverishment of all the English squires who would have otherwise made wonderful husbands for me.”

“The entire course of recent history seems to have been conspiring against you.”

“At this point, I would not be surprised.” She was silent for a few breaths. “And why, exactly, are you, sir, interested in my progression—or lack thereof—toward matrimony? You do not wish to marry me yourself, so that cannot be a reason. Despite our unusually frank discussions on the topic, you are no friend of mine, so that also cannot be a reason. Try as I do, I cannot think of anything else.”

At last, an open salvo. They were reaching quite another level of intimacy, he and Miss Cantwell. “Do you spend a great deal of time pondering my motives?”

The handle of her parasol turned faster. “Sometimes. Does that gratify you?”

Yes. And how. “Sometimes.”

“And my misfortunes—my inability to attract a suitable proposal—does that also gratify you?”

She had lobbed similar charges at him before. It tickled him that The Ideal Gentleman was accused of such a rampant case of schadenfreude. “It would make me a terrible sort of man, Miss Cantwell.”

“But I am correct, am I not?” she asked, staring straight ahead. “Does it amuse you to see me founder like this?”

He lifted a low-hanging branch for her to pass. “It does not amuse me, per se. But I cannot deny it opens an opportunity for me to exploit.”

She cast him a wary glance. “I do not see how you can possibly benefit from my inability to marry.”

“I have been doing some calculations concerning your future circumstances, should you return home at the end of the Season without having secured an engagement.”

“And did those calculations arouse compassion on your part, or scorn?”

“I did note that the sums required to keep all your sisters and yourself in a state of reasonable comfort—a state of minor luxury, one might even say—consist of an amount that is negligible to my ledgers.”

“My, how did I already know that a day’s income for you, sir, would feed, house, and clothe my family for an entire year? It is too bad that rich men do not become—or remain—rich men by rescuing genteelly destitute ladies.”

She could be quite scathing, this girl. He enjoyed that.

“Indeed, rich men do not finance poor ladies out of the goodness of their hearts. However, I could see myself offering a similar sum to you, for a fair return.”

She stared at him.

He had to refrain from smiling. “Keep walking, Miss Cantwell. I see your mind has already gone down one particular direction.”

She resumed putting one foot before the other, though she stumbled a little. “How many directions are there for such things?”

“True, not many. So let me be blunt: I will give you a house, not far from your family’s current residence and superior in every way. It will be yours to do with as you wish, though I recommend putting it up for let, so that it will generate an income in addition to the annuity I will settle on you for the remainder of your life, one thousand pounds a year.”

He had to remind her again to keep walking.

“For... sleeping with you?”

“For the pleasure of your company.”

She looked as if she were barely holding back from whacking him with her parasol. “No.”

Of course she would reject his proposition immediately. Of course she would be offended and outraged. His aim for the day, however, was not instant success, but the planting of the seed of possibility in her mind.

“Why not?” he asked, as if she had turned down not a particularly salacious sale of her person, but merely a chance for a game of lawn tennis.

His question took her aback. When she answered, it was almost a sputter. “I will not sacrifice my reputation. Or disgrace my entire family.”

“Who said anything about loss of reputation? Surely you do not think I aim to make a fallen woman out of a respectable young lady in broad daylight.”

“Then how?”

He had anticipated few moral objections from her. Still, it was heartening how quickly they were moving on to the practical aspects. “Very easily, in fact. I host two house parties a year at my country seat, each one lasting from ten days to two weeks. I will invite you and a chaperone for you—then proceed to keep your chaperone busy.”

She blinked at his facile answer. “What you propose is madness. There is a reason self-respecting young ladies do not consort with gentlemen in such a manner. There are consequences. What if I should become”—she flushed—“with child?”

“Who said anything about acts that would lead to procreation?”

She looked stumped for a moment, then flushed even more furiously. “So we are to engage in unnatural acts, then?”

He laughed softly. “Is that what you call amorous activities that do not result in a self-respecting young lady being in the family way?”

She took a deep breath. Both of her hands gripped the handle of her parasol. “I did not have a high opinion of you before, sir, but even so I could not have expected anything so obscene on your part.”

Her rebuke stroked him pleasantly. “It isn’t pretty, what I propose, no flowers or valentines. But it will prevent Miss Matilda from ending up in a poorhouse, when the rest of your sisters must scramble to keep a roof over their heads.”

“She will not go anywhere near a poorhouse,” Miss Cantwell replied vehemently. “She is a wonderful girl, and we have relatives who will gladly take her in.”

“And which relative is that? Lady Balfour might not outlive your mother. And even if one of her daughters is willing to take in an invalid who must be looked after around the clock, do you think her husband would not object? Do you really want to count on their kindness when you can instead count on a fortune in pounds sterling and a house built to last?”

• • •

A horrible thought struck Louisa. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? Lured otherwise respectable young women in difficult circumstances into prostituting themselves.”

He looked genuinely shocked at her accusation. “Of course not.”

“Why me, then?”

He looked directly into her eyes. “Because I’ve never been wanted so much by a woman who dislikes me so. And I would like to experience that fully.”

