Rex had never considered himself a dense sort of chap. In fact, he rather took pride in his ability to appreciate the undercurrents of a social situation and the reasons for them. In this case, however, he had to admit himself utterly baffled.

Clara didn’t want him to meet her father—that much was clear. Her shoulders were set, her chin high, her expression wooden, and as they crossed the foyer, her profile reminded him of nothing so much as the nautical figurehead of a ship as it sailed into the teeth of a storm. The rapidity of her stride told him she wanted that storm over as quickly as possible.

She led him up the stairs and along a corridor, offering no explanations along the way, but once in the drawing room, the introduction to her father had barely been made before Rex realized no explanations would be needed.

The man was sodding drunk.

Quite accustomed to men in their cups, Rex schooled his features in the polite civility required of a gentleman and bowed, but as he straightened, he cast a sideways glance at Clara, and his polite veneer almost cracked.

Her face bore its usual placid coolness, but her eyes gave her away. They stared into his chin, dark and bleak and filled with shame. Looking into them was like looking into an abyss.

“Forgive me for not standing up to receive you, Lord Galbraith,” Deverill said, a distinct slur in his voice and a strong waft of brandy in the air as he spoke. “Blasted gout.”

Rex returned his attention to her parent, noting the wheeled chair in which he sat, and the foot propped on a heavily padded stool in front of it, and he wondered if the drinking had caused the gout, or vice-versa. “There is no need for apology, sir. Gout, I understand, hurts like the devil.”

“It does, it does.” Deverill picked up his teacup from the table beside him, and his hand trembled as he raised it to his lips, causing the amber liquid to spill over and another wave of brandy scent to hit Rex’s nostrils.

Clara must have detected the scent as well, for she moved away from her parent, making for the settee across the room. “Will you sit down, Lord Galbraith?” she said, issuing the invitation with a painfully obvious lack of enthusiasm, and as she sank down on one end of the settee and gestured for him to sit at the other end, he wondered if he ought to make some excuse and leave instead. On the other hand, a hasty departure was probably the usual reaction of guests when faced with this situation, and if he ran for the door, it might serve only to deepen her shame. Besides, he still had Auntie Pet’s invitation in his pocket.

“Thank you, yes,” he said, then set his hat on a nearby table and moved to take the offered place on the settee, striving to act as if nothing at all was amiss.

“Delighted you could join us, my lord, and that Clara has a suitor at last.”

“Papa,” she protested, giving Rex an agonized glance, which he ignored. Since being a suitor was just the image he was attempting to convey, he had no intention of contradicting the description by word or deed.

“Now, Clara,” Deverill said, heedless of his daughter’s protest, “it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You’ve only been out for a short while. Clara’s sister, Lord Galbraith, married the Duke of Torquil not long ago.” It was a boast, dragged into the conversation by a man who wished to impress another with his connections. Clara knew it, too, for when Rex cast a sideways glance at her, he saw her wince and turn away to reach for the teapot.

“Would you like tea, Lord Galbraith?” she asked, her voice sounding an octave higher than usual as she began to pour.

“Thank you, yes. Plain,” he added as she reached for the sugar tongs. “No sugar or milk.”

She turned in his direction to hand him his cup and saucer, but she didn’t quite look at him.

“Notice she doesn’t offer her father any tea,” Deverill said, lifting his own cup, tilting it back and forth a little, grinning as he gave Rex the knowing look of one man of the world to another. “She knows it’s not necessary. I’ve got my tea already.”

Rex felt a wave of pity. “Yes,” he agreed mildly. “So it would seem.”

His reply must surely have conveyed something of what he felt, but Deverill didn’t seem to notice. His daughter, however, was a different matter.

“Sandwich?” she asked, her voice still unnaturally bright. “Or would you prefer a scone with cream and jam?”

When he looked into her face, he banished any hint of pity from his own, for that emotion was one he sensed she would not welcome. “A scone would be lovely, thank you.”

“Do you know His Grace?” Deverill asked.

“Not well, I’m afraid.” Rex took the plate Clara handed him, placed it on his lap, and once again turned his attention to the other man. “Though we have met, of course.”

