Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

D roxford’s butler showed Lazarus to the library at the back of the ground floor. Several cases stuffed with books lined the walls, which were covered in a green patterned paper. There was a seating area near the hearth, an alcove for reading, and a table situated near the window that looked out to the back garden.

Lazarus could imagine himself sitting there with Miss Price as she transformed him into a magnificent reader. Then, when she next mentioned poetry or scientific works, he could claim to have read them. How he’d hated that moment with her. He’d never been more ashamed not to be better at reading.

Droxford strode into the library then. “Afternoon, Somerton. Miss Price has not yet arrived, of course.”

They’d arranged that Lazarus and Miss Price should time their arrivals at least a quarter hour apart, so they would not be seen coming—or going—at the same time. Not that anyone was going to be marking their arrival or departure.

Giving him a rare smile, Droxford came to stand before him. “I know I said this already, but it bears repeating—I’m thrilled you’ve decided to increase your participation in the Lords.”

Lazarus had told him that Miss Price had agreed to help him hone his speech about soldiers returning from war and how to best support them. Upon learning she had a special interest in the topic, which Lazarus actually had no way of knowing, he said that he’d asked for her assistance, particularly given her way with words. Or so Lazarus had told his friend. He certainly wasn’t going to admit to the truth behind their meeting, that he struggled to read.

“It’s about time,” Droxford added. “I feared you simply didn’t possess the passion to do your duty.”

Though Lazarus knew Droxford meant well, his words rankled somewhat. Droxford saw his own position, which he’d only inherited after several family members had died, as one of honor and responsibility—a great privilege.

Lazarus, on the other hand, had been raised from birth to know what was expected of him. His father had guided him to one day be the viscount. That it had happened much sooner than either of them had expected was a tragedy.

His father would be so glad to see that Lazarus had finally found the courage to do more, to face his fears. Only, Lazarus had been coerced into agreeing to the speech by Shefford’s father, the Duke of Henlow. Not because Henlow had persuaded him, but because Lazarus deeply opposed the duke’s position and felt compelled to speak against it.

“I’ve always had the passion,” Lazarus said quietly. “I just haven’t felt the need until now.”

Droxford nodded. “That is more than fair. Tamsin mentioned you have another reason for meeting Miss Price, that you intend to help her with her Season in some way.”

“Did she?” Lazarus wondered why Miss Price had revealed that part of their arrangement, but presumed she had a good reason. “I suppose I neglected to tell you about that aspect. Perhaps because I was certain you’d be more interested in my speech.”

“You know me well,” Droxford said with a rare flash of a smile. “You have my full support in this, and I’m not saying that because we are family.”

More than anything, Lazarus wanted to make his father proud. That at least one of his friends was behind him would have to be an acceptable replacement.

Feminine voices preceded the arrival of Tamsin and Miss Price. They entered the room, and Lazarus noted the immediate softening of Droxford’s features as his gaze fell on his wife. Lazarus was so pleased they’d found happiness together. No one deserved that more than Tamsin. Except perhaps Droxford.

“Good afternoon,” Lazarus said.

“Good afternoon,” Miss Price repeated. She carried a small fabric bag with pink flowers and a dark brown wooden handle. It complemented her rose-colored gown trimmed in a simple ivory lace. She did not wear a hat, and he surmised she must have left it in the entrance hall. “I’m glad we could arrange to meet today.” She glanced at their hosts. “Thank you both for agreeing to allow our scheme.”

“I am delighted to support the cause,” Droxford said. “We’ll leave you to it, then.” He gave Lazarus a meaningful look, perhaps to communicate that Lazarus had promised him that nothing inappropriate would occur.

Lazarus nodded in silent reply and watched as he and Tamsin left the library. They pulled the door mostly closed, but not entirely. That would not do.

He moved past Miss Price on his way to the door, then shut it firmly but quietly. Turning, he said, “Droxford informed me that you told Tamsin we were also meeting so I could help with your Season.”

“Oh yes. I hope you don’t mind. When I said that I would be helping you with your speech, she was surprised and perhaps even a little skeptical? Only because it seems an odd thing for me, of all people, to do. So, I mentioned the other part of our arrangement.”

“That seems reasonable. I commend your quick thinking.” Glancing toward the bag she carried, he asked, “What’s in there?”

