As it turned out, Katya was wrong. Three weeks was all it took.

Alex had never been one to gad about London, attending every social event imaginable, when Parliament was in session. But the day after his conversation in St. Stephen’s Hall, no fewer than six invitations arrived on his doorstep. He attended a private concert which featured a renowned soprano at the home of Lady Millicent St. George, and Miss Bellowes happened to be there as well. She was also at the lecture hosted by the Philosophical Society of London. It was no surprise to find her at both the ball hosted by the Duchess of Devon and Mrs. Conrad Firestone, and after the fortnight he’d experienced, he couldn’t bring himself to be shocked that she was seated next to him at supper at Lord Farnsworth’s house.

So by the time he discovered Miss Bellowes and Lady Lavinia seated in the box immediately next to his at the theater three weeks after Katya made her matrimonial prediction, Alex was ready to give in.

“Mr. Croydon, we simply must stop meeting like this,” Miss Bellowes laughed as she took her seat on the other side of the boxes’ partition from him.

She wore an emerald green dress cut in the latest style that showed off the creamy flesh of her shoulders. The fact that Alex could imagine himself stroking, and even kissing, that flesh only furthered his suspicion that Katya was right in every way.

“Come now, Miss Bellowes,” he answered her, not bothering to hide the fondness, or the mischief, in his gaze. “I think we both know that the two of us are being thrust together deliberately by a mutual friend.”

Miss Bellowes blushed a tantalizing shade of pink, her expressive eyes bright with interest. She must have been an innocent where relations between men and women were concerned, otherwise he would have heard gossip about her from the indiscreet members of his club. But the way she tilted her head just so and wet her lips ever so subtly hinted that she was a peach ripe for the picking. His trousers were suddenly too tight, but the pressure was tantalizing instead of embarrassing. Which was probably helped by the house lights dimming.

“I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks,” Miss Bellowes confided in him as the orchestra struck the opening chords of the overture.

“Are you a fan of Gilbert and Sullivan, then?” Alex asked.

“Absolutely,” she answered, turning to him with a smile. “H.M.S. Pinafore has been sold out for weeks. I was shocked when these seats became available for us at the last minute.”

“Were you really?” he asked, his mouth twitching into a knowing grin.

She laughed. “No, not really.”

There wasn’t time for more conversation. The overture reached a jaunty pitch, and the curtains were raised on a chorus of sailors singing about sailing the ocean blue. Alex couldn’t have cared less about them, though. In the glowing darkness, Miss Bellowes’s features were outlined with what seemed like threads of gold. She leaned forward enough to show that she was genuinely interested in the show, as opposed to merely in attendance to see and be seen. Her lips were open in a soft smile of enjoyment.

Alex wondered what it would be like to kiss her. Surely, she would fit perfectly in his arms. Her mouth was such a pleasant shape, and her lips full and plump. He leaned back in his chair, imagining how they would feel pressed to his skin. And vice versa. He was certain she would taste sweet and sigh wantonly as he introduced her to the beauties of passion.

Only when the first female chorus burst onto the stage in a flurry of color and ridiculousness did Alex blink himself out of his increasingly heated fantasies to realize what was going on. He hadn’t indulged in imaginings about a woman for years. There’d been no need to fantasize with Violetta. She’d left nothing to his imagination, and had given him whatever he wanted in bed. He’d remained steadfastly faithful to her, even when the fire of their romance had dulled to a sense of responsibility. He’d been tempted into a handful of intimate situations in the nearly three years since Violetta’s death, but none had blossomed into anything more than a temporary release from natural urges.

Watching Miss Bellowes as she laughed and sighed her way through the first act of the play, however, awoke something in him that he’d thought was long gone. He wanted to do more than relieve his tension with her. He wanted to test the extent of her cleverness with conversation. He wanted to learn her deepest desires and wheedle out her darkest secrets. She was simply too intriguing to pass by.

Damn Katya for being one step ahead of him.

When the lights rose for intermission, Alex had made his decision. He stood, turning to Miss Bellowes.

“Would you care for a breath of fresh air?” he asked, hoping that his expression conveyed his true question, whether she’d consent to a private word with him.

