The trouble with sleeping was that one had no control over one’s dreams, a rather bleary-eyed Beth decided the next morning. It was not really a horrid problem in and of itself. It was just that it made waking so disappointing, like discovering that instead of duck in mint sauce for supper, there was only thick, cold porridge.

She sat now at her dresser, pulling a heavy silver brush through her hair and absently gazing at herself in the mirror. She should not meet Lord Westerville in secret, and certainly not without a chaperone. Still…it was the British Museum and not some locale of debauchery like a gaming hell or…or…or…

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. What other debauchery locales were there besides gaming hells? There were houses of ill repute, to be certain—places where women of unsavory character might reside. And then there were…What else was there? Well, it didn’t matter, really. Westerville had to know perfectly well that such clandestine behavior could have consequences. Serious consequences. Consequences like being forced to marry.

Beth curled her nose at her reflection in the mirror. That would certainly be a horrid way to wed, at the end of a sword as in a bad play. Of course, being married to a man like Westerville…A tiny shiver went down her spine. That might be something altogether different.

She turned her head and began to brush her hair over her other shoulder. It was so long it almost touched her lap, the honey blond and lighter strands curling a little at the ends. Meeting Westerville would be a very risky, very intrepid, very foolish endeavor indeed.

Her gaze found the clock on the dresser, and she noted that it was not yet nine. Plenty of time to go, if she was going to, which she wasn’t.

Or was she? Somehow, even though she knew the potential pitfalls, she couldn’t make herself give up the faintest hope that…well, that she might actually do it.

The truth was that she wanted to see him again. And not where a million prying eyes could evaluate their every move. She wanted him to herself, to see if perhaps he felt the same tremors of excitement that she did. But especially to discover why he was so interested in Grandfather. Something odd was at work there; she could almost taste it. For Grandfather’s sake, if not her own, she needed to discover what was afoot with the handsome viscount. It was entirely possible the man had nefarious plans, for his past was certainly shadowy enough to suggest such a thing.

She paused, the silver brush held motionless at her temple as she recalled her dreams from last night. Unsettling dreams. Vague dreams. Dreams of Westerville and his mouth on hers. What was it about the man? He was certainly handsome, devastatingly so. With his pale green eyes and black hair, he was the epitome of devilish good looks that could make a woman imagine herself wildly in love.

But Beth was not like that. Her pragmatic nature did not lend itself to such romantic goings-on. Indeed, though she appreciated the viscount’s disturbing handsomeness, it was something else that drew her hither. It was the challenge. The excitement. The forbidden air of his very masculine—

“My lady?”

Beth started, whirling around to see Annie standing almost behind her. Beth pressed a hand to her thudding heart. “Goodness! You frightened me!”

“I don’t know why when I’ve been natterin’ at ye all the way from the dressin’ room. Are ye feelin’ well?”

“Well?”

Annie glanced at Beth’s hand where she held the brush motionless at her temple.

Beth replaced the brush on the dresser. “I am quite well, thank you. I was just thinking about something.”

“Right deeply, from the looks of it,” Annie said, her brows lowered. “Ye’re already dressed, too.”

Beth smiled a little at the hint of censure in Annie’s voice. “I can dress myself, you know.”

“The question is not whether ye can, but whether ye should.” Annie looked her up. Then down. “I was right yesterday; ’tis a man,” she said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Beth looked down at her walking gown of blue muslin. “How can you tell? I mean,” she amended hastily, “of course it’s not a man, but why would you think such a thing?”

“Because just last week ye said the neckline on that gown was too low. And now, here ye are, a-wearin’ it. It’s a man.”

Beth made an exasperated noise. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Annie picked up the brush. “Would ye like me to put up yer hair fer whatever man it is that ye’re after?”

“I am not after any man.” At least, not to dally with. She just wished to discover the viscount’s motives. The more she thought of it, the more she realized that the viscount had not sought her out solely to pay her compliments. Which was a sad thing, really. Had he seriously been interested in her, she might have rethought her plans. But that was neither here nor there—he had other motives; she was certain of it.