“Some materials I brought to assess your abilities.”

“There’s a table over here where we can work.” He walked by her once again, this time to the opposite side of the room, to the rectangular table. There were four wooden chairs, one on each side.

Miss Price set her bag at one end of the table and removed her ivory kid gloves. Setting them next to the bag, she opened it and pulled out two books, some parchment, and a pencil.

“I also brought something,” he said. “My speech.” He removed the folded parchment from a pocket inside his coat and handed it to her.

“Oh, good. Though I don’t think we’ll get to that today. We’ve only an hour.” Clasping the speech, she glanced down at it before meeting his gaze. “Is this a copy for me?”

“I hadn’t thought to bring one.” Now he felt a little foolish.

“I should have asked for it,” she said sheepishly, her dark lashes sweeping briefly over her eyes. “If you don’t need it back immediately, I can copy it down later and return it to you next time we meet.”

“That would be fine.”

Smiling, she tucked the parchment into her bag.

“You’re not going to read it?” he asked.

Her eyes widened briefly. “I will, but did you want me to do so now?”

“No, that isn’t necessary.” He realized he had wanted to hear her opinion. But that could wait.

“Your handwriting is very neat,” she said.

He moved to stand near the chair at the end of the table opposite her bag. “That isn’t mine. I can’t write particularly well either—spelling the words out is difficult. I spoke my thoughts to my secretary, and he organized them into a speech.” Why did he suddenly feel nervous?

She pushed the books along the table until they rested in front of the chair on one of the long sides. “Is that how you draft your correspondence?”

“Yes. Since my secretary believes I dislike reading, I’ve told him my thoughts flow better if I can say them aloud, which isn’t a lie.”

“That’s fascinating,” Miss Price said, pulling out the chair in front of the books.

Lazarus rushed to hold it for her. “My apologies,” he murmured.

She slid onto the chair and looked up at him over her shoulder. “No need.”

He took the chair at the end, and she turned her body toward hm. “How did you manage at Oxford? You did go to Oxford, or have I confused you with someone else?”

“I did go to Oxford, but I struggled. I covered for my inadequacies by being an unserious student.”

“But you weren’t really, were you?”

“At Oxford, yes. There was nothing else for me to be. I didn’t go to Eton or any other school. Before Oxford, my father taught me personally.” Lazarus hesitated. He never talked about how his father had helped him. But that was because hardly anyone knew of his shortcomings. “I knew everything they were teaching because my father had already taught me. But I wasn’t able to adequately demonstrate my knowledge, and I barely graduated.”

“Why even bother going at all, then?” she asked, appearing genuinely curious as she leaned slightly toward him.

“It’s a rite of passage, or so my father said. He didn’t want anyone to question why I didn’t attend Oxford or Cambridge or some other school. I’m fairly certain my father made special arrangements for me. I’m only sorry he wasn’t able to see me finish.” Lazarus allowed a faint smile, but it quickly faded.

Miss Price touched his forearm for a brief moment, her fingers pale against the dark blue wool of his coat. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure he’s very proud of you.”

“I hope so. That is all I want. Which is why I’m going to all this trouble with this speech. I’ll need to memorize it, and that will require your assistance.”

“Yes, that is why we’re here.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Shall we begin?” Opening one of the books to a particular page, she turned it and placed it in front of Lazarus. “I’d like to get a sense of how you read. Can you read this sonnet to me?”

Lazarus took a deep breath and rested his hands on the table on either side of the book. He fixed his attention on the sonnet and attempted the first word. S-h-a-l-l.

“Shawl,” he started, but quickly followed that with “Shall. I. Com…pare. Thee to a summer’s day. Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer’s lease?—”

“Stop.” Miss Price gaped at him. “You’re an excellent reader. You started slowly, but perhaps you’re just nervous?”

He gave her a sheepish smile. “I know this sonnet. As soon as I recognized the first few words, I recited it from memory. This is why I want you to help me memorize the speech.”

“How did you memorize the sonnet?”

“My father would read things to me over and over. Eventually, I would memorize something. I then matched up the words I knew in my mind with how they looked. But when that same word is somewhere else, I can’t always recognize it immediately.” He hated that sensation—he knew the word, but couldn’t quite form it in his mind. He got there, but it was slow.