She rose slowly, almost as if inviting him to contemplate her shapely and appealing form. “That sounds delightful,” she said, snapping open her fan and fanning herself. The slight sheen of perspiration on her face and shoulders from the heat of the gaslights brought to mind other ways Alex could make her sweat.

“We’ll rendezvous in the hall.” He paused, glancing to Lady Lavinia. “If your friend doesn’t mind.”

“Oh, not at all,” Lady Lavinia said, her smile a little too excited.

Alex nodded to the ladies, then made his way through the other patrons sharing his box to the hallway. The hall was crowded with those who could afford box seats chatting and cooling themselves between acts. Alex pushed through them so that he was waiting by the door when Miss Bellowes emerged. He immediately offered his arm.

“I believe there are several locations just off the lobby or in upper hallways where we might catch the breeze from outside,” he said, leaning closer to her.

She slid her arm into his. “I think you’re right. Lady Stanhope was just telling me yesterday how marvelously modern this new theater is.”

“Was she?” Alex grinned, once again feeling as though he owed Katya a gift of gratitude. Perhaps a castle.

“Although it isn’t half as impressive as the theater Mr. D’Oyly Carte has promised to build for his company soon,” Miss Bellowes went on. “They say that theater will be entirely lit by electricity. Can you imagine?”

“We live in exciting times, without a doubt.” A fact which inspired an idea Alex couldn’t pass up. He glanced farther down the hall, past the grand staircase dozens of patrons were descending. “Have you ever ridden an elevator, Miss Bellowes?”

Her face lit up. “Only once before. Does this theater have one?” She glanced around expectantly.

“It most certainly does.” Alex nodded to the far end of the curving hall, to a lonely grate that stood in front of a narrow door. He picked up his pace, leading Miss Bellowes straight to it.

“There doesn’t seem to be an attendant,” Miss Bellowes said as Alex pulled open the door and gestured for her to step inside. “Should we leave it for another day?”

“Certainly not,” he replied, mischief and other, far more intriguing emotions thrumming through his veins. “As it happens, I know how to operate an elevator.”

“Do you?” She stepped into the tiny elevator car, then turned to face him as he entered. “You’re a man of many talents, Mr. Croydon. Rising parliamentary star and elevator operator.”

He chuckled, shutting the grate and the door behind him, then pivoted toward the hydraulic controls. “And a few other skills besides those.”

“I wonder what they could be.”

He left her implied question unanswered as he flipped the elevator switch to up and pulled the lever to send it into motion.

Marigold gasped and pressed a hand to her stomach as the elevator swooped up. “Are we not going to the ground floor to get a bit of fresh air?” she asked, sounding more breathless than she wanted to.

She wanted to seem as cool and casual as Lady Stanhope was, but in truth, her stomach was a jumble of butterflies and her heart thundered against her ribs. It was arguably scandalous for her to allow Mr. Croydon to sweep her off on her own. Sensible young women did not step into elevators with older, single men. But she was well past the age of being a fainting debutante, and being found out in an intimate situation with Mr. Croydon might actually help her ambitions rather than thwarting them.

And yet, the elevator was so close, he was such an imposing presence, and the wickedness in his eyes as he brought the elevator to an abrupt halt between floors, where only the faintest reflection of light reached them, and where the scent of machinery and his cologne filled her nose, had her trembling ever so slightly.

Anything could happen in an elevator. She could be ravished at any moment. The thought left her skin tingling with expectation and inner parts of her throbbing.

“I think you and I need to have a bit of a talk, Miss Bellowes,” he began in a low, almost wolfish voice, swaying closer to her.

This was it. He was going to tear open her bodice, lift up her skirts, and do all of the unspeakable things that she wished beyond wishing that people actually would speak about so that she would know. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she anticipated the feel of his hands on her.

“What would you like to talk about, Mr. Croydon?” she asked, attempting to channel every bit of Lady Stanhope’s mannerisms.

To her surprise, instead of capturing her in his arms and ravishing her with his lips, he crossed his arms and leaned against the side of the elevator, studying her with a smile as beautiful as it was devilish.

“My friends have been pushing me to marry,” he said.

Marigold blinked, her stomach feeling as though the elevator had burst into motion again. “They have?”

“Yes. Evidently, I’ve long since exceeded the proper amount of mourning for….”

His words faded and he lowered his eyes with a sudden switch in mood.