“He and Irene are in Italy on honeymoon. Taking their time about it, too,” he added with a chuckle. “Marriage seems to agree with her. Would you ever have guessed that, Clara?”

“Not in a hundred years, Papa. My sister,” she added for Rex’s benefit, “has often declared quite adamantly that she’d never marry.”

Deverill gave a bark of laughter. “Funny that. The daughter who vowed she’d never marry has made a brilliant match and is off on her honeymoon, and the one who’s always wanted a husband and children more than anything is still waiting her turn. You’ve got the connections now, Clara, so best get on with it.” He gave Rex a meaningful glance as he spoke. “Don’t want to be forever outshone by your sister, do you?”

He slid his gaze to the girl beside him, watching as the color in her cheeks deepened, and he decided it was time to offer her Auntie’s invitation and take his leave. He finished his scone, but before he could down the last of his tea and depart, the door opened and a man entered the room.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” he said to Mr. Deverill, “but Dr. Munro is here for your weekly appointment.”

“Bah, doctors,” Deverill said, an indignant sound that made his opinion of the medical profession quite clear. “Send him away.”

“Really, Papa, you do need to see the doctor occasionally,” Clara said before the manservant could turn to leave again. “And you never know. He might have some new treatment to offer.”

“I doubt it. Munro’s a dour Scotsman. His idea of how to prolong one’s life is to take away all the things that make life worth living.”

“See him for my sake, then,” she said, beckoning the servant into the room. “If not for your own.”

“Oh, very well,” he grumbled as the servant crossed the room toward him. “But it’s so unnecessary. All Munro will do is look at me with all that disapproval of his, and tell me not to drink.”

“Then your meeting with him should be blissfully short,” she pointed out, the cheery determination in her voice reminiscent of a nursery governess dealing with a recalcitrant child.

“I doubt it,” he shot back as the manservant moved behind his wheeled chair and released the brake mechanism. “The list of things I’m not supposed to have grows longer by the day. No strong cheese, no animal fats, no drink of any kind, no sugar, no milk—not even in tea . . . I ask you, Clara, what’s left on a man’s plate after all that’s taken away?”

She didn’t offer a reply to his question, but as the valet rolled her father’s chair past her seat, she stood up, signaling the manservant to pause.

Rex rose as well, watching her as she leaned down to kiss her father’s cheek, a tender regard for her parent that—in his opinion at least—the other man did not deserve.

“I will see you tomorrow, Papa,” she said as she resumed her seat. “In the meantime, do try to obey the doctor, hmm?”

Still grumbling, he was wheeled out of the drawing room, but as they departed, he gestured for his valet to close the door behind them, giving his daughter a conspiratorial wink over his shoulder just before it swung shut.

Clara’s cheeks were now absolute scarlet. She made a sound, half sigh and half groan. “I am so sorry about that,” she mumbled, lowering her head into her hand as if to hide her hot face. “One’s parents,” she added with a smothered laugh, “can be so embarrassing.”

Despite the laughter, it was obvious that she was not amused. “I am the one who should apologize,” he answered at once. “Forgive me. If I had known—”

“It’s quite all right,” she interrupted, sparing them both his self-recriminations on the subject. Lowering her hand, she straightened in her seat and looked at him. “As you pointed out, you’d have been expected to meet him sometime.”

“Yes, but we could have arranged it for a time when he would be . . . himself.”

“I doubt it. He hasn’t been himself since I was eleven.” The moment the words were out of her mouth, she grimaced, pressing her palm to her forehead. “Heavens, I don’t know what made me say that. Most of the time, other people have to pry words out of me.” She stirred a little on her end of the settee. “But you already knew that,” she added in a low voice.

“Yes, although . . .” He paused, giving her a frown of mock aggravation. “I’ve not seen much of this reticence, myself, Clara. You don’t ever seem to hold your tongue with me.”

“Goodness, I don’t, really, do I?” she said with a laugh. Then her smile faded a bit as she considered. “That’s because of you, I expect, not me. You’re very good at . . . drawing people out.”