“This is fascinating to know and will help me. Memorizing words and using that skill to recognize words when you see them is an excellent adaptation. Perhaps we can work specifically on honing that ability.” She seemed so engaged, so eager to help him, even excited by the prospect.

For the first time since his father had died, Lazarus felt at ease reading with someone else. He could not overstate his sense of relief and even joy. He met her gaze with gratitude. “Thank you.”

She grinned. “Let me find a sonnet you don’t know.” Waggling her brows, she pulled the book back in front of her and flipped through some pages, her eyes moving quickly as she scanned the words.

“Are you reading that fast as you go?” He couldn’t keep the awe from his voice.

“Er, yes.” Pink dots bloomed in her cheeks as she glanced at him. “But I am very familiar with this book. I love Shakespeare’s sonnets.” She kept turning pages until she abruptly stopped. Sliding the book toward him, she gave him a mock stern look. “This one, but you must tell me straightaway if you know it.”

He laughed softly. “I promise.” Sobering, he concentrated on the text. The letters looked foreign for a moment, which was normal. The first few words were easy, thankfully. “From you have I…be-en…been…ab…sent in the…” He hated words like the next one. Multiple letters that when put together were difficult to read. “Sp?—”

“Spring,” she said softly, her tone warm and encouraging. “That is a challenging word, I think. S, p, and r is a complicated sound. Spr. Can you repeat that?”

“Spr. Spring. Sprightly. Sprig. Spray. Spread. I can say the words.” He frowned. “I just can’t read them very well.”

“You will.” She pulled the parchment and pencil to her and wrote the letters S P R. “I’m making notes about what we can work on. Shall we continue?”

He went on reading the sonnet, pausing often. She didn’t rush him, nor did she hurry to help him, but she did when he needed it. She was the epitome of patience and gentle support.

“You read wonderfully,” she said. “Your voice is a lovely baritone. I do wish I could hear you deliver your speech in the Lords.”

“You’ll likely be sick of it by then,” he said with a half smile. He expected to be, but that would be for the best. He needed to know it inside and out.

She scratched another note on her paper and set the pencil down between them near the edge of the table. “Do you want to write for me, or should we do that another day?”

The pencil rolled off the table, and Lazarus immediately bent to retrieve it.

Miss Price did the same, and they knocked their heads together.

“Ow!” she cried as Lazarus grunted.

They were still slightly bent over, their faces close as their eyes met. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m the clumsiest person. But then you know that.”

“You are not. That could have happened to anyone.”

“Perhaps, but it will always happen to me.” Her lips twisted in a charming, lopsided smile. She seemed to accept that she was not as graceful as others, but Lazarus didn’t want her to see herself that way.

“I don’t consider you clumsy,” he said softly. “Only look at how beautifully you read. And how kindly you tutor.”

“You flatter me, my lord.” She straightened. “If only my bookishness would snare me a husband,” she added with a laugh.

“Is that what you want most?” he asked. “A husband?”

She lifted a shoulder. “It will make my parents happy. And proud. Like you, I just want to make them proud.”

“I’m sure they are already.” If they weren’t, they were fools. Their daughter possessed more grace and generosity of spirit than a good many of the young women who were pressed onto the Marriage Mart.

“Will you write for me now?” she asked.

He didn’t really want to, but he supposed he must. “Fair warning, I am going to fetch the pencil now.” He watched her for a moment, and she nodded at him. Bending once more, he took up the pencil and situated himself. Then he wrote his name and her name—Miss Price. He thanked heaven she didn’t have a long, ridiculous name such as Featherstonehaugh. “What else should I write?”

“Can you write the sonnet you have memorized? Just a few lines.”

He recited the words in his head and scrawled them on the paper. She’d complimented his handwriting earlier without knowing it wasn’t his. Now, she would see the truth and be horrified.

When he was finished, he sat back, his nose wrinkling as he looked at his uneven letters. They were abysmal and they’d taken an inordinate amount of time.

“Do you practice writing?” she asked.

“I used to. When my father was alive, and when I was at Oxford. I confess I’ve become lazy since then.” And now he was annoyed with himself. He ought to have kept up with that, if only for his father’s sake.