Though she was sadly flattered by his attention, she was not naive enough to think he’d fallen senseless at her feet because of her blond tresses or any other such nonsense.

No, the man was after something, and if it wasn’t her fortune, what was it? She frowned. Upon catching Annie’s considering gaze in the mirror, Beth sniffed. “I am not after any man. If you must know, I am embarking on a Mission of Truth.”

Annie twisted Beth’s hair into a neat knot at the base of her neck, and then pinned it all in place with a blue silk rose to one side. “If ye’re not after a man, then there’s at least a man involved in yer efforts, whatever they may be.”

The maid stepped back to admire her handiwork. “’Tis not so horrid, bein’ after a man. I’ve been after one or two meself. My second husband, Clyde Darrow, was a right shy fellow. I had to almost toss myself at his head before he would so much as look at me.” Annie patted her red curls. “But when he did finally notice me, he never stopped.”

“Sounds like true love.”

“Oh, ’twasn’t love at all. ’Twas more lust with a little fondness tossed in. Still, I was powerful sad when he died.” Annie paused and looked at the ceiling as if trying to remember the details. “Killed by the ague, he was.”

“I thought he fell off the roof trying to fix a loose tile.”

“That was me first husband, Peter Pool.”

“Ah. Sorry.”

“Don’t think on it. I get them confused meself. No, Clyde caught the ague after a cockfight in Stafford-Upon-Wey. Would ye believe the fool wagered on a bird named Bad Luck?” Annie scowled. “’Tis like throwin’ yerself under the wheels of a carriage, spittin’ at fate in such a rash manner.”

“Did you love him?”

“No. Not at first. I grew to be fond of him, of course. But no more.”

“Then why did you wish to marry him?”

Annie looked surprised. “I was a widow, weren’t I? There he was, unwed and makin’ a good living with no one to cook his supper nor warm his bed. And we was quite fond of one another, too.”

“And was that enough? Just…fondness?”

“Depends on what else ye might have in common,” Annie said with a wicked twinkle.

“I always thought love was crucial for a marriage to be successful. At least, that’s what Grandfather has always told me.”

“And yer father? What did he say?”

“I was young when he died. All I really remember about him was that he was quite busy trying to read every book in Grandfather’s library and…well, he wasn’t well the last several years of his life.” He hadn’t been happy, either, though he’d tried not to let it show. And Charlotte…Beth remembered how often her stepmama appeared at the dinner table with eyes reddened from crying. It seemed as if Charlotte was always unhappy about something, though Beth wondered if perhaps there had been a rift of some sort between her father and stepmama. It would explain a lot of things, now that she thought about it.

She’d even once asked Grandfather about it. He’d replied that Father had been deeply in love with Beth’s mother and he shouldn’t have been so quick to think he could replace her, especially with a nitwit like Charlotte. Beth had winced to hear such a sharp opinion, but she privately thought it was probably quite true. Father had succumbed to loneliness and married someone unsuited to life in Massingale House.

“Love or no,” Annie said stoutly, “there’s plenty to be said for marriage.”

“Like what?”

“It gives a name to yer children.”

“I know, I know. That part I understand. But why should anyone wish to marry other than that?”

Annie put the brush back on the table with a definite snap. “Ye don’t know why people should marry? Why, because ’tis the way God meant ’em to be!”

“Without love?”

“Love can come or love cannot come. So long as ’tis a good man and ye’re a good woman, ye’ll be happy enough.”

Beth didn’t think she liked that answer. “Happy enough” was not how she wished to spend the rest of her life. Of course, she didn’t really know what she wanted to do with the rest of her life…but “happy enough” wasn’t it.

Annie sniffed. “I’ve married plenty and only been in love once, meself. With my third husband, Oliver MacOwen, Now that was love.”

“The one who died while herding pigs and they ate him?”

“No, no. ’Twas the other way around. The pigs didn’t eat him; Oliver ate bad sausage and that’s what did him in. ’Tis no way to die, let me tell ye.”