“That can be said to work both ways, for I rarely talk about my parents, particularly about what life with them was like before they separated. I certainly never discuss it with anyone outside the family. Well, now,” he added, trying to inject a lightness into his voice, “today has been quite the day for sharing confidences, hasn’t it? Given how we started, who’d have thought you and I would ever be doing that?”

“Neither of us, that’s certain. Are we . . .” She paused, her expression taking on a hint of surprise as she turned toward him on the settee. “Are we becoming friends, do you think?”

Through the window beyond her shoulder, sunlight suddenly flooded the room, making him blink. Leaning sideways a little to keep the light out of his eyes, he studied her where she sat at the other end of the settee. The ray of sunshine that fell over her formed a nimbus of light behind her coronet of soft brown hair and gave her an angelic appearance. But when he looked down, he noted that the sun also made the silhouette of her body plainly visible through her white shirtwaist.

At once, desire stirred within him, making it clear that his body, at least, did not want to be her friend.

Still, with a girl like her and a man like him, there was no other course possible, and with profound regret, he tore his gaze away from the shadowy outline of her shape. “Perhaps we are,” he said and took a swallow of tea, rather wishing his own cup had brandy in it, for he could really do with a drink. Absent that, conversation seemed his only distraction from the dangerous direction of his thoughts.

“What happened when you were eleven?” he asked, handing over his empty plate and settling back against the arm of the settee with his tea as the sun moved behind clouds again. “Sorry if I’m prying,” he added at once, hoping she’d tell him anyway.

“My mother died. My father was quite a hellion in his youth, but when he married my mother, he promised her he’d reform. Unfortunately, he kept that promise only until she died. After that, he took to drink again. I suppose after her death he saw no reason to refrain.”

“No reason? What about you and your sister?”

“Until this year, he’s been manageable enough. But now, with Irene married, and me staying with the duke’s family for the season, he’s gotten much worse. There’s no one here to check him, you see. It seems any time I come up to visit him, he’s always—” She paused, lifting one hand toward the door. “Well, you’ve seen for yourself how he is.”

“And your brother? Could he do nothing about it?”

“Papa would never listen to Jonathan. They quarreled years ago, Papa tossed him out of the house, and he went to America to make his own way. They haven’t spoken since, for my father refuses to answer Jonathan’s letters or heal the breach. So, even if Jonathan were here, he’d hardly be able to exert any influence. In fact, if my brother crossed our threshold, I doubt he’d have the chance to give Papa a lecture on his drinking. The house would combust before he could get in a word.”

Rex smiled in commiseration. “I know what you mean. I shudder to think what might happen if my mother and father were ever in the same room together again. One of them would end up dead, I’ve no doubt. Your father and your brother sound very much the same. Did your father’s drinking cause the breach?”

“Partly. Papa became erratic and foolhardy, making foolish business decisions and spending money like water, and the drinking contributed to his poor judgement, I’m sure. When Jonathan pointed that out, that’s when Papa tossed him out.” She paused and took a sip of tea. “You know, when I see my father like this, I wonder if I should forgo the remainder of the season. Perhaps I should return home before he gets any worse.”

“I doubt it would matter if you did.”

“I daresay you’re right. Irene and I used to search the house, tossing out his brandy bottles whenever we found any, but he always managed to get more somehow. His valet, I suppose. Anyway, I would ask that you disregard the things he said. Particularly,” she added, wincing, “his blatant matchmaking efforts.”

“My great-aunt is rather the same. Another thing you and I seem to have in common.” Rex smiled, hoping to ease her embarrassment. “It’s awful when they’re so obvious about it, isn’t it? Still, however clumsy his efforts, you can’t really blame him for trying to help you gain what you want from life.”

“I don’t blame him,” she answered at once. “I realize he is motivated by a genuine concern on my behalf. I think he knows—”

She broke off and a hint of pain crossed her face. “I think he knows,” she resumed after a moment, “that he’ll kill himself with drink one day, and I think he wants to see me settled properly before that day comes.”

“He knows, and yet, he won’t stop the drink?”

Clara’s sweet face took on a hard glimmer of cynicism that hurt him, somehow. “Should he?” she asked. “Can a rake ever genuinely reform?”