“Do not chastise yourself,” she said firmly. “I can see it in your eyes. This is a great deal to manage. I want you to write five lines every day. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” He resolved in that moment to do whatever she bade him. “What shall I write?”

“You’re to copy the words of your speech.”

The task seemed impossible. It wasn’t, of course. “Only five lines?”

She nodded. “But, and this is the challenging part, you must read them and then write them. Don’t just copy the letters without saying them in your head.”

He blew out a breath, wondering how long this would take him. Clenching his jaw, he vowed not to be defeated, particularly when he hadn’t even yet tried. He would do this for his father. And for Miss Price. He looked forward to her praise when he showed her his accomplishments.

“I’ll do it.” He glanced toward the clock. “Our hour is nearly over.”

Surprise flashed across her features. “Goodness, that went quickly. When can we meet again?”

“Two days’ time?” he suggested.

“Perfect. You’ll bring your writing.” Her dark eyes rounded. “Oh, wait. I’ll need to give you your speech back so you can do your writing. I can give it to you at the Oxley ball this evening.”

They stood, and she packed her materials back into her bag. “I look forward to reading your speech,” she said.

“I’m eager to hear your thoughts, and I am open to revision.”

“Are you?” She sounded surprised. “Well, I can’t imagine what I could contribute, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You are very clever, Miss Price. I’ve no doubt you could contribute a great deal. Never doubt that.” He glanced toward the door. “I suppose I must go, since I arrived first. I’ll see you this evening.”

She nodded, and Lazarus reluctantly left the library, leaving the door open and casting her a final glance before making his way toward the entrance hall.

“I trust you had a fruitful meeting,” Droxford said, coming from another room into the entrance hall.

“Quite. We should like to meet again in two days. Same time, if that is convenient.”

“I’m sure it will be.”

Lazarus fixed Droxford with a grateful stare. “Thank you. Truly. This is very helpful to me.” The man could have no idea how much.

“I’m pleased to hear that. I’m here for whatever you may need.” Droxford clapped him on the shoulder.

As Lazarus took his hat and gloves from the footman, he realized he’d never felt more optimistic about reading. He wasn’t sure he could ever aid Miss Price in as meaningful a way as she was helping him. But he would try. If she wanted a husband, he would ensure she had the best one in London.

“ I ’m so pleased I chose that emerald velvet for your costume for the Phoenix Club ball tomorrow night.” Gwen’s mother said from beside her in the coach. They were stopped in an interminable line of vehicles approaching the Oxley ball. “And I’ve asked the modiste to fashion a circlet for you as well. You will look like a princess of old.” That was because the ball’s theme was a medieval fair.

“I didn’t think we were going to the trouble.” Gwen was never as interested in clothing as her mother.

“A viscount has danced with you, called on you, and promenaded with you in the park,” her mother said with a glint of pride in her eyes. “People will be watching you now. You must look your absolute best.”

Her mother was giddy at the prospect of Gwen snaring a viscount. Which was, of course, not going to happen.

Torn between not wanting to disappoint her mother and hating that she was lying to her, Gwen couldn’t find the words to tell her the truth. But she must—soon. Perhaps after she attracted another suitor or two. Hopefully, that would happen tonight.

Unless people were paying more attention to the way Eberforce spoke of her rather than the manner in which Somerton was nearly courting her. If that happened, Gwen’s Season might truly be finished, regardless of what the viscount tried.

She thought back to their meeting that afternoon. Working with him had been more satisfying than she’d expected—and she’d anticipated it would be most exhilarating. It was beyond that, however. Somerton had revealed himself to her in ways he likely hadn’t with anyone else, and she honored that very much. She was desperately eager to do all she could for him.

As soon as she’d arrived home, she’d read his speech. It was wonderful, and she could hear his baritone strongly delivering it over the House of Lords. The original copy was folded and tucked into the rather small pocket of her gown so she could return it when she saw him.

As the coach approached the entrance to the Oxleys’ home, Gwen looked over at her mother. “Mama, I do hope you aren’t counting on a betrothal from the viscount. We have not at all decided if we will suit.”

