How To Seduce A Sinner

Chapter One

London, Spring, 1818

Dorothea’s heart leapt with excitement as Mr. Arthur Pengrove shifted his position on the marble bench and moved close to her, perilously close. A gentle spring breeze blew the sweet scent of the exotic flowers from the garden into their secluded hideaway; the night sky glowed with dozens of twinkling stars; the muffled strains of music from the ballroom drifted near. It was a picture-perfect night, tailor-made for romance.

“Your eyes are the most enchanting shade of blue, Miss Ellingham. They remind me of a summer sky after dawn has struck, alight with the promise of a glorious day,” he whispered as his eyes dropped to her mouth.

“Oh, Mr. Pengrove.”

Dorothea’s eyes fluttered shut as she leaned forward in subtle encouragement. Finally, he was going to kiss her! She had given Arthur Pengrove her exclusive attention for the past two weeks and now she was about to discover if he was the man she would marry, the partner with whom she would spend the rest of her life. It was a momentous, life-altering moment and her heart beat with excitement.

His breath wafted across her cheek. Valiantly, Dorothea tried to still her racing heart, tried to remain calm and in control. Hesitantly, timidly, Mr. Pengrove’s lips at last touched hers. They felt soft, almost babyish, as they grazed her own. Her initial instinct was to recoil, but she squashed it, hoping the kiss would improve.

Alas, it did not.

How dreadfully disappointing! This was nothing at all like the tantalizing yearning she had longed to feel, the heady desire she so desperately sought.

Dorothea made a small, low sound in the back of her throat, thinking it would stimulate her reticent beau. But the noise succeeded only in startling him. Mr. Pengrove’s limp, moist lips scuttled across hers a second time, then abruptly pulled away.

Dorothea’s shoulders slumped. The stab of disappointment was a physical pain, deflating her body as well as her spirits. She honestly believed he could have been the one. He was the third man who had courted her this Season, the third man she had allowed to kiss her. Yet apparently her aunt Mildred’s favorite adage of saying the third time was the charm was soundly flawed.

With effort, Dorothea resisted the strong need to lower her face into her palms and sigh heavily with frustration. It would be unforgivably rude to act so insensitively. Instead, she pressed her fingers hard against her temple, trying to ease the sudden pounding in her head.

Her despondency so overtook her awareness that she was barely conscious of Mr. Pengrove’s actions until out of the corner of her eye she saw him sink down on one knee.

Oh, heavens! Now on top of her vast disappointment she was going to have to refuse his marriage proposal. The evening, which had started out with such promise and optimism, was fast turning into an unmitigated disaster.

Mr. Pengrove took her hand, placing it between his cold, damp palms. Dorothea’s head snapped up, her mind racing to formulate a response that would firmly discourage him while at the same time spare his feelings.

“Miss Ellingham.” His voice was a high-pitched squeak. He cleared his throat, then tried again. “Dearest Miss Ellingham. Dorothea. These past few weeks we have spent together have been a joy. More than anything, I wish to formalize our attachment, to make permanent our relationship and legalize our union. However, before I make a formal declaration to you, I must speak with your guardian. If you are agreeable?”

Dorothea stared down at him, unsure where to begin. He looked unfailingly earnest in the moonlight and terribly young. “My uncle, Mr. Fletcher Ellingham, is my legal guardian, but as you well know he has not journeyed to London for the Season,” she replied.

“Then I suppose that role is now relegated to your sister,” Mr. Pengrove said slowly. “Or rather her husband, Mr. Jason Barrington. I believe I must apply to him with my request.”

Mr. Pengrove blanched slightly as he spoke, and Dorothea could not fault his reluctance. Her brother-in-law was something of a ton legend, known for his wild, scandalous behavior, his daring feats and dangerous exploits. He was hardly the sort of man Arthur Pengrove usually came in contact with, let alone knew.

“Actually, Gwendolyn and Jason are also not in Town. They are at home, awaiting the birth of their first child,” Dorothea reported, seizing on what she thought would be the best way to extricate herself from this sticky situation. “As you no doubt remember, Jason’s sister kindly agreed to be my sponsor for the Season. It therefore has fallen to her husband to act as my guardian.”

Mr. Pengrove blinked. “The Marquess of Dardington?”

“Yes. And I do confess he has taken his role as my protector most seriously.”