He inhaled sharply, sensing they were not talking only about her parent any longer, but what could he say in his own defense? He’d indulged his rakish tendencies at every opportunity when he’d been able to afford it, and though he lived more like a monk than a rake nowadays, no one knew that. And besides, he’d probably go back to his previous wild ways at the first opportunity, because . . . why not?

“No,” he said, the admission a bit bitter on his tongue. “I suppose true rakes don’t reform. But let’s talk about a more pleasant subject. You, for instance.”

“Me?”

“It’s a more interesting topic than your father’s fondness for brandy.”

“Well, a less embarrassing one, at any rate,” she said with a hint of humor. “What would you like to know?”

He considered a moment. “Why do you want so much to be married?”

“Nearly every girl wants that, I suppose.”

“An answer which neatly sidesteps the question. I’m curious as to why you want it.”

She seemed a bit surprised, as if the answer was obvious. “Until a woman marries, she has no real purpose in the world. Oh, she can work for charity and help the vicar with parish activities, and perfect her needlework. If she’s fortunate, she can go into society, but unless she wants to be like my sister and defy all the conventions, she’s stuck in a life that is quite dull, until she marries.”

He couldn’t help a laugh at that. “I know many married women, and I can assure you that most of them are bored silly.”

“Perhaps, but God willing, a married woman has at least one preoccupation that is denied to single women. She has children to care for.”

“Not all women would regard that as a blessing. How do you know you would do so?”

She laughed. “I’ve known since I was thirteen. Our cousin Susan became ill that summer, and I went to Surrey to help care for her. She and her husband have eight children and a big house in the country, and because my father had taken to drink again, Irene thought it would be good for me to go away for a bit. In Surrey, I discovered not only how much I love children, but also that I have a talent for managing them.” She paused, and though she didn’t smile, her face lit up suddenly, as if the sun had just come back out, looking through him, past him, into her future. “If I had children, I’d never be bored.”

His cynical side was impelled to remind her of reality. “Yes, you would.”

“Well, perhaps I would sometimes,” she said. Unexpectedly, she grinned. “But not often, I can promise you, because like my cousin Susan, I intend to have at least eight. Maybe ten. How often can one be bored with a family of ten? What?” she added, her grin changing to a puzzled frown as he laughed.

“Ten children, my sweet, is not a family. It’s a village.”

“Oh, I want that, too,” she assured him. “A village, I mean.”

“Greedy girl.”

“I am, I confess it. I want that big house in the country, and I want a village nearby, and thatched-roof cottages, and a parish church. And horses and dogs and apple orchards and a husband who loves me like mad.”

“And you’ll all live happily ever after,” he said solemnly.

She made a face at him. “Make fun of me if you like, but that’s the life I want.”

“Is it?” he asked before he could stop himself. “Or is it merely that you want escape from the life you’ve had?”

Her smile vanished, her face went stiff, and he wanted to bite his tongue off. Still, damn it all, with that rosy picture in her head, she was just begging for life to disappoint her. Worse, he was reasonably sure she had no idea how easy it would be for a man to take advantage of her idealistic view. He could just imagine some wastrel with a glib tongue and an eye on her newly-acquired connections giving her a line of patter about life in the country and plenty of children, and she’d fall right into his lap like a ripe plum. Her father would certainly not be able to protect her from such a man.

Still, it wasn’t any of his business what she chose for her life. “My apologies,” he muttered. “That was a boorish thing to say.”

“Yes,” she agreed, giving him no quarter. “It was.”

“You mustn’t mind the things I say, Clara. Anyone who knows me well knows I’m a terribly cynical fellow.”

Strangely, the stiffness eased out of her face, and she smiled a little. “I don’t know you well at all, and I’m already aware of that fact.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough. I just hope I haven’t ruined this friendship of ours before it’s even begun? Because if I have,” he added before she could answer, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the invitation, “you won’t accept this, and my great-aunt will shred me into spills, a painful experience I’d prefer to avoid.”

“And what is this?” she asked as she took the envelope from him.

“Petunia and several of her friends have arranged a picnic party in Hyde Park for Wednesday next. I called upon my aunt earlier today, and when I mentioned my next order of business was a call upon you, she asked me to deliver it. The duke’s family is included in the invitation, by the way.”