“I understand, my dear. You must be sure, particularly with a man like Somerton.” She’d cautioned Gwen about his reputation —that he hadn’t yet been serious about marriage and was a terrible flirt—but had still maintained her enthusiasm for his interest in Gwen. “I confess I wonder if he would be the right husband for you, but his attention is certainly most welcome at this particular stage of your Season.”

It did seem her mother wouldn’t at all mind that Somerton was merely helping her, that his interest wasn’t romantic. Relieved, Gwen opened her mouth to tell her mother the truth, but then the door opened, and a footman helped them down from the coach. The evening was chilly but dry. Gooseflesh rose on Gwen’s skin as they hurried into the entrance hall.

A short time later, Gwen and her mother entered the ballroom. The fragrances of dozens of kinds of flowers filled the air, and the light of hundreds of candles made everyone sparkle. Couples were just moving onto the dance floor as the orchestra, situated in an alcove overlooking the ballroom, struck up a melody.

Though it wasn’t Gwen’s first ball, she was still awestruck by the spectacle. Perhaps she always would be. The idea that she might have to execute such an event as a hostess someday was incredibly daunting. Not just because she didn’t know where to begin, but because she honestly wondered if she would find it boring.

She hadn’t inherited her mother’s taste for fashion or her ease with planning dinners and soirees. Her mother hadn’t ever hosted a ball, but Gwen felt certain she could. However, she was also just as certain that her father would never agree to the expense.

Tamsin and her husband’s aunt, Sophia, Lady Droxford, approached them and exchanged greetings. As the two older women began to talk to one another, Tamsin sidled closer to Gwen.

“What does Somerton have planned for you this evening?” Tamsin asked.

“Nothing in particular,” Gwen replied. “I’m to behave with him as if he’s a suitor, meaning I shouldn’t speak about books or share too much information about myself or my family. I’ve a tendency to chatter on.”

“I love that about you, but I am not a suitor,” Tamsin said with a faint sigh. “I am so pleased Somerton is helping you. Honestly, I’d have thought he was too roguish for that.” Her features tightened briefly. “That isn’t kind of me to say since he is my cousin.”

“He is a rogue, isn’t he?” Gwen asked, thinking of how they’d defined rogues when they’d come up with their rogue rules nearly two years earlier. “He flirts excessively, frequents gaming hells, and has even been known to entertain certain widows on a regular basis.”

Tamsin’s eyes rounded. “I’d forgotten about the widows. But not the Rogue’s Den. Don’t forget that he is seen there regularly as well.”

As proper young ladies, they shouldn’t know about widows or establishments such as the Rogue’s Den. But Gwen had a brother, and she’d overheard her father lecturing Evan about his visits to the brothel that catered to the loftiest men in London Society.

“Does he really go to gaming hells or just the Siren’s Call?”

Brow furrowed, Tamsin hesitated a moment. “Remind me what that is?”

“It’s a gaming hell owned by a woman and run by women. Attractive women. However, it is just a gaming hell. At least, that’s what Evan told me. He likes it a great deal. He says the employees are charming and pleasant to talk to, and the food and drink are excellent.”

“I doubt Isaac has ever been there, at least not to gamble,” Tamsin said. “He hasn’t wagered a day in his life. It sounds like a brilliant business, though.”

“If I remain unwed, I could see myself owning a business like that,” Gwen mused. “Only it would be a library.”

Tamsin giggled. “Of course you would. But you won’t remain unwed—not unless you want to.”

“The offers are not pouring in,” Gwen said wryly. “But with Somerton aiding me, that may change.”

“He’s taking a risk, though, isn’t he?” Tamsin mused. “His interest in you will lead people to conclude he is ready to wed, but in reality, the opposite is true. In my grandmother’s last letter, she made a jest about him wasting another Season since he has no plans to wed.”

“Do you mean he’ll be the recipient of endless attention from young ladies and their mothers looking to secure a husband?” Gwen asked. She was now more grateful to him than ever, for he couldn’t enjoy fending off that level of interest. “I do hope it doesn’t cause him upset. I would hate to do that.”

“He’ll be fine,” Tamsin assured her. “This is going to work splendidly for you. Here’s Miss Gwendolen Price, turning the head of one of the most roguish rakes in London.” She grinned.

Gwen could only hope their plan would work. She talked with Tamsin for some time, during which no gentlemen approached.