The remaining bit of color on Mr. Pengrove’s earnest face drained away. Jason Barrington might be an intimidating presence, but the Marquess of Dardington was positively lethal. She did not blame Mr. Pengrove one iota for feeling ill at the prospect of facing that haughty, powerful aristocrat.

“I am certain he will require a formal request for a meeting.” Mr. Pengrove removed his white linen handkerchief and wiped at the sweat forming on his brow. “It will take me several days to properly compose a letter that will adequately convey the seriousness of my intentions.”

“Mr. Pengrove…Arthur.” Dorothea gentled the tone of her voice. “I think it better for both of us if you do not rush to make an appointment to see the marquess. The household has been in an uproar lately as things have not been going as he wishes in the House of Lords. I daresay, he has been in the very blackest of tempers for the past week, far worse than usual.”

“Egad!” Arthur’s eyes widened.

Dorothea patted his arm solicitously. She genuinely liked Mr. Pengrove. He was but a few years older than her own age of twenty-one, possessed a pleasant face, a tall, lanky frame, and friendly, uncomplicated eyes. He had an agreeable temperament and a kind nature. Many in society labeled him dull, but Dorothea found his unsophisticated, straightforward manner soothing. He had a comfortable fortune and a lovely estate in Kent that he studiously and successfully managed.

She had been more than willing to overlook his close attachment to his overbearing mother, his somber style of dressing, and his enthusiastic passion for collecting insects. But the emotionless, soulless kiss they had just shared could not be overlooked. She shuddered, imagining herself spending the rest of her life trying to endure those kisses.

“I suppose it would be prudent to wait before approaching the marquess,” Mr. Pengrove muttered, more to himself than to her. “So as to be sure I do everything correctly, properly, and most importantly in a manner that will not offend him.”

Dorothea shook her head slowly. “I think ’tis even more prudent to reconsider our future.”

“Reconsider?”

“Yes. I am honored beyond words to receive such marked attention from you, yet I must speak frankly. I think you are too young to wed, Mr. Pengrove. And I am certain that is what the marquess will say to you.” She cleared her throat. “Among other things.”

Mr. Pengrove shifted his weight off his bent knee, then slowly stood. He seated himself beside her, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps a very long engagement would be best. If that is what you truly desire.”

“Alas, I cannot afford that luxury.” Dorothea stared at his profile. His chin was a tad weak, his hairline receding, his nose boasted a sharp hook. He was far from handsome, yet he truly was a nice young man. With time and maturity he would make some woman a good husband. She felt another stab of disappointment as she acknowledged that woman would most definitely not be her.

“As you well know, marriage is different for a woman,” she continued. “My brother-in-law’s family has been exceedingly generous in their support of me, but I cannot trespass on their hospitality for more than a Season. I therefore feel it is my duty to do everything possible to make a match this year. And since we both agree that you should wait several years before taking a wife, well…”

Dorothea’s voice trailed away. She had given him a chance for a graceful, dignified exit. He pondered it for a moment, hesitated, then wisely took it.

“If that is what you truly wish, then I must of course honor your decision.”

“I fear, ’tis our only option.” Dorothea lowered her eyes, hoping she looked despondent. “However, I do expect us to remain the very best of friends,” she said with a sincerity that was heartily felt.

“Nothing would please me more.”

Dorothea smiled. She had not entirely misjudged him. His affections were not so deeply engaged if he could so quickly relent on his desire to make her his bride. And his intelligence had aided him admirably in making the correct choice. Though it was a bit troubling to see how easily he could be manipulated. Sighing, Dorothea admitted it was all for the best. Obviously, it was not just his inadequate kisses that made him a poor choice for her husband.

“Goodness, I have distressed you,” Mr. Pengrove said, misunderstanding her sigh. “Please, forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Dorothea replied firmly.

“Well, if you are certain.” Mr. Pengrove’s brow creased in a worried frown. He shook it off, then stood and held out his hand. “We must not stay out here alone any longer. I am worried that Mother will notice our absence and remark upon it to someone.”

Dorothea hesitated. She was not ready to return. She needed a few moments alone to collect her thoughts and harness the remaining bits of her disappointment, for when she had left the ballroom earlier, she had firmly believed she would be reentering it as an engaged woman.

“You go ahead without me,” Dorothea said. “I should like to enjoy a few more minutes in solitude, taking in the fresh air before returning to the crush of the party.”

Mr. Pengrove’s face darkened in distress. “I would never be so ungallant as to leave a lady unattended in such a secluded area of the garden. Who knows what might happen?”