“I can’t imagine it would be.” Beth wondered what it would be like to be married to Viscount Westerville. Certainly they’d have passion, for she felt definite waves of it every time he was near. She was fairly certain he felt it, too. But what else would they have? Perhaps a shared sense of humor; she’d caught a bit of that yesterday afternoon. But that was all.

Yet another reason to spend one more paltry hour with the man, she decided. Just to prove that he was not the sort of man one should marry. She had to smile a little at her faulty reasoning; if there was one thing she already knew, it was that the dark and dangerous Viscount Westerville was not the sort of man one should marry. He was, however, unusually interested in Grandfather.

The clock chimed the quarter hour and Beth looked at the clock. If she went, she was taking a chance with her reputation. If she didn’t go, she would never discover why Westerville’s interest in Grandfather was for good or ill.

Beth glanced at the maid. “Annie, I believe I shall visit the museum today.”

“The museum? Again? Ye just went a week ago!”

“There’s a new display.”

Annie shook her head. “I don’t see what ye find interestin’ about looking at things that once’t belonged to a bunch of dead people, but I suppose ye enjoy it well enough.”

“I love the museum.”

“Off with ye then,” Annie said, straightening the bottles and brushes on the dressing table. “And don’t forget to smile.” She curled her top lip and tapped on her front tooth. “Men like a woman with a good set of nippers.”

“I never said I was going to meet a man. I am going to the museum though.” Beth stood. “But since we are talking about it, how do you know you are in love?”

Annie snorted, opening the wardrobe door and removing a mint green pelisse. “Law, my lady! That’s as easy as they come. If ye find yerself thinkin’ perhaps ye have the ague, but ye’ve no fever, then ye’re in love.”

“It feels like the ague?” Beth pulled the pelisse over her gown and buttoned it up. “Every time?”

“More oft than naught.”

Goodness. What a horrid thing. “No wonder people run from it.” Beth opened the door. “I shall return soon. Please have the blue and cream silk visiting gown ready. I’m to see Lady Chudrowe this afternoon.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Beth left her room, her mind racing. She would meet the viscount only this one time, and then—never again. Surely one more meeting would not put her in too great a danger of being seduced.

She took the stairs quickly and dashed through the foyer to where the carriage awaited. The day was gray and overcast, a heavy wind lifting her gown and swirling it about her ankles. Beth shivered a little and pulled her pelisse closer.

“My lady?” the groom asked as he opened the door to the carriage.

“The British Museum.”

“Of course, madam.” Within moments, the carriage was rocking its way through the heavily traveled roads of London. They reached the British Museum quite a bit earlier than ten. The coachman looked uncertain when he saw no one there to meet her. Beth had to inform him rather haughtily that her party was already inside and that naturally none of them was waiting for her on the steps as it was about to rain.

That satisfied him and soon the carriage was gone. Beth ran up the wide marble steps of the British Museum and made her way across the marble portico.

Her half boots clicked smartly as she pushed open the huge, heavy doors and walked inside. An attendant raced up to take her pelisse, but Beth shook her head. It was quite cold inside the museum, and she had no intention of shivering her way through the next half hour. Besides, the coat added yet another layer of protection, and she needed all she could get.

Beth paid for a subscription ticket, took the guidebook from the attendant, and made her way into the entryway toward several wooden and glass cases. Inside each was a variety of colorful and intricate Chinese silk fans being admired by several onlookers.

Pretending an interest she did not feel, Beth paused at the display. Inwardly she was trembling, wondering when the viscount would arrive and what he would say. Of their own accord, the memories of her dreams began to flash through her mind, vivid and startling.

Her body immediately began to respond; her skin prickled, her breasts tightened, a restless feeling spread from her stomach to her knees.

“Oh, just stop it!” she told herself. She caught the startled gaze of a matron who was standing near.

A hot blush rose in Beth’s cheeks. If she was not careful, the entire world would think her mad. “I said, ah, ‘How startling!’”

The matron blinked.

Beth pointed to one of the fans in the case. “The red fan. It is quite startling.” She enunciated every syllable very distinctly.

