“Nothing about you is humble.”

“False humility is one of the seven deadly sins.”

He snatched a kiss, the kind that made Eleanor realize just how much she loved kisses. How much she wanted more. How—How desperate she felt. And if that wasn’t humiliating, what was? She had to regain her composure.

“We shouldn’t be kissing like this when Ada is just buried,” she said.

“I expect at least four women around the world died during the time I kissed you. If not more.” He was frighteningly good at speaking in an utterly unemotional voice.

“It’s not the same.”

“Why not? Are you telling me that you were genuinely fond of Ada?”

That question was a mistake, because she thought again of how critical she had been, thinking that she herself would have been a more affectionate wife, and tears welled in her eyes again. “If I wasn’t fond of her, it was my own shortcoming and my own stupidity,” she said, getting off his lap rather clumsily. She walked over to the black window and looked blindly out. “She was a very kind person.”

“Why do her virtues mean that I can’t kiss you?” Villiers said, rising from his chair.

“It doesn’t seem respectful.”

“Or do you think we shouldn’t kiss because Ada’s death leaves an opening for a new duchess?”

It took a moment for that to sink in, and then she spun about, took one step and slapped him. They stared at each other for a moment.

“I apologize,” Villiers said finally. “I should not have implied that you wept for any reason other than the obvious. I met the duchess only once, but I cannot imagine her uttering an ill-natured comment.”

“That was her greatest accomplishment,” Eleanor said. “She must have known…”

Villiers’s eyes didn’t even flicker. “Must have known what?”

She was tired of all the lies she had told her mother, all the lies she had told everyone. “That Gideon and I were devoted friends,” she said. “Before.”

“Devoted. And yet—he married Ada.”

“She had every accomplishment,” Eleanor pointed out. “And as I told you, his father’s will dictated his choice.”

“She had every accomplishment, except that of making people love her,” Villiers stated.

“Of course people loved her.” But she knew what he was saying. Ada was so acquiescent and sweet that one easily turned a shoulder to her, walked away, forgot she was in the room. “I’m sure that Gideon loved his wife,” she added, giving it emphasis.

“Perhaps,” Villiers said, without a smile. “More to the point, now that she has passed away, I believe that you have two dukes to consider as potential husbands.”

“Of course not!”

“He may be a fool, but not that much of a fool. I saw the way he looked at you.” Villiers pulled her into his arms again, which was just what she wanted him to do. “It was damnably close to the way I look at you,” he whispered. His mouth silenced her before she could utter her deepest fear: that Gideon had chosen sweet Ada because she was so sweet.

She had loved Gideon, but she also wanted him, and her desire disturbed Gideon. It made him uneasy. That certainly wasn’t the case for Villiers.

Villiers kissed her with the sort of passion that demanded that she respond, forced her to respond. Even now his breathing was ragged, and yet his hands were shaping her, teasing her, caressing her—trying to make her mad with desire.

What had frightened Gideon about her pleased Villiers. Though she really ought to call him Leopold, given the fact that he was rapidly becoming her closest…friend. If not quite devoted, yet.

As if he read her mind, he broke away and said, “Say my name.”

“Villiers.”

He pulled her against him so hard that she could feel every button in his coat, and below that, lower still…

He was hard, and he was big, and he made sure she knew it.

“Leonard,” she whispered.

He nipped her lip.

“Leander.”

He really bit her this time, on the lobe of her ear. She shivered and felt a wash of heat over her body. Their eyes met and there was a slow smile in his. He bent his head and she didn’t move, held her breath as he pushed aside the soft silk of her chemise dress. Of course…there was no corset. His lips closed over her nipple and he suckled her until she sagged against his arm.

“Say my name,” he growled.

She was the master of herself. “I know!” she said, voice shaky. “Lloyd!”

“You’re a danger to yourself.” Her chemise gown gave way easily on the other side, and she leaned against his shoulder again, trembling, eyes closed. He scraped his teeth across her breast and she gave a little scream.

“Say it.”

“Leo,” she said, and her voice broke into a throaty cry. “Leopold!”

His hand replaced his mouth, gave her a rough caress that made the blood race from her head.

“Why won’t you call me Leopold except when I kiss you into submission?” He was kissing the corners of her mouth, the line of her jaw, and all the time, his hand…She arched forward in case he wanted more of her.

“It’s not proper,” she gasped. “You heard Lady Marguerite.”

“Perhaps not in London, but in this house…with Marguerite and her devoted Lawrence? One of Lisette’s most charming virtues is her utter disregard of etiquette.”

“Propriety is important.” She pushed away his hand, remembering. “You should go downstairs. They might be wondering where you are.”

“Too late for that,” he said with a lopsided smile. “They know exactly where we both are.”

“But they don’t know what we’re doing. You must return; I shall retire for the evening.”

“Risqué Roland will be heartbroken if you miss the scintillating musical interval that awaits us.”

“He will have to suffer,” Eleanor said, pulling her bodice back into its crisscross shape. Her whole body was pulsing a little, as if her very blood was dancing.

Villiers was adjusting his cravat in front of the glass. “You’ve crushed my neckcloth. I’ll have to stop by my chamber to fetch another.”

“Why bother?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Go downstairs with a crushed cravat?”

She mimicked him. “Call you by your first name in public?”

He took one step toward her and the light in his eyes made her knees weaken. “I can make you do it.”

“I can crush all your cravats,” she said loftily.

“For the right cause,” he said, turning toward the door, “a man might discard any number of cravats. There are two armchairs in my chamber.”

“I would never visit your chamber,” Eleanor said. “How can you even ask?”

“I didn’t ask,” Villiers pointed out.

“Oh.”

“I merely commented that there are two such chairs, and then I was about to add that I intend to instruct Finchley to place those chairs on the balcony. That way, should anyone desire to join me, it would be possible to have a glass of brandy while looking at the stars.”