The comically sketched visage of Michael Rutland, Earl of Wainwright, littered the public-facing windows along the Strand… as well as graced the tea tables and smoking rooms of every fashionable Londoner eager to part with a shilling in exchange for the latest bawdy comic.

Which apparently also included Lord Wainwright’s best friends.

So as to ensure the fame of his nocturnal proclivities did not escape the earl’s notice, the wretched scoundrels had helpfully strung up a copy of each of his recent caricatures around the salon of his favorite gaming hell.

The Cloven Hoof used to be Michael’s favorite, anyway.

“Is it true then?” Lord Hawkridge grinned from behind his glass of port. “With naught but a word, the most stalwart of maidens can be smitten by an earl’s charms?”

“What words?” Gideon, the owner of the Cloven Hoof, put in before Michael could defend himself. If there was a defense to be had. Gideon held the latest caricature aloft. “No woman alive cares what Wainwright has to say. One glimpse of his golden locks and puppy-brown eyes causes them to tumble directly into his arms. Or the closest prone surface.”

“I do not have puppy eyes.” Michael snatched the print from Gideon’s hands.

“Note that he does not deny the other accusations,” Hawkridge stage-whispered. “I imagine the caricatures are quite helpful. A rake like Wainwright would likely be unable to recall the names or faces of his many conquests, were they not immortalized for him in the daily comic prints.”

Michael ignored both of his friends. All he could see was the dratted sketch. He fought the urge to crumple it in his fist. What would be the point? By now, thousands of copies would be circulating London. He tried to be objective.

Today’s drawing was both better and worse than the others. When he’d attended the previous night’s soirées, he had purposefully abstained from his habitual flirtatiousness, with the intent of proving his name need not be synonymous with “debauched rake.”

After all, Michael’s only lovers were women who were no strangers to the art of seduction. He had no interest in despoiling virgins. He attended society events because he liked good company, great food, and fine entertainment.

There was no need for messy entanglements. Michael enjoyed dancing whether it led to a secluded balcony or whether it was simply a waltz with a pretty stranger he’d never see again in his life. He simply enjoyed women’s company. He’d hoped last night’s careful, above reproach comportment would prove once and for all that he wasn’t on the prowl, for God’s sake.

Well… it had worked, and hadn’t.

The italicized title below the caricature read “Lord of Pleasure.” An eminently recognizable sketch of himself at the previous day’s biggest crush took center stage, surrounded by dozens of overcome damsels dropping into a swoon, when all his overly gallant form had managed to say was, “Good aftern—”

“Ha, ha, ha,” Michael said sourly as he flung the drawing back to Gideon.

No wonder the gaming hell owner had said no one was interested in anything Michael had to say. Based on that evidence, the marriage-minded debutantes were eager to become his countess, and the pleasure-minded widows and courtesans merely wished to experience for themselves the rumors of his sensual prowess.

Not that there was anything wrong with pleasure! That was why it was called “pleasure.” Because it was pleasurable to all parties involved. Who cared how two consenting adults spent an evening in each other’s company? Half of London had mistresses. All the other affairs in caricaturists’ drawings were scandalous because they were famous cuckolds. He was the only hapless gentleman to stay in the scandal columns based on reputation alone.

“It’s rubbish,” he said as he took a seat at the bar. “Do the caricaturists have no real scandals to draw?”

Gideon uncorked a fresh bottle of wine. “That is the humor. Others have to perform foolish or wicked acts to get half the attention that you attract just by walking into a room.”

“When an unwed earl with a sizable purse walks into a room,” corrected a barmaid as she poured the wine.

Another barmaid let her gaze travel Michael’s form with a suggestive grin. “I don’t think it’s just the size of his earldom that attracts the ladies.”

He clenched his jaw in frustration. Even the serving wenches were too blinded by the Lord of Pleasure image to see beyond it. Then again, title-hunters were even worse.

“I have no interest in a woman who cares more about becoming a countess than she does about the man she’d wed to do so. Those women would marry a toad if it meant gaining a title.”

“We should all be so fortunate,” Hawkridge muttered.

Michael winced. The penniless marquess was now on the hunt for an heiress with enough blunt to save the marquessate, but thus far had found no luck. “Your case is different,” he said quickly. “I hope you find an heiress with a heart as big as her pocketbook. You deserve a happy marriage.”