God damn his beautiful eyes. And the good Lord really ought to answer for why He so often chose to bestow comeliness upon the most corrupt souls.

“What is wrong with you?” she huffed.

“An aristocrat with degenerate tastes—how shocking,” he murmured, not at all chastened.

She was rendered momentarily speechless by his gleeful embrace of his own wickedness. The Ideal Gentleman, her arse.

“You are possibly the most rational and pragmatic young woman I have ever met,” he went on. “Think about what I have offered—and I do not mean merely security for Miss Matilda. You will not have to endure marriage to a man you do not love. For eleven months out of the year, there will be no man around to disrupt the peace and quiet of your existence. You can travel, if you wish. You can choose to never step out of your house. Or you can spend all your waking hours in the Reading Room of the British Museum.

“What husband will give you freedom of such quality and quantity? What husband will be more generous with the pin money he offers? And what husband will, even if he is perfect otherwise, let you be your calculating and not so truly agreeable self?”

The man spoke with the devil’s own sweet, forked tongue.

“No,” Louisa said again, but with more difficulty this time.

He raised a brow. “Not even for dear Matilda?”

“Dear Matilda would never want me to subject myself to such degradation, especially not for her.”

“You are so sure of her love?”

“I am. And if it should be the case that she does not love me enough, then why should I martyr myself for her?”

He smiled again. “Well said.”

She felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the utter impropriety of the subject of their discussion, but everything to do with his approval of what the world might consider selfishness on her part.

She kept it hidden, that consideration for herself. Even her mother and her sisters did not quite understand it—they all thought her the good, self-effacing daughter who would be glad to do anything for her family.

But he liked her that way. In fact, he seemed to like her far more for her flaws than for any virtues she might possess.

“Then let me speak more to you of your own gains to be had. The house I will settle on you currently fetches rent in excess of five hundred pounds a year. Think of everything you can do with such sums. Or, knowing you, think of the pleasures to be had in watching your bank account grow fatter by the month.”

She would like that, wouldn’t she? She would eagerly compute the month’s various revenues—rents and interests and perhaps dividends from prudent investments—a pleasure she’d never had in all her years of being impoverished. Then she would calculate how much her income exceeded her expenditures and giggle to herself at the cushion of comfort and security she was accumulating.

This time she had to struggle to speak with prim objection. “My lord, the only way a man will sleep with me is by marrying me first. And you are no exception.”

“Tempting, but alas, I have no plans for marriage,” he answered firmly. “However, are you sure I cannot entice you with a core collection to start your own library?”

The merest of trifles, yet she felt as if she had been struck by lightning: All of a sudden she understood the game in a way she hadn’t before. To start, it was a game to him. He asked from her everything that was worth anything, but he had put up nothing more than—how had he phrased it earlier?—an amount that was negligible to his ledgers.

Two, he would not consider her response today to be her final answer. He had, in fact, given himself several weeks before the end of the Season for gradually wearing down her resistance, a process he would enjoy the way the master of Château Lafite Rothschild savored his own best vintage.

Three, there must be a way for her to play this game. Except she did not yet know how. She had heard his initial offer. Could she bargain for two houses? Or two thousand pounds a year?

And more importantly, did she want to? He asked for only four weeks a year, but she was not so naive as to believe that should they become lovers, thoughts of him would not dominate her waking hours the rest of the year. Was a house and a thousand-pound annuity—or even double that—enough compensation for being in thrall to him for as far as she could see into the future?

Don’t forget the jealousy that is certain to come, added a voice inside her head. You don’t suppose he would remain celibate the other eleven months, do you? He will enjoy affairs upon affairs. Not to mention, one of these days he will marry.

At the thought of the future Lady Wrenworth, a strange numbness spread in her chest. She could so easily imagine an accidental meeting of the three of them, which would of course take place well after he had tired of her. With an amused smile he would present his former plaything to his lady wife, who would be young, fresh, and beautiful, while Louisa would be approaching middle age, the very picture of dowdiness.

“And have I mentioned that I am a competent and considerate lover?” said the present-day Lord Wrenworth, dangling yet another lure before her.

“I do not doubt that,” she answered. “In fact...”

Her voice trailed off.

“In fact what?” he prompted her.

She had very nearly mentioned those erotic thoughts that besieged her nightly. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a huge blunder. But were there such things as normal circumstances left, when Lord Wrenworth was involved?

“In fact”—she pushed on before she could stop herself again—“I lie awake at night, imagining you watching me in the darkness. And when I finally fall asleep, I dream that I am na**d before you, unable to stop you from... many liberties.”

This time it was he who stopped in his tracks, though he did not need any reminder from her to resume moving. “Miss Cantwell, are you trying to arouse me?”

Her heart had been beating fast for a while, but now blood roared in her ears. “I only speak the truth. I quite despise myself for these desires that run amok. But run amok they do. I daresay for the rest of my life I will dream of being fondled by you.”

His eyes darkened; his hand tightened on the top of his walking stick. Her innards shook. With nerves, yes, but also with something that was almost exhilaration.