An expression of relief crossed the woman’s face. “I thought you’d said something about shopping.” The woman’s cheeks creased as she grinned good-naturedly. “I never miss a comment about shopping unless I can help it.”

Beth chuckled. “Nor I! I am sorry to have disturbed your viewing.”

The woman shrugged. “Not at all. I just—” Her eyes widened as she focused on something past Beth’s shoulder. Her mouth sagged open, and she didn’t move until her companion—an older man who looked sorely displeased when he realized what the woman was staring at—harrumphed loudly, took her by the arm, and pulled her to the other side of the room.

It was Westerville. It had to be. Blast it, why did she have to be attracted to a man who looked so like a fallen angel that women could not help but stare? It was most annoying. The sad truth was that she was mad. Mad to come here, mad to think she could get any sort of information from a man she barely knew.

She should just leave. That is what a sane woman would do. Leave and never look back. She could write a nice note from the safety of her own home and be done with the whole thing. Of course, she’d never discover his intentions toward Grandfather. She didn’t think he’d respond kindly to such high-handed treatment, and it would definitely make her persona non grata in his eyes.

Oddly, the thought of never seeing him again made her feel strange. Not lost, really—she didn’t know the man that well. But wistful, as if she’d found something special, and then misplaced it.

A prickle up her back told her he was approaching. She quickly pretended to be absorbed in her guidebook. As she stood there, head bent over the book, a faint sliver of heat tumbled over her skin and between her shoulders.

Her entire body tightened with response. She had to remember herself and, worse, remember to stutter, at least a bit. She wet her lips, straightening her shoulders and trying to ignore the crazed beating of her heart.

It was ridiculous to have such a reaction to a mere presence. Ridiculous and a complete waste of time.

A hand closed over her elbow, and heat flared up her arm, making her breasts tingle, her lashes flutter over her eyes.

“There you are.” The deep, melodious voice dipped lower, nearer. “I have been looking for you.”

Beth sucked in her breath and tried desperately to gather herself. “H-have you?” She tugged her arm gently, trying to pull free.

He released her elbow, but slowly, allowing it to slide from his long fingers, his touch lingering. “I did not know if you would come.”

Gathering herself, she turned and smiled brightly up at him, trying not to look him directly in the eyes. “Of course I c-c-came. I could not resist a ch-ch-challenge, and you know it.”

He grinned, his lips quirked in amusement. He looked much as she’d thought he would, except for one thing. He was slightly unkempt—his eyes unusually bright, his hair mussed, a faint shadow to his face as if he’d just—

He was still wearing his evening clothes.

“You…you haven’t been home since last night!”

His teeth flashed, startlingly white. “Observant lass, aren’t you?” Dissipation etched deep lines in his face, making his eyes appear more deep set than usual.

The jackanapes didn’t even have the decency to pretend to be embarrassed. Beth plopped her hands on her hips, righteous indignation flooding away her previous trepidation. “My lord—”

“Christian.”

“My lord,” she repeated stubbornly, “I don’t know why I agreed to meet you here.”

“I do.”

She paused at the sound of certainty in his voice. “Why?”

“Because you are curious.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am.” She met his gaze directly. “Why are you interested in my grandfather?”

There was a long, heavy pause, then the viscount leaned one shoulder against the wall and slid his hands deep into his pockets.

Beth thought he would argue with her, or at least downplay his interest from the day before. She was ready for prevarication, deception, and subterfuge.

She wasn’t ready for him to look directly at her mouth and say, “You have quite an unusual stutter.”

She ground her teeth, her hand fisting about the hapless guidebook. She’d forgotten that silly stutter once again, blast it. “Un-un-unusual? H-h-h-how so?”

Christian watched his now-flushed companion with amusement. “It’s odd; it comes and goes at the most opportune times.”

Elizabeth’s fists clenched at her sides, her mouth pressed into a straight line. He could tell she was struggling with irritation at her own forgetfulness and discomfort at his direct questioning. He hadn’t planned on taxing her so, even though he’d decided yesterday that her stutter was a scheme of some sort, probably a simple attempt to free herself from the clutches of those fools he’d seen pestering her in the park.