“I’m sure it is perfectly safe,” Dorothea countered, not believing any harm could possibly befall her. This was a private party, given by the Earl of Wessex. Only invited guests would dare to enter his garden.

Mr. Pengrove scuffed the toe of his shoe against the gravel path. “I really must insist, Miss Ellingham. Lord Dardington would have my head on a platter if anything happened to you. I am certain he would not approve of your being here alone.”

“Ah, so you believe he would be happier if he discovered us here together?”

“Oh, gracious. We should leave at once!”

Dorothea opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of the idea. Mr. Pengrove’s lips were set in a mulish frown. He was agitated, nervous, glancing over his shoulder repeatedly, almost as if he expected the marquess to jump out from behind the thick hedgerow and demand to know what they were doing.

She caught Mr. Pengrove’s eye and gave him a hard stare. He sent her a fleeting look of apology, yet his stiff posture let her know he would not quickly abandon his position.

Dorothea knew if she pressed the matter she would eventually win the argument, but it would take more effort than it was worth, and do nothing but increase her already worsening headache. So instead she rose gracefully, automatically brushing away the few wrinkles that had formed on the skirt of her golden silk gown.

Dorothea placed her hand on his elbow. “Since you are so very insistent, Mr. Pengrove, I find that I am forced to agree. For I must confess, your predictions concerning my guardian’s reaction are correct. And I will admit, I much prefer seeing your head on your shoulders, than on a platter.”

Carter Grayson, Marquess of Atwood, strolled along the garden path, enjoying the spring breeze, the twinkling stars, and the peace and quiet. He really ought to be used to attending society affairs where five hundred guests were invited to fill a ballroom that could accommodate half that number, but the truth was that it usually annoyed him.

Tonight was no exception. He had arrived late at the earl’s ball and planned to leave early, but he could not yet make good his escape. He had promised his father, the Duke of Hansborough, that he would see him this evening, and his father had not yet arrived. Hence, Carter was trapped.

He turned a corner and followed the hedgerow down a gravel path. No lanterns had been lit in this section of the garden and the darkness seemed to creep in, erasing all sense of time and place. But Carter did not mind. The eerie stillness and inky blackness fit his solitary mood.

He paused beside a fountain, the tinkling sounds of running water soothing his spirit. Fifteen more minutes and he would return to the ballroom. Another hour and he would leave, his father be damned.

The merest trace of a smile broke the grim line of his lips as Carter speculated as to why his father was unaccustomedly late to the ball, knowing there had to be a specific reason. The Duke of Hansborough never did anything without calculated thought, and Carter had several theories about his father’s behavior tonight. Each of them pertaining to marriage.

To Carter’s great annoyance, marriage was very much on his father’s mind these days. And when his father got his mind wrapped around something, he was more tenacious than a dog with a bone, refusing to drop it until he was satisfied with the result.

Carter admired his father, respected his father, loved his father. Yet he often did not agree with the duke, and on this matter they were very much at odds. Carter did not oppose the idea of marriage. He knew it was his duty to take a wife and beget an heir, and he fully intended to do it. He had actually made up his mind to find himself a wife this Season, but this would be done on his own terms. A concept his father had a great difficulty understanding.

Carter resumed his walk about the garden, his footsteps echoing through the balmy spring air. As he rounded another corner, a muffled sound brought his head up. He spied a man and woman locked in an embrace, their lips fused together. He turned his head away, but a louder noise brought it back around.

He squinted a little, then arched an eyebrow as the couple ended the embrace and the man sank to one knee, prostrating himself before the woman perched so elegantly on the garden bench.

Bloody hell! He had stumbled upon a marriage proposal. The sight made Carter’s gut clench. The night clouds shifted and a shaft of moonlight fell upon the pair, revealing the slight frame and somber profile of the gentleman. It was Arthur Pengrove.

Good Lord, what was the world coming to when a young, inexperienced pup like Pengrove took on the responsibilities of a wife? Carter continued to stare at the couple, suddenly feeling very old.

The future Mrs. Pengrove turned her head and he caught a glimpse of her features in the moonlight. She was very pretty. Delicate and refined. He thought he might have danced with her a few weeks ago, but was not entirely certain.

He believed she was somehow connected to the Marquess of Dardington, a fresh-faced, distant relation from the country who had come down to London for the Season. To find a husband, as was the custom with ladies of privilege. And apparently, she had been successful.

Not wanting to intrude on this private moment, Carter gingerly stepped off the gravel path onto the lawn and made his way soundlessly out of the garden.