“Thank you. It was very kind of your aunt to invite me, and to include them. I can’t say if we are free that day until I ascertain their schedules.”

“Of course. The doings will be just across from Galbraith House, so come through the Stanhope Gate. They’re setting up a big marquee, I understand, so you’re sure to find us.”

She nodded and set the envelope on the tea tray beside her, then returned her attention to him. “About what you said a moment ago . . .”

“Yes?” he prompted when she paused.

“I don’t deny that I am hoping to trade the life I have known for one that I believe would make me happier. You think that is my attempt to run from my father’s drinking?”

“Isn’t it?”

She thought about it for a moment, then she shook her head. “No, I don’t. Because no matter how much I might wish to escape—as you put it—I would never make a marriage for any reason other than deep and mutual love.”

“Love?” He sighed. “My dear girl, why would you ever marry for love? Don’t you want to be happy?”

“Says the man who tells me not to pay attention to anything he says.”

“In this case, you should, because I’m in dead earnest, Clara. If you are looking for happiness in marriage, love is hardly a reliable indicator.”

“Oh?” she countered, quirking a brow at him as she lifted her teacup. “And I suppose your experience as a single man has given you such extensive experience with matrimony?”

He stirred, suddenly on the defensive. “I’ve never been married, that is true. Nor even in love, actually, but—”

“What?” she interrupted, staring at him as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’ve never been in love before?”

“No.”

“Never?” She straightened on the settee, glanced away, set aside her tea, and looked at him again, still seeming quite confounded by this news. “Not even once?”

“No.”

She shook her head, laughing a little. “And of the two of us, I thought I was the one with the lack of experience in matters of romance,” she murmured. “Heavens, even I have been in love before.”

He stared at her, too surprised to point out that one could have a great deal of romance without falling in love. “You have?”

“Of course. His name was Samuel Harlow, and he was the best-looking man I’d ever met—well, except for you, of course. He—”

“Wait,” he begged, holding up one hand to stop her, for he needed a moment to absorb what he’d just heard. “You think I’m good-looking?” He paused and laughed in disbelief. “You do?”

“Oh, stop fishing for compliments. You know you’re a handsome man, and you hardly need me to tell you so.”

Well, yes, he supposed he did know it, and yet, from her, it seemed something of a revelation. “On the contrary,” he murmured. “In this case, I think I am in need of a compliment or two. Besides, we’ve become friends now, and one ought to compliment one’s friends. But I can see you’ve no intention of buttering me up any more today,” he added with a sigh of mock regret when she made no reply, “so carry on. Who was this Harlow chap?”

“Mr. Harlow arrived in our parish the summer I turned seventeen, and I fell in love with him the moment I laid eyes on him. We saw each other quite often, for he lived just two blocks from here. I also saw him at church, of course, and sometimes we would invite him to luncheon or tea with us afterward—Papa wasn’t as bad then as he is now. In those days, he didn’t usually start drinking until well after tea time. Anyway, whenever Mr. Harlow came, I was always the one to whom he paid his attentions. Me,” she added as if in surprise, pressing a hand to her chest. “Not Irene.”

Rex felt a surge of frustration at this self-deprecating comparison to her sister. He thought of how she’d looked a few moments ago, with the sun revealing her lithe, slim silhouette to his gaze, and he was sorely tempted to haul her over to his end of the settee and show her a few of the reasons a man might pay her his attentions. With great effort, however, he managed to refrain. “And you found such attentions surprising, did you?”

“Well, it had never happened to me before. Men are usually too occupied with staring at my sister to notice I’m even in the room.” She paused and laughed. “But then, of course, Irene would say something about her goal to achieve the vote for women, and we’d never see the chap again.” Her laughter faded to a thoughtful frown. “I sometimes think she said things like that on purpose, to drive them away because they admired her instead of me, as if afraid my feelings would be hurt.”

He didn’t want to talk about her practically perfect sister. “So, you fell in love with this man,” he said. “What happened next?”

“One day, we were in the vestry alone together. It was after some parish meeting for a charity bazaar, and I stayed behind the others.”