Frankly, he’d have done far worse to be rid of the lot of them.

But when she’d looked directly at him and asked why he was interested in her grandfather, his good intentions flew out the window. He hadn’t meant his questioning to be so obvious. But perhaps he hadn’t been. Perhaps he had just been dealing with a very, very astute young woman.

He stepped forward, his arm brushing hers. “Please feel free to stammer away. I find it quite attractive.”

Her irritation disappeared behind a flash of surprise. “Attractive?”

“Very.” He took her hand and placed it within the crook of his arm and led her out of the display room and down a side corridor. He paused at the door to the first room and glanced in, but found it far too crowded. He took the crushed guidebook from her hand and paged through it. “Are you interested in Etruscan art?”

“What? I—no. I don’t think so.”

“Good. Neither am I. Furthermore, I doubt anyone here is interested in it, either.” He slid the book into his pocket and drew her down the hallway, toward the last door.

“Where are we going?”

“You will see.” He reached the door and looked inside, then gave a satisfied nod. “Ah. Just as I thought. It is perfect.”

She halted on the doorway, pulling her hand free from his clasp as she looked about the exhibit room. “No one is here.”

“Did you wish someone to be?” Christian leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, admiring the way the soft light from the window caught the light in her curls. “Someone other than me?”

She bit her lip and looked at the door, then back to him. He could almost see the war being fought behind her brown eyes. She was curious about him, of that he was certain. But she was also cautious.

She sighed. “I should have known this would turn out like this. I should not have come without a chaperone.”

“Why?” he asked, amused. “Are you afraid I will attempt to seduce you?”

To his surprise, his comment did not embarrass her. Indeed, she sent him an exasperated glance before saying in a chilled voice, “With you, I am never certain of anything. You are always…hinting.”

“Hinting?”

“Yes,” she said severely. “About things. Things like—like us. Do not pretend you don’t know it, for I am quite certain you do.”

Christian laughed a little at that. He’d spent the entire night in a gaming hell just south of here. He’d gambled and flirted and drunk his fill, trying all the while not to think of this meeting. He’d been grossly unsuccessful. The blue ink on the gaming cards had reminded him of Elizabeth’s bonnet ribbons, the warm brown ale had carried the same light as her expressive eyes, the widow who’d tried to tempt him into going upstairs with her had—for all her obvious beguilements and wiles—been plain and unexciting compared to Elizabeth. All in all, his “escape” had turned into an endless cycle of memories.

She was damnably entrancing, and he regretted having to use her. His admiration of her was real, though. Too real. So real, in fact, that last night when he’d returned home after having a late supper at White’s, he had been unable to sleep, but had tossed and turned in his bed. Every time Christian closed his eyes, he saw Elizabeth’s face, peeping up at him, that damnably certain smile on her lips, her brown eyes warm and inviting.

It was quite unlike Christian to lose sleep over anything. Not since he’d been a child had silly emotions kept him awake all night. But thanks to Reeves and his constant harping about “seducing innocents,” sleep had proven elusive indeed. After an hour of uncomfortable reflection Christian’d gotten back up, dressed once again, and left the house. Free from the whispers of his bedchamber, he’d made his way to the nearest gaming hell where he’d spent the time ’til dawn tossing his coins on the table and drinking just enough to keep his thoughts dulled and unsharpened.

Now, awake but heated by the brandy he’d consumed, Christian pushed himself from the wall and moved until he stood directly before Elizabeth. It always startled him to realize how small she was; the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. For some reason, she always seemed taller. Elizabeth raised her brows, but did not pull back.

Christian lifted a finger to the lace at the shoulder of her gown and traced the outline of the fleur-de-lis embroidered on her pelisse. “I have been thinking about that entrancing stutter of yours. I quite believe it to be a ruse to chase off those mongrels that were sniffing at your skirts in the park.”

An arrested expression froze on her face before she flushed deeply. “I don’t stutter all of the time.”

“Oh, pray don’t explain it away. I enjoy your stutter.”

“How can you say that?”

He grinned. “Because I love the way your lips pucker at the sounds. Your stutter is an act of seduction. An invitation to seal your troubled lips with a kiss.”