The moment he reentered the ballroom, he began searching the crowd for his father. Instead, he located Viscount Benton, a handsome rake with a biting sense of humor. They had attended Eaton and later Oxford together, forging a friendship as boys that had deepened as they became men. They were alike in more ways than they were different, though Benton could be reckless in a way Carter admitted was almost frightening at times.

“Where the devil have you been hiding?” Viscount Benton asked.

“I was getting some air,” Carter answered, bracing his feet so as not to be shuffled from his position. It really was a ridiculous crush of people on the ballroom floor. Heaven help them all if someone yelled fire.

Viscount Benton stopped a passing footman and pulled two crystal goblets brimming with champagne off a gleaming silver tray. “Champagne?”

Carter grimaced as his friend offered him the goblet.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Benton intoned. “’Tis a drink for silly young girls, dotty old ladies, and swishing dandies, but the good whiskey is in the card room and it will take us at least twenty minutes to fight our way through this crowd. We shall expire from thirst before we reach the doorway.”

“I suppose I shall have to make do with it,” Carter grumbled, taking a long gulp. “At least it’s properly chilled.”

Benton nodded in agreement. “Lady Wessex might not have much sense when it comes to calculating the adequate numbers her ballroom can accommodate, but she certainly knows how to spend money on a ball.”

“Not skimping on the ice hardly makes up for subjecting us all to this insanity,” Carter insisted.

“If you hate it all so much, then why are you here?”

Carter felt his jaw harden. Benton was right, why did he come? To please his father? Yet he knew, and his father knew, that Carter would reject the woman the duke presented to him tonight. On principle alone, if nothing else. Still, father and son continued to play this game with each other. The duke made unrealistic demands and Carter complied halfheartedly, doing only enough to avoid the appearance of outright defiance.

“The Duke of Hansborough and Lady Audrey Parson.”

The butler’s booming voice drew everyone toward the doorway. An older gentleman and a very young woman glided into the ballroom. Back straight, eyes alert, mouth unsmiling, the Duke of Hansborough moved with the grace and energy of a far younger man. The dense crowd actually parted to make a path for him.

The female at his side clung to him like a vine on a garden trellis. She was tiny in stature, open eyed, and blatantly innocent. Carter’s irritated mood deepened.

“Ah, now I understand why you are here tonight, Atwood,” Viscount Benton said gleefully. “You were waiting for your father. And look, he has brought you a present! My, my, isn’t she a pretty young thing? Not a day over seventeen, I’d wager.”

“Shut up, Benton.”

The viscount snickered. “Well, she isn’t a cow, you must allow him points for that at least. But those hips are almost indecently wide. Yet perfect for breeding plenty of little brats. How fortunate.”

“Egad! It’s Audrey.”

Carter turned and faced the man who had just joined them. “Do you know her, Dawson?”

“Afraid so, Atwood. Her mother and my aunt are great friends. I’ve known her for years.”

“And?” Carter prompted.

Mr. Peter Dawson tugged on his cravat, marring the perfect whiteness with a smudge of lint. He too had been a classmate at Eaton and later Oxford, though his personality and demeanor were nearly the opposite of the viscount and the marquess. “Audrey’s a nice enough girl. Uncomplicated. Eager to please. She’s been kept in the country nearly all of her life, which would account for her very quiet manner.”

“In other words, she’s a simpleton,” Benton interjected sarcastically.

A flush of color bloomed on Dawson’s cheekbones. He was a somber, self-contained man who seldom had a harsh word or criticism for anyone. “Not precisely.”

“Why does your father delight in finding the most empty-headed females for you?” Benton asked before tipping his glass and swallowing the remainder of his champagne. “Even worse, why does he then insist you should marry them?”

Why indeed, Carter wondered. Did his father truly know his only son so poorly? How could he ever imagine such a young, sweet creature would hold his interest? The marquess sighed. “My father is an intelligent and observant man, but he has set his mind very firmly on the type of woman he believes will make me a proper duchess. Apparently my opinion of the matter bears little consequence.”

“Hell, they are all the same.” Benton sighed. “I am pestered no end by my grandmother on the importance of finding a woman with looks, breeding, and impeccable manners to make my viscountess.”

“The last quality being an extreme necessity since you can be such an uncultured, uncouth fellow at times,” Carter said with a grin.

“Possibly.” Benton grinned back. “But at least my grandmother does not share your father’s view and include cowering among the qualities that are diligently sought for a wife.”