He lifted a brow. “On purpose? Why, Clara, you naughty girl.”

Her tiny nose wrinkled up ruefully. “If I was trying to be naughty, it didn’t do me any good. There we were, alone together. A perfect opportunity, and he didn’t even kiss me.”

At once, Rex’s gaze moved to her pale pink lips. “He was probably just trying to behave himself,” he said, striving to think of all the reasons he needed to do the same. “Anything else would be conduct unworthy of a gentleman.”

Even as he spoke, arousal stirred inside him, making it clear his body didn’t care a jot about gentlemanly conduct.

“That’s what I thought, too, at first,” she said. “After all, we were inside the church.”

Rex studied her, thinking of all the shadowy corners in his own parish church back home that would be perfect for cornering Clara and stealing a kiss or two. “I’m not sure being in church would be much of a deterrent,” he said, his control slipping a notch. “To a determined man.”

“I rather think it is, at least if you’re the vicar.”

Those words were sufficiently astonishing to divert him from his rather irreverent fantasy. “You fell in love with a vicar?”

“I wasn’t the only one. Most of the girls in our parish were in love with him at one time or another. As I said, he was very good-looking. Church was never as full before he came. And you wouldn’t believe the number of knitted gloves and embroidered tea cloths he received at Christmas.”

Rex grinned, imagining the picture. She was a good storyteller. “No doubt.”

“Anyway, that afternoon in the vestry was rather a disappointment to me, but afterward, he continued to pay me a great deal of attention. He never showed any interest in the other young ladies in the parish, even the bolder ones who flung themselves at him. So, I thought . . . I hoped—”

She stopped, and shrugged. “It was foolish.”

“What happened?” he asked when she didn’t go on. “He proposed to someone else, I suppose?”

“Oh, no,” she replied at once. “He proposed to me. But I refused him.”

“What?” Rex straightened on the settee, staring at her as she turned matter-of-factly to reach for her tea. “But you were in love with him, you said.”

“I was. Madly. But when he proposed, I realized I couldn’t marry him. It was the way he put it. He said he had a warm regard for me.” She paused over her tea, making a face. “A warm regard. I ask you,” she added, sounding suddenly indignant, “is that the sort of feeling that’s going to set a girl’s pulses racing?”

“Probably not, but how do you know he wasn’t just being respectful and considerate of your maidenly sensibilities?”

“Oh, I’m sure he was. Too considerate. He told me that because I was so sweet, and so pure, I would be the perfect wife for a vicar. We would have, he said, a truly celestial marriage.”

Rex frowned, utterly at a loss. “What sort of marriage is that?”

She stirred, setting her cup and saucer aside again with a clatter. “That’s what I wanted to know! I was forced to ask him straight out if he was saying he didn’t want children. What?” she added, her cheeks going pink as he gave an astonished laugh. “I know the stork doesn’t bring them! Heavens, I’m not that innocent.”

She was every bit that innocent, even if she was aware of basic human biology. But there was no point in launching a discussion on the topic of lovemaking, for he’d just be tormenting himself. “The things you know and don’t know sometimes confound me, Clara,” he murmured instead. “But what was his answer?”

“He said children would not be a consideration for us. Our union, he said, would be above such base carnality.”

Rex’s gaze slid down, and he wondered how any man, even a repressed vicar, could think that living with her and not bedding her would be anything but a living hell.

“The man’s clearly touched,” he muttered. “And wound tighter than his own church clock. But there are some women who would see a marriage like that as quite appealing.”

“Well, I didn’t. I’m not a celestial being, and I don’t want a celestial marriage. I want children, and I told him so.”

“And what did he say to that?”

The color in her cheeks deepened. “He said that if I was insistent upon it, he would agree, but the . . . the act w . . . would be distasteful to him.” She paused, swallowing hard. “That’s what he said. Distasteful. What man thinks that?”

Rex stirred in his seat. “Not this one,” he muttered, acutely aware of the fact at this moment.

“We’re not Shakers, for heaven’s sake,” she went on in bewilderment, not seeming to have heard his muttered words. “Why would he want such a marriage?”