“If you think a stutter is an invitation to a kiss, then it’s a good thing I did not belch, else you might have thought that an invitation to my bed.”

He threw back his head and laughed, long and loud. “I do not think you capable of either.” His fingers lifted to her chin, and he held her face tilted to his. “In fact, I’d wager my entire fortune you no more stutter than I.”

“Who are you to—” She snapped her mouth closed, a frown on her brow. Her eyes glared into his for a full moment before she sighed sharply and waved a hand. “Oh blast it all! You are right, of course. I do not stutter. I just did not want some fool offering for me. Grandfather might—” She stopped, her gaze narrowing.

“Your grandfather might what?”

“Nothing.”

Before, Christian had always thought brown eyes were merely soft and feminine, but hardly exciting. But on Elizabeth, they became something more—wildly determined, warm and unyielding, sparkling with anger, and altogether exciting.

He chuckled, rather pleased. “So the lovely Lady Elizabeth is frightening off her suitors one st-t-t-tuttered word at a time.”

“Lord Westerville, what I do or do not do is none of your concern.”

“I beg to differ,” he said softly. He brushed the back of his hand over the soft skin of her cheek. “What you do is of the utmost concern to me.”

And it was. This woman held the key to everything—to his past, certainly, and perhaps even his future. In some ways, because of that connection, Elizabeth was bound to him more closely than any woman he’d ever known.

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, for her eyes narrowed and she leaned away ever so slightly. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

He captured one of her curls as it fell over her ear. Silky soft, her thick blond hair begged to be released from the pins. “What you do is important to me because you are who you are.”

She jerked her head back, pulling the silky soft curl from his fingers even as her eyes blazed up into his. “Who I am? You mean the granddaughter of the Duke of Massingale. Westerville, it is time you explained your interest in my grandfather.”

Christian managed a casual shrug. “I was just being polite in asking about your closest relative.”

“I don’t believe that.” Her gaze never wavered, and the faint smile on her lips did not reach her eyes. “Yesterday, every time Grandfather’s name was mentioned, you lit up like a newly clipped candle.”

Damn it! She was quick-witted. Almost too much so. What could he say now?

Her mouth tightened. “I know you are not pursuing me for some silly, passion-filled notion. You are not the type for such romantic drivel and neither am I.”

She was right. If it had been any other woman than Elizabeth, he’d have simply declared himself deeply in love; most women wanted to hear such drivel and would believe it no matter how improbable.

But he somehow thought Elizabeth was made of sterner stuff. She would not accept a romantic declaration, which was a pity for he’d had just enough wine to make such a thing desirable. And being close to her was increasing the heady effects of the libations he’d used to drown out his sleepless night. That left him with the truth, and he had no intention of imparting that.

He bowed, smiling faintly. “Whatever I do, I will not bore either of us with romantic drivel, as you so correctly term it.”

“Thank you,” she said, turning and walking toward the closest display case. It held a number of small stone figures, which she peered at with feigned interest, her smile set in a way that made him uneasy. After a moment, she turned to look at him. “I am going to discover why you want to know about my grandfather, one way or another.”

He could not mistake the sincerity of her words. “Indeed.”

“Yes,” she said firmly, then turned back to the display.

He came to stand beside her, leaning on the case with one arm and noting that the nape of her neck was exposed as she bent over the display. “How do you plan on discovering my secrets—if I have any?”

She glanced up at him, her lashes casting shadows over her cheeks. “Logic. You are obviously a man of sophisticated tastes. I do not think you would normally dally with a woman who is so obviously being placed out for marriage.”

He raised his brows. “You?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t understand. My grandfather was not hesitant in letting the world know I was on the market and his heir as well.” She leaned her elbow on the case and faced him so that they were now standing mirror image.

“Let me explain what bothers me thus far,” she said smoothly. “First, you are sending out the unmistakable message you are pursuing me.”

He moved forward ever so slightly. She had the lushest lips. Plump and pink and turned up ever so slightly at the corners, even when she was in repose. “Go on.”