“Lady Audrey isn’t cowering,” Dawson protested. “Well, not much, anyway.”

Damn, can this get any worse? Not only was he going to be forced to pay his respects to a female he had no earthly interest in meeting, his friends were being afforded a front-row seat to his humiliation.

Across the ballroom floor, Carter met the duke’s gaze straight on. The older man narrowed his eyes. Carter braced himself. At times like this it was essential that he remember his father was descended from generations of ruthless, strong-willed men.

That blood ran through his veins also, yet somehow Carter had been spared the full intensity. Or perhaps it was not yet fully developed?

Carter calculated it would take several minutes for the duke and Lady Audrey to reach them. At that point introductions would be made, some inane conversation exchanged, and then he would ask Lady Audrey to dance.

Once that was done, he could leave. And in the morning he would tell the duke he was not interested in the lady.

“Good luck, my friend.” Benton thumped him on the back. “As much as I would relish the fun of staying and watching you make an ass of yourself with the childlike Lady Audrey, the card room calls. Come along, Dawson.”

Peter Dawson looked hastily from one man to the other. “Perhaps Atwood would appreciate some moral support?”

“Hell, no,” Carter replied emphatically. “I counsel you both to save yourselves while you can.”

The two men slipped away into the crowd, which had mercifully lessened, Dawson looking concerned and Benton appearing amused.

Carter glanced again in his father’s direction and saw he and Lady Audrey were now engaged in conversation with the Earl of Wessex. It gave Carter a few moments to collect his thoughts, calm his emotions. Then suddenly the duke turned and caught his son’s gaze. He lowered his chin slightly in greeting, then gestured with steely gray eyes.

The marquess bristled. Clearly, he was being summoned. It would be prudent to obey, yet Carter’s feet stood firmly in place. The duke gestured a second time, the shade of his eyes darkening. Carter’s eyes also darkened. But his feet never took a step.

From long habit, he kept a tight rein on his escalating temper. It would be rude and pointless to vent his frustration in so public a venue. No, this discussion needed to be held in private, for it was a matter to be settled between him and his father.

Though he was loath to acknowledge it, even at this distance Carter could see that Lady Audrey’s hips were indeed unusually broad beneath the skirt of her silk gown. And her face, while passably pretty, had a most decidedly vacant look. Damn his father’s interfering ways.

The pair ceased their conversation and once again started moving directly toward him. Suddenly, all of Carter’s self-protective instincts kicked into high gear.

His father was being solicitous, almost conciliatory toward Lady Audrey. This was dangerous. Previously, the duke had allowed Carter to dismiss the women he presented after a single argument between the men, even as the duke balked at his son’s attitude.

With the celebration of Carter’s thirtieth birthday looming a few months away, the duke had become more adamant. The marquess worried that this time he would be unable to so easily dismiss his father’s choice.

The subtle scent of lavender assaulted his senses. Carter turned. Marvelous! A young woman stood on his left, mere steps away. He wiped his annoyance from his face and offered her a smile. “Good evening.” He bowed. “I am the Marquess of Atwood.”

“Yes, I know.” The young woman seemed taken aback by his forward manner, but she nodded cordially. “We met at Lord Willingford’s ball a few weeks ago. How are you, my lord?”

“Longing to dance. Won’t you please indulge me, fair lady?”

Without waiting for her to answer, Carter swept her into his arms. Mercifully, a section of the ballroom had been cleared for the dancing couples. He took immediate advantage and hastened toward the center, as far away from his father and Lady Audrey as he could get.

The woman in his arms let out a muffled sound of protest, but he ignored it, pulling her along with him. She was small in stature, barely reaching his shoulder. She was also very pretty, with delicate, fine-boned features, silky blond hair, and a slender, willowy figure that boasted high, firm breasts. There was something vaguely familiar about her…

Carter narrowed his eyes and studied her further, then nearly missed a step of the waltz when he realized her identity. Good Lord! It was the female from the garden, Arthur Pengrove’s newly acquired fiancée. ’Twas no wonder she was glaring at him with obvious disapproval. No doubt this dance had been saved for her intended.

Oh, well. There would be other dances for her to share with Pengrove. A lifetime of them. For now his need was greater, and besides their dance had already begun. Actually, it was a good sign. His luck must be changing.

His even mood restored, Carter smiled down at his partner. “I have recently arrived at the ball. Tell me, has anything of great interest occurred?”