Rex could see only two possible reasons—sexual repression or homosexuality, or possibly both. “Until he became better acquainted with you, he never paid much attention to any of the young women in the parish, you said?”

“No attention at all. He seemed to prefer the company of the young men.”

That, in Rex’s mind, rather settled the matter. “It’s only a guess, but I’d say he suggested this arrangement because he was about to be arrested.”

She frowned, looking surprised. “He did leave the parish afterward, but I thought it was because I refused him. Why would a vicar be in fear of arrest?”

Rex was in no frame of mind to explain some men’s desire for other men or that such desires were illegal or that becoming a vicar and getting married were possible ways for such a man to divert suspicion from his preferences and avoid prison. “Never mind,” he said before she could delve into what he meant. “Did you ask him what his reasons might be?”

“No. I was too busy asking myself why he thought I would accept such a marriage.” Her round face twisted suddenly, went a bit awry. “Did he think me so desperate to be married that I would be willing to forgo physical love? Or did he think me so undesirable that I could not realistically expect to ever receive it?”

Her questions, and the rawness in her voice as she asked them, threatened to send Rex straight off the rails and over the cliff. He curled his hands into fists, took a deep breath, and reminded himself sternly to stay on his side of the settee.

“Well, he was wrong,” she choked. “I may be plain, and I may not have men tripping over themselves to propose to me, but even so, I would prefer never to marry than to settle for a marriage like that. I would rather have no husband at all than one who thinks me so undesirable that a true union with me would be distasteful.”

Like a dam breaking, his control crumbled, desire overcame him like a flood, and he found himself beside her before he’d even realized he was moving.

“You’re not undesirable,” he said, his voice savage even to his own ears. “For God’s sake, if you pay no attention to anything else I ever say, Clara, pay attention to that. You, my sweet, are eminently desirable, and any man who can’t see that making love to you would be like heaven on earth is an idiot, or a fool, or doesn’t desire women at all. I am none of those things, which is why during the entire time we’ve been sitting here sipping tea like civilized people, I’ve been having thoughts about you that would burn your wretched vicar’s notions of your purity to a crisp.”

She stared at him in astonishment, her face pink as a peony. “You have?”

“I have, so put that in your pipe and smoke it. And while we’re on the subject,” he added, appreciating too late that telling her about his erotic thoughts was only fanning the flames inside him, “you’re not the least bit plain, so rid yourself of that notion, too, if you please.”

She frowned, a hint of wary skepticism coming into her face. “You don’t need to soothe my feminine pride, you know,” she said. “I’m no great beauty, and I accepted the fact long ago.”

“Beauty, my luscious lamb, is in the eye of the beholder.” He leaned closer, irresistibly drawn. “When I look at you, would you like to know what I see?”

“I—” She folded her arms, as if propping up a shield between them—very wise of her given his confession of a moment ago. Her frown deepened. “I’m not sh . . . sure.”

“I shall tell you anyway, because you are clearly in need of additional opinions on the subject. The first time I ever saw you in that ballroom, I likened you in my mind to a morsel of shortbread on a tray of French pastries.”

She made a face, clearly not thinking much of the comparison. “So, plain and ordinary, in other words.”

“I happen to adore shortbread, I’ll have you know, and so do a lot of other people.”

“Shortbread, indeed.” She made a scoffing sound. “What’s next? A mention of my sweet disposition?”

Despite what his body was enduring, he couldn’t help a grin. “Hardly, since I’ve yet to see it. With me, you’re usually prickly as a chestnut, Clara.”

She sniffed, her round chin jerking a little. “I’ve had some provocation on that score.”

He had no intention of being sidetracked now. “I’m going to tell you exactly what I think of your looks, all right?” He took a profound, shaky breath, knowing what he was about to say was deuced important, and he had to keep his arousal in check or he’d never be able to say it without hauling her onto his lap and kissing her senseless. “I’m going to start with your eyes, because if memory serves, I told you once that you’ve got expressive eyes, and it’s quite true. Unless you’re embarrassed, your face rarely gives you away, so if I want to gauge what you are really thinking, I look in your eyes.”

