That evening

On her way to dinner, Willa stopped at the top of the staircase and paused to regain her composure. She felt as though what happened in the folly had left visible traces, as if everyone would take one look at her and know she was a different woman.

A fallen woman.

She hadn’t realized how tightly she had clung to the role of a perfect lady until it vanished. Of course, she was now a betrothed woman, which was a new role as well. The role of wife was coming soon.

Alaric had said, with ferocious emphasis, that he wanted the first banns read in the morning so she couldn’t change her mind. If he had his way, she would be married within the month.

When a hand touched her shoulder, she was so startled that she let out a little squeak. “Good evening,” she said, drawing in an unsteady breath and trying for a nonchalant tone.

As if she hadn’t parted from this man a mere two hours before.

As if she hadn’t pushed him out the door of her bedchamber just when he was threatening to toss her onto the bed again.

“Evie,” her fiancé said, his voice a low rumble. He bent to kiss her, and never mind they might be seen by anyone, including footmen in the entry below.

Even as that thought went through Willa’s mind, Alaric drew her closer, kissing her with such a deep tenderness that her knees weakened and her arms went around his neck.

When at last Alaric drew away, Willa stood, dazed, gazing at her fiancé. She, Wilhelmina Everett Ffynche, was going to marry Lord Alaric Wilde—but not for any of the reasons she’d imagined. Not because he gave her Sweetpea, or because he was so fascinating.

She was going to marry him because she had fallen in love with him.

A polite cough broke into her thoughts. Willa looked to her left and the Duke of Lindow was standing at her elbow. She jumped back, mortified. “I’m so sorry!” she blurted out, and dropped into a low curtsy. A feverish blush spread all the way from her chest to her forehead. “Please excuse us.”

“Good evening, Father,” Alaric said, without a touch of regret in his voice. “How is Her Grace?”

“A false alarm,” the duke said. “The doctor thinks it best that my wife stay in bed at the moment, which she is not enjoying. How are you, Miss Ffynche?” He didn’t look amused but Willa knew, somehow, that he was.

“I am very well,” she managed. She felt like a doomed roly-poly, desperate to curl into a ball of pure humiliation.

His Grace regarded his son. “One might consider a more secluded spot for salutations of this nature.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Alaric responded cheerfully.

The duke bowed and descended the stairs.

Willa waited until His Grace had vanished into the drawing room before she scowled at her fiancé. “This won’t do, Alaric. Stop laughing!”

She braced her hand against his shoulder to fend off another kiss. “No more of that,” she ordered.

Alaric just laughed again. Her future husband didn’t give a damn what people thought about him, and he never would. “Please don’t kiss me in public,” Willa ordered, as she twitched her hips away from his hand.

“But I feel like kissing you every time I look at you,” he said, his voice like plush velvet.

“Moreover, please don’t speak to me of inappropriate things in the company of others. Or in that tone of voice,” she added.

“Yours is the only opinion that matters to me.”

A smile trembled on Willa’s mouth; how often does a woman hear that? All the same, she gave him a mock scowl. “You, Lord Alaric, are going to be Lord Wilde for the evening.”

He grimaced. “I don’t want to have to please anyone. I’m not writing any more books.”

“Lord Wilde is polite and charming to everyone. Quite untruthful, perhaps, but endlessly genial.”

“Lord Alaric wants to strip off your clothing and take you against the wall.”

Despite herself, a giggle escaped Willa’s chest.

Strong arms circled her. “I love that sound,” he murmured in her ear. “It’s pure joy. The silly side of you. The side only I get to see.”

Willa swallowed hard. “Yes, well,” she whispered back, “now we must be proper.”

Alaric sighed. “This is important to you.”

“Very.” She nodded vigorously, because his eyes were searching hers, and he didn’t seem convinced. “Very important.”

“May I visit your room later, and bring you roly-polies, and make you giggle?”

She hesitated. “No more intimacies until we marry.”

He made tragic eyes at her, but she was right and he knew it. “If you insist.” He held out his elbow. “Come along, Willa. Did you notice what I called you? Willa.” He looked disgruntled.

“By rights, you should call me Miss Ffynche.”

Alaric grinned. “That’s a step too far. I caught the most desirable young lady in all of London, and I’m damn well going to flaunt my right to use your first name. You can be Miss Ffynche to all the rest of them. I suspect that my aunt will throw one of the grandest balls this castle has ever seen, merely so that I can show off the fruits of my courtship.”

“She will?”

“You haven’t noticed that my family loves you as much as I do?”

Willa took a deep breath, trying to stop herself from kissing him. “You dislike balls,” she observed.

“I want the world to know you are mine. I would shout it from a mountaintop, if I could.”

Willa slipped her hand through his elbow. “Will you always be this sweet?”

He considered that. “No.”

His smile was pure sin.