“Now you’re giving relationship advice?” Gideon didn’t bother to hide his burst of laughter. “Have you ever had the same mistress for more than a week before you tired of her?”

“Intercourse is not a relationship,” Michael corrected haughtily. He glanced away before Gideon realized he was more right than he knew.

In the nine-and-twenty years of his life, Michael had spent the latter half of it in pursuit of pleasure… and had particularly enjoyed this past decade. The one thing he had not yet experienced was an actual relationship. He’d been too focused on flirtation to ever come close to falling in love. If the sketches lining the Cloven Hoof were any indication, he had become too good at his task. Ladies couldn’t see past his Lord of Pleasure reputation. And to the men, Michael was simply… a caricature.

“I’ll change my image,” he said suddenly.

Hawkridge choked on his wine. “You’ll what?”

“Reshape my image,” Michael repeated. After all, he had countless other interests. Nature, music, astronomy. The caricaturists didn’t know about those pastimes because they were solitary endeavors. Surely it couldn’t be that hard to prove he was more than a pretty face. “I very much hope my future wife finds endless pleasure in our marriage bed, but that is not the only thing I have to offer.”

The entire gaming hell went silent at this pronouncement.

Even Gideon stared back at him in amusement. “What else do you have to offer?”

“Honestly, Wainwright.” Lord Hawkridge gestured at this morning’s caricature. “Just being present when you enter a room is enough to get a lady’s name mentioned in the scandal columns. You couldn’t stay out of them if you tried.”

“I could.” Michael rolled back his shoulders. Perhaps it would not be easy, but it was far from impossible. “In fact, I will. I’ll prove to you and to London at large that there’s more to the Earl of Wainwright than mere scandal fodder.”

“How will you prove that?” Hawkridge asked doubtfully. “By performing some grand public feat? Or simply staying out of the scandal columns?”

Gideon’s betting book thumped onto the bar. “Let’s limit it to staying out of the scandal columns, just to give the poor sap a chance. How long do you think he can go without his name in the gossip columns or his face in the comics? A week? A fortnight?”

“That’s a fool’s bet,” Hawkridge protested. “Did you not see today’s drawing? Wainwright wouldn’t be able to stay out of the papers for a single day, much less reshape his image.”

“Thirty days,” Michael said. Hadn’t he wanted to cut the pages on the new nature journals he’d bought for his library? The time would fly by. “If I stay out of the scandal columns for an entire month, will you agree that I’ve changed my image?”

“You’d have changed your entire personality.” The marquess shook his head. “You are the Lord of Pleasure. It cannot be done.”

“Not his personality,” Gideon said slowly. He pushed the Lord of Pleasure caricature back toward Hawkridge. “Take another look. Wainwright is right. They’re not drawing anything he did. They draw society’s perception of him. I’ll give you forty days.”

“Forty it is.” Michael inclined his head. It was just a matter of perspective. Had the caricaturists drawn him admiring the sky with his telescope or reading nature journals, there would be no story.

“Twenty quid!” called a voice from one of the gaming tables. “I’ve got twenty quid that says the earl won’t make a fortnight without being in the papers.”

“I’ve got fifty that says he shan’t make it to the end of the week,” called another.

“I’ve got no money at all,” Hawkridge muttered, “but only a fool would let this wager pass him by. Put me down for ten quid, Gideon. I’ll scrape up the blunt somewhere.”

Michael stared at him. “You’re a true friend.”

“I’m adding a hundred-pound rider,” Gideon announced to the room. “If he does make the forty days, it’ll be because he found a wife. Any takers?”

The room was silent.

Even Michael stared at Gideon in disbelief. “I promised to stay out of the papers, not to become a monk. I’ve no intention of getting leg-shackled.”

He would find a countess and beget an heir, but not for another ten years, at least. A proper lady would want a bland, boring life. Until then, he would not allow life’s pleasures to pass him by.

“Now that you’re going to be respectable for a month, what are you going to do with your time?” called one of the gamblers. “Go to sewing circles and the Grenville musicales?”

“Ha,” called another. “The only music Wainwright likes is the music he makes with his ‘models’ in the harp room.”

“What if I do? Anything that happens inside private chambers is fair game, as long as it stays out of the scandal columns,” Michael reminded them as he slid one hundred pounds across the bar to take Gideon’s wager.

Forty days of publicly respectable behavior. No caricatures. No gossip. No wife.

How hard could it be?