This was how she played the game.

“What do you have against making your dreams come true?”

“My entire upbringing, needless to say. But there is also something else, something that you, with your vast wealth, cannot possibly understand.”

“Do please shed some light on the matter.”

“We are poor, you see. Not indigent, as my mother still employs a cookmaid and has one-third share of a gardener—so we get by. But getting by means not buying much of anything beyond food, tea, and coal.

“There is a shop in Cirencester that had a telescope in its shop window. Every month for ten years, I stopped before the window to admire the telescope. I wanted that telescope more than I had ever wanted anything else in my life—I dreamed of it by night and I schemed for it by day.

“The telescope had been put there on consignment. The shopkeeper secretly revealed to me the lowest price he was allowed to accept for the instrument. But I couldn’t afford it—any spare penny we had went into an emergency cache for Matilda. Then one day the telescope was gone. It had been bought by a gentleman for his ten-year-old son, for the original owner’s full asking price.”

Belatedly she noticed that they had both come to a stop. He watched her, his gaze unwavering.

“And?” he prompted.

“And nothing. I carried on. I was so accustomed to not having it that my life changed not at all. And so it will be with you. No matter how much I might want you, I will manage to endure it. And I will carry on as if nothing is the matter.”

Melodramatic. But it was good melodrama, if she said so herself. He certainly seemed riveted.

She began walking again—they were beginning to attract attention from the blindman’s buffers, standing there like that. A few steps later, he caught up with her.

“Why did you want the telescope?”

It was not the comment she had been expecting—not that she knew anymore what to expect from him. “That is of no relevance to the discussion at hand.”

“I’d like to know.”

“I will tell you when we are in bed together, but not before.” She flushed with the image that brought to mind.

“And we will be in bed together only after I have pledged my name and protection before a man of God.”

“Precisely.”

“You are a devious woman, Miss Cantwell,” he said.

She felt the warmth of his tone all the way to the pit of her stomach, as if he had licked her. “Only by necessity,” she answered, feigning modesty.

“You would have been wasted on Mr. Pitt. And even more so on Lord Firth—that man would ask for a divorce were he to realize who you truly are.”

“I would have made sure he didn’t.”

“And is that any way to be married?”

“It is how you will be married, with your lady wife never knowing who you truly are,” she pointed out, to another surprised look from him. “So please don’t say what you consider an excellent idea for yourself isn’t good enough for me.”

“Touché,” he admitted.

He said nothing else. The silence was at once nerve-racking and electrifying. Had she been convincing? Or had she been too convincing? Had she further piqued his interest or merely managed to give him second thoughts?

Lady Balfour was all smiles upon their return. “I could see that it was an intense and intensely interesting conversation between the two of you.”

“Miss Cantwell was fascinated by the house parties I give,” Lord Wrenworth said smoothly. “She didn’t realize gentlemen without wives or sisters entertained, both grandly and respectably.”

Lady Balfour pounced. “Well, then, it behooves you to issue an invitation to Miss Cantwell. You cannot dangle such a lure before a young lady and then deny her the experience.”

Louisa sighed inwardly as Lord Wrenworth said, with much innocence, “Oh, I do not intend to deprive Miss Cantwell of the experience at all. But she has declared that she intends to head back home at the end of the Season and recuperate for a good long while, without setting foot beyond her front door.”

“Bosh, Louisa. I know you miss your family, but one should never pass upon a chance to enjoy the master of Huntington’s hospitality, if one at all could.”

“Indeed. My hospitality is the stuff of legends,” said Lord Wrenworth with a seemingly guileless glance Louisa’s way. “But the end of the Season is still far away and there is plenty of time for Miss Cantwell to change her mind.”

“And change her mind she will,” Lady Balfour said gruffly.

“I am sure you will prove prescient, my lady.” He bowed. “Good day, Lady Balfour. And good day, Miss Cantwell.”

• • •

It was not until Louisa was back in her room at Lady Balfour’s town house, flipping uselessly through her notebook, that the enormity of what Lord Wrenworth had proposed fully struck her.

The man was playing with dynamite. And should things go awry, he had just as much to lose as she did. No, more.

He was the one with income in excess of two hundred thousand pounds a year. He was the one with the pristine, lofty reputation. And he was the one who had skillfully avoided the entanglement of eligible young ladies all these years.

If they were discovered, he would have no choice but to marry her.

The very idea of it emptied the air from her lungs. For a man who was neither impulsive nor stupid, this kind of recklessness was nothing short of stunning.

And stunningly telling.

Until this moment, she’d had no idea what he felt toward her, besides an inclination to toy with her for his own amusement. But now she could safely assume that he not only wanted her, but wanted her with an intensity that matched the fervidness of what she felt for him.

It was...

She rose from the desk and walked about aimlessly in her room, until she found herself at the edge of her bed. She sat down again, holding on to the bedpost.

It was... reassuring.

Of course, it was also immoral, depraved, egregious, abhorrent, appalling—and all the other synonyms one could find for absolutely dreadful.

But at least she knew now the madness that had descended on her had not spared him.

Not entirely, in any case.