Marigold’s heart began to twist and pulse along with the lower parts of her. “I didn’t know you had a…love,” she said softly, not knowing how else she could both express sympathy and coax information out of him.

He raised his eyes to her, his smile wry, but also sad. “I should pretend I’ve been a saint,” he said. “But I suspect you’re far too clever to believe that.”

“Well,” she shrugged, wringing her closed fan in her hands. “You’re a man of a certain age. It would be unlikely for you to have remained unattached for so long, even if you weren’t married.”

“She was unsuitable, you see,” he said, faster, his words clipped, as though he had to tell her instead of wanting to tell her. “She was an actress, so of course marriage was out of the question. But all that is in the past. My friends are growing impatient, and here we are.”

Marigold opened her mouth to ask more, what had happened to his actress, what her name had been, whether he’d loved her. But before she could make more than a squeak, he swayed closer to her.

“I’ve finally come to the conclusion that my friends are right.” He stared intently into her eyes, undisguised desire shining from him.

All thoughts of his past lover flew from Marigold’s mind. Her heart kicked inside of her, and her throat went dry. “Mr. Croydon, are you proposing to me?” she managed to ask.

“I believe I am.”

“Well.” She laughed breathlessly, pressing a hand to the low neckline of her dress. “I never would have dreamed I’d receive such an intriguing proposal in such a curious place.” She glanced around at the cramped quarters of the elevator, feeling as though the walls were closing in even more, urging her toward him.

“As I understand it, Miss Bellowes, you have been proposed to in every conventional sort of place already.” He shrugged, seemingly casual, though his smile grew by the second. “I figured you would appreciate a…different sort of setting.”

“For a different sort of proposal?”

“If you like.”

As simple as his words were, they sent a shiver down her spine, straight to the part of her she should most definitely be ignoring, but absolutely couldn’t. She wasn’t about to let herself be so quickly overpowered by a man, though. Even if her bones were turning to jelly and the urge to do outstandingly naughty things pulsed through her. Instead, she crossed her arms in a mirror image of him.

“What benefit is there for me in this proposed marriage?” she asked, holding her head high.

Mr. Croydon’s smile grew so wide that she was certain he would burst into laughter…or kiss her. “Are the benefits not obvious?”

In an instant, Marigold felt the power shift in her favor. She narrowed her eyes and faced him boldly. “Come now, Mr. Croydon. For a man who argues so eloquently for the rights of women, that was a boorish question.”

He did laugh then. “You are quite correct, and I beg your pardon.” He nodded to her. “I should have remembered that I am not speaking to some flighty girl in her first season. I am speaking to a woman of intelligence and strength who knows her own mind.”

He could have whispered love poetry into her ear while nibbling on her neck and she wouldn’t have felt the same rush of desire. Every warning she’d ever been given about the dangers of seduction came rushing back to her at once, instantly to be cast aside. Being seduced was brilliant fun.

“My father didn’t earn his fortune by entering into unfavorable business partnerships,” she said, determined to keep the upper hand. “I learned well from him. Never give anything away for nothing. Choose your allies and your partners with utmost scrutiny.”

“This is why you haven’t accepted the dozens of other proposals you are rumored to have received,” he said. It wasn’t a question. He studied her with a look of heated admiration, leaving her feel both like a coveted prize and a mouse about to be pounced on by a hungry cat.

“Precisely, Mr. Croydon.” She nodded, praying her trembling wasn’t noticeable.

“So what are your terms, Miss Bellowes?” he asked. “What could entice you into marriage to a man of advanced years who is shameless enough to corner a woman in an elevator that is part of a crowded theater, where no one would hear her cry out if there were trouble.”

His words should have frightened her, but instead they made her oddly aware of how heavy her breasts had become, how tight her nipples were as they brushed against her chemise with each shallow breath, and how warm and liquid the secret places between her legs felt.

“I want to be the mother of the Prime Minister’s son,” she burst out before she could think of a cleverer response. She blinked in surprise at her own answer, but the truth of it was undeniable. Her smile widened.

Mr. Croydon’s answering smile managed to convey delight without a hint of mocking. “I shall endeavor to help you achieve that goal, Miss Bellowes,” he said.