“Second, you are not interested in me in a romantic fashion. You, my lord, are not that sort.”

Her hair, too, was such a sensual shade. He smiled, remembering the feel of it beneath his fingertips. “Elizabeth, I find you attractive. I will not deny that.”

“Yes, but I am an unattached, marriageable female. Under other circumstances, you would run from an acquaintance with me.”

Damn, but she had measured him well. Still, it would not do to encourage her. “Perhaps.” His gaze drifted over her. “Perhaps not.”

“And third,” she replied in a firm voice, “You don’t seem all that interested in my dowry, either.”

“You are right. I have my own funds, my love. I have no need of yours.” He shrugged. “My father did me the favor of dying without legitimate issue. My brother and I benefited greatly from it.”

Her brows drew down. “Without legitimate issue? But your brother inherited the title, did he not?”

“Yes. And I inherited the title of viscount, but only because my father forged a church registry saying he’d married Mother years ago.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Forged? Are you joking with me, Westerville?”

“Would I joke about being illegitimate?” He shook his head. “I am a bastard, though a wealthy, titled one. My father, the late Earl of Rochester, attempted to legitimize me, poorly done as it was. All the world knows. Not that it matters.”

“I cannot believe you would so freely admit to such. Surely there are other relatives who might come forward if what you say is true. Relatives who might want both the title and the fortune.”

“They’d have to battle their way through a swarm of trustees, many of whom wear very large buttons, have exaggerated shirt points, and possess far too many little yappy dogs.” Christian feigned a shiver. “Personally, I would rather eat raw snails.”

Her lips quivered. “A swarm of Bartholomew Babies, I take it?”

“Complete fribbles, the lot of them.” He returned her smile. “My father did not care if he was a good father, but he was bound and determined to always be first in fashion.”

“That’s a pity.”

Christian shrugged. “When he needed a group of trustworthy advisers to administer his estate and assist his lost sons, who other than the very men who’d critiqued his cravat for years on end?”

She tilted her head to one side, her gaze thoughtful. “You sound a bit bitter.”

“Me? Bitter?” Christian waved a hand. “Rochester’s obsession with fashion was more important than his responsibility as a parent. With that, I have no problem; what little I know of him, I don’t believe he would have been very good at it, anyway. But that he allowed my mother to die in a prison, falsely accused—” Christian snapped his lips closed. “I find it difficult to either forget or forgive that.”

“So would I.”

“Lest you think my father completely worthless, let me state that his stewardship was unparalleled. Under his touch, the estates flourished in a way few other men could have done.”

“My grandfather is the same way.”

Christian gave a mirthless smile. “And there ends their similarities; they are both good stewards. I have been going through the estate records left by my father; it astounds me the amount of time he put forth to bring the family fortune to what it is.”

“You sound as if you admire him a little.”

“That would be too kind of a word. Let us just say that I respect his ability to get things done. There is much to be learned from a man’s successes, no matter who he is.”

“This is all very interesting, Westerville,” Beth said, sending him a surprisingly level look. “But that is neither here nor there. What is it you really want from me? What is it about Grandfather that interests you so?”

Christian’s gaze touched the curve of Beth’s lashes and the proud line of her cheek, the delicately audacious chin, to the swell of her breasts beneath her gown. In all his years of riding the High Toby and trysting with the women whose jewels he stole, he had never met a woman like this.

She was neither jaded nor spoiled, but simply herself. There was a freshness about this woman, the feeling of a bed newly made with just-washed sheets still warm from the iron. It was the feeling of coming home and leaving for some great adventure, combined into one.

He reached up and cupped her cheek, sliding his thumb over her warm skin. “I will admit to one thing and one thing only, and that is that you are beautiful.”

Her fingers closed over his wrist, halting his wandering hand just short of her hair. “And you, Westerville, are not answering my question.”

Christian almost allowed his frustration to show. He could not answer her question without giving himself away, and his avoidance of it only made her wonder all the more.

It was a damnable quandary, one to which he had no easy answer. So, left with no choice, he did the only thing he could do—he kissed her.