She ducked her chin, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of him being able to discern what she was thinking, but he wasn’t about to let her get by with that. Touching her right now, however, would be akin to lighting a match in a room full of powder kegs, so he bent down, tilting his head so that she had nowhere else to look but at him. “Eyes like yours are dangerous, Clara. They can slay a man with a look like an arrow through the heart. I should know,” he added, smiling a little, “because I’ve had to dig several arrows out of my chest since we met.”

“Don’t,” she ordered in a fierce whisper, lifting her face to scowl at him. “Don’t tease.”

He wasn’t teasing, not a bit, but he decided not to hammer the point. Safer for him if she didn’t appreciate the power she had to wound him. “You’ve got lovely skin,” he said instead, and because it was suddenly impossible not to touch her, he lifted his hand and allowed himself the torture of sliding his fingertips slowly across her cheek. It was like touching warm silk. “And some pretty freckles, too, I’ve noticed.”

“F . . . freckles aren’t p . . . pretty. That’s absurd.”

“Haven’t we already established that your opinion on this topic isn’t to be trusted? Now, where were we? Ah, yes,” he added, pressing the tip of his index finger to the patch of skin between her brows, smoothing out the frown that had appeared at his mention of freckles. “I think we were coming to your nose.”

“What about my nose?” she cried, telling him he was touching on a vulnerable point, and he decided a frank acknowledgement was his best bet.

“Well, it’s tiny, Clara.” He slid his fingertip slowly down the bridge. “It’s the tiniest button nose I’ve ever seen.”

She sighed, her breath a soft huff of acknowledgement against his palm. “It’s a ridiculous nose, I know,” she whispered. “I used to pinch it all the time when I was a girl, hoping it would turn Grecian, but it never did.”

“Good thing, too, because it’s adorable just as it is.” He pulled his hand back a fraction to plant a kiss on the turned-up tip.

She gave a startled gasp at the contact and unfolded her arms, pressing her palms against his chest as if to push him away, impelling him again into speech. “And lastly,” he said, “there’s your mouth.”

Her palms stilled against his chest.

“It’s my favorite part of your face.” He opened his palm to cup her cheek and touched his thumb to her lips, giving in to the inevitable. “It’s because of your smile. When I was giving the Devastated Debutante examples of how she might draw men’s attention, and I put in the part about smiling, I was thinking of you.”

“Me?” The word was a squeak of surprise.

“Yes, you.” He moved his thumb, sliding it back and forth across her mouth. “Surely you know why?”

“Not really,” she confessed in a strangled whisper.

As he grazed his thumb back and forth across her mouth, he could feel her breathing quicken, and he knew he ought to stop, for what he was doing was well beyond the pale and no doubt beyond her experience as well. In fact, this might even be the first time in her life she’d been intimately touched by a man.

If he possessed any hope, however vague, that reminders of her virginal innocence would give him the will to call a halt, he discovered at once that the very opposite was true. Her innocence seemed to inflame the wickedest desires within him and make him want her even more. He wasn’t certain how much longer he could keep lust at bay. And yet, he could not pull back.

“You might think I put in that bit to help you overcome your shyness and further your goal of finding a husband,” he went on, “but that wasn’t my reason at all.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No. My reason was purely selfish. You see, you have this stunning, absolutely ripping smile, and I’d really like the pleasure of seeing it more often. Most of the time, you’re so damnably serious. But when you smile . . .” He paused, his thumb stilling against her parted lips. “Ah, Clara, when you smile, you light up the room. Surely you know that?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head a little, as if she wanted to deny it or she didn’t believe him. “This is not a real courtship,” she said, her lips brushing against his thumb as she spoke, her hands curling into fists against his gray morning coat. “There is no need for you to pay me compliments.”

There was every need, since it was clear she’d received precious few of them in the past, but he didn’t debate the point. “Which doesn’t make what I’ve said any less true.”

“I’m not sure I can trust you to tell the truth about anything,” she mumbled against his thumb.

“What if I stop using words altogether, then, hmm?” He slid his thumb under her chin and pushed gently against her jaw, lifting her face. “Words aren’t necessary anyway.”

“They aren’t?” she whispered.

“Not for what I want to say.” With that, he bent his head and kissed her.