He expected her to blush and stammer and then gush about her very recent engagement to Arthur Pengrove. He would nod and smile and listen to her subsequent chatter, thus alleviating the burden of conversation. In fact, if he were very fortunate, he could lead her to the opposite side of the room and, at the end of the dance, slip quietly from the ballroom. Without seeing his father. Or meeting Lady Audrey.

But the very pretty future Mrs. Pengrove did not reveal the secret of her engagement, nor even hint that the momentous event had taken place. Instead, she gazed at him with a boldness that was nearly disconcerting.

Carter’s eyes moved down her face, settling on her lips. She had an especially sensual mouth. His pulse quickened and he was suddenly assaulted with a fierce urge to kiss her. Pure lust, of course. Still, it seemed a pity that it would be Pengrove who enjoyed the taste of those lush, tempting lips.

“Why did you ask me to dance? Or rather, why did you pull me against my will onto the ballroom floor? Your haste was most extraordinary. Are you running from the law, perchance?”

Carter arched his brow. He could not possibly have heard her correctly. “Pardon?”

“I asked why you insisted that I dance with you,” she replied calmly.

For a moment, Carter’s mind went blank. Her forthright manner caught him very much unawares. Females generally blushed and stammered in his presence or else sent him sly, seductive glances. They never challenged him so directly.

“I was overcome by your beauty, fair lady,” he said, deciding to disarm her with some harmless flattery. “It drove me to bold madness.”

“What a bunch of rot. You barely glanced at my face before carting me away like a sack of grain.”

Carter’s brow raised as he feigned indignity. “I am the Marquess of Atwood, my good woman. I do not cart females away. I gracefully, elegantly sweep them away.”

“Do you really? Even when they have promised the dance to another gentleman?”

Ah, it was as he suspected. She was piqued because he had stolen her away from her intended. “Your previous partner will have a lifetime to enjoy your dances. ’Tis only fair he give others a chance, dear lady.”

She tipped her head to one side. “You don’t know my name, do you?”

Caught! Carter bestowed his most charming, heart-melting smile on her, hoping to distract her question. But it didn’t seem to work. Her gaze remained on him, solemn and intent. There was a long, drawn-out silence.

“Of course I know who you are,” he blustered. “We met at the Willingfords’ ball. You are Arthur Pengrove’s future bride. And I should like to add that he is one very lucky fellow.”

Her blue eyes filled with shock and regret, then quickly returned to a mischievous gleam. It was such a brief expression of emotion that Carter would have missed it had he not been observing her so closely.

“You do not find that to be a particularly odd name, my lord? Arthur Pengrove’s future bride? Please, try again.”

A stark challenge, plain as day, was written all over her lovely face. Damn. He wished he really did know her name, just so he could win this game. But alas, he had no earthly idea. Which was another surprise. How could he have forgotten such an enchanting woman?

He cleared his throat, stalling for time. “How amusing. This is rather like that fairy tale about the odd little man who helped the beautiful miller’s daughter spin straw into gold. What was his name again?”

“Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“You are avoiding the question.”

“Am I? I admit my thoughts are jumbled. Consumed by the events in the fairy tale. And fascinated at the similarities to our current situation. Truly, your hair puts spun gold to shame.”

She muttered something under her breath. A word that no lady should know, let alone speak. Carter smiled. “Pardon?” he queried.

Though he highly doubted it was her intention, she had successfully entertained him as no woman ever had. Outside of the bedchamber, of course. Females often grew tongue-tied around him, no doubt because they were eager to make a favorable impression.

He knew that was not the case with his mysterious beauty. If anything, she seemed most eager to get away from him, which caused him to like her even more. Her wit was sharp, her attitude bold. Her voice had a warm pitch he found oddly sensual. The sound of it sent an unexpected potent spark of desire right through him.

Brought on, no doubt, by the knowledge that she was already claimed by another man. Truly, nothing added more to a female’s allure than the knowledge that one could not have her.

“You have a devious mind, my lord,” she finally said.

“Precisely. Therefore I understand how they work.”

She laughed. It was a joyful, melodious sound and Carter found himself joining her in a wide smile. It took a few seconds for him to realize that the music had stopped and the dance was over. Regretfully, he released her from the circle of his arms, then almost immediately felt the presence of another person standing near.

Carter turned, fully expecting to see her newly acquired fiancé, Arthur Pengrove. Instead, his eyes clashed with the Marquess of Dardington.

A rather angry, visibly annoyed, Marquess of Dardington.