His voice was so rich and deep, and his expression so ravenous, that Marigold was left in no doubt that he was referring to the part about creating a son far more than that part about being Prime Minister. The mysterious parts of her that had been awakened as she’d watched him deliver his speech to Commons, and that had grown and warmed over the past few weeks of constant encounters that were anything but random, burst into full-blooded feelings that were as new as they were overwhelming. If any of the men who had begged for her hand in the past decade had made her feel half as ready to surrender her virtue as Mr. Croydon did with a few simple words, she would have been married with half a dozen children already. The urge to thoroughly ruin herself with this man was almost ludicrous.

And yet, she didn’t have to ruin herself at all. She could have everything she’d ever wanted—position, influence, children—and indulge in the flurry of new sensations that begged her to explore them, all with one simple word.

“Well then.” She shrugged one shoulder, tilting her chin up to him, but the quiver in her voice was a dead giveaway that no matter how bold she appeared, he had the upper hand. “How could I refuse an offer like that?”

“Is that a yes, then?” For a moment, he seemed genuinely surprised, but also incredibly pleased.

Marigold let some of her haughty demeanor drop. “Provided my father agrees, yes, it is.”

“Wonderful,” he said, letting out a breath of relief. Could he have had any doubt? In an instant, the sly, teasing look was back in his eyes. “Of course, with all sound business deals, you should have a chance to sample the merchandise before making up your mind.”

A shiver shot down Marigold’s spine. She barely had time to breathe the words, “Should I?” before his arms were around her, pulling her flush against him.

He slanted his mouth over hers, their lips meeting with whisper softness at first. When she let out a scandalously pleased sigh, he increased the pressure. His one hand dropped as low as it could down her back with the ridiculous bustle that she suddenly wished she wasn’t wearing, but the other cradled her side so close to her breast that she was tempted to twist until he cupped her completely. His tongue teased along the crease of her mouth, and when instinct pushed her to part her lips for him, it slipped in beside hers.

The sensation was breathtaking. The taste of him was new and alluring. She had no idea what she was doing, but he seemed to sense that, nibbling at her lips and thrusting his tongue along hers as if tutoring her in an art she was eager to learn. Her whole body felt like liquid in his arms, and she was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could have done anything to her, anything at all, and she would have gladly let him. That knowledge was both frightening and exhilarating.

“We’d better stop,” he said at last, straightening, but keeping his arms around her. It was a good thing too. If he had let her go, she would have spilled to the floor in a puddle of desire. He seemed to be having a hard time catching his breath as well, and his face was flushed. Seeing that only fired Marigold’s blood more. She’d had that effect on him.

“I truly worry what would happen if we didn’t,” she answered, meeting his eyes as every nerve in her body sang.

His reddened lips curved into a devilish grin. “Something neither of us are ready for,” he answered, “but that I believe we will both enjoy tremendously after the vows are spoken.”

Damn his hide, he was making her want to anticipate those vows and explore all of the hints and whispers her married friends had shared with her about sexual relations right then and there. She never would have dreamed she’d be so wanton, or that she’d feel that way about a man that, admittedly, she barely knew. But Mr. Croydon—Alex, she supposed she should start calling him—was so delicious, and his touch did such forbidden things to her. Lady Stanhope would have been proud.

“The second act has probably started by now,” she said, breathless.

“You’re right, of course.” His grin sent swirls of giddiness through her. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should return to your box alone and allow me to—” He paused, making a strangely silly face, then finished with, “relax a bit before being seen in public.”

She wasn’t sure what exactly he meant, although she had an idea that it had to do with the fit of his trousers. “But of course.”

He pivoted to work the elevator controls, and they descended to the hall with the boxes. It was quieter now, and strains of the music from act two wafted up from the theater itself.

“One last thing,” Marigold whispered as he reached for the door.

“Yes?”

“Could we have a short engagement?” she squeaked, suddenly wanting to laugh at herself.

“I’ll speak to your father tomorrow,” he answered.

“I’ll make certain he clears his calendar to receive you.”

Instead of a simple “Thank you”, he stole another kiss. The feel of his mouth over hers was so good that she closed her eyes, leaned into him, and prayed that it would go on forever. If this was what it was like to be a foolish, strumpet of a woman, then she was ready to embrace a harlot’s life.

No, she was ready to become a man’s wife at last.