Finally, Gwen’s mother told her it was time to take a stroll around the ballroom. Gwen said good evening to Tamsin and Droxford’s aunt and linked arms with her mother.

“How can you not have danced yet?” her mother asked. “I felt certain you’d be asked not long after we arrived.”

“It may be that I don’t receive invitations to dance, Mama. It is not my forte.”

“I am hopeful that I may find a new dancing master yet,” Mama said firmly. “I just received a name this afternoon. We must pray that he will take you on.”

Gwen didn’t see the point. Indeed, she was beginning to wonder why she’d wanted to come to London at all.

What a terribly defeating attitude. If Somerton could work to improve his reading, she could do the same with dancing. How could she encourage him to work hard and keep applying himself if she didn’t do the same? She would redouble her efforts, for she owed it to herself to at least try, even if it seemed hopeless.

“Here comes Lord Somerton,” Gwen’s mother whispered urgently, her arm tightening against Gwen’s before she unlinked herself. “Goodness, but he presents himself well. That cravat is knotted to perfection.”

Somerton strode straight for them, and indeed his intricately tied cravat was most impressive. As was the cut of his midnight-black coat.

“Good evening, ladies,” Somerton said as he bowed gracefully.

If Gwen tried such a maneuver, she’d probably fall over. Mastering the curtsey she’d delivered to the queen a few weeks ago had been extremely difficult. In the end, Mama had instructed her to just not dip as deeply as the other young ladies. Then she’d shared with several people that Gwen had twisted her ankle the day before. It had been a lie, but served to explain Gwen’s deficiencies.

“Good evening, Lord Somerton,” Gwen’s mother began.

“I hoped I might take a promenade with your charming daughter.” He smiled toward Gwen.

Gwen’s mother beamed. “Lovely. Please enjoy yourselves.”

Taking Somerton’s arm, Gwen nodded at her mother. When they were away from her, she murmured, “I really need to tell her you aren’t actually courting me.”

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

“Not really. I don’t think she sees your attention as the prelude to a serious courtship.” She glanced at him. “Because of your reputation. You haven’t indicated you are interested in marriage.” Gwen thought that was a better way of saying, You’re a terrible rogue.

“I see.”

“I do hope this scheme won’t prove difficult for you,” Gwen said. “I fear you may become the focus of a gaggle of young ladies—and their mothers—looking to snag a title.”

“I shall survive,” he said glibly, a smile teasing his mouth. “I must thank you for our meeting earlier.”

“I do hope you found it helpful.”

“Time will tell, but I am hopeful for the first time in years. And I am committed to doing whatever you tell me.” His gaze met hers with an earnest warmth. “I am yours to command, Miss Price.”

Gwen’s chest expanded. She would do everything in her power not to let him down. Pulling the folded speech from her pocket, she tucked it into his hand. “I thought your speech was wonderful.”

He transferred the speech to his free hand and slipped it into his coat. “I am delighted—and humbled—to hear that.”

“Good evening, Lord Somerton.” A feminine voice to Gwen’s left drew them to pause in their promenade. There were a pair of ladies, young and pretty, their gazes fixed on Somerton. It was as if Gwen wasn’t there.

“Good evening,” he responded.

“I’ve dropped my fan,” one of them said, her lips pressing into a plump pout.

“Allow me.” The viscount bent—without releasing Gwen—and plucked up the fan. He presented it to the pouter, and her lips curled into a flirtatious smile.

She batted her dark lashes at him. “You are most kind, my lord.”

“It is my pleasure to help.”

“Perhaps we’ll see you later?” the other young lady said with a hopeful lilt.

“One can never tell.” He grinned, and Gwen could practically see their pulses flutter and their breath seize in their lungs.

“It’s happening already,” Gwen said.

“What? Those young ladies?” He lifted a shoulder. “That’s typical, even before I started helping you.”

And why wouldn’t it be? Somerton was an exceedingly charming and attractive viscount, even if his reputation was rakish.

“So I’m not interfering in whatever you would normally be doing?” she asked.

“What would that be?”

“Flirting?”

He laughed. “I can flirt with you, can’t I?” He waggled his brows at her, his green eyes piercing her with a sharp interest. In that moment, Gwen realized the strength of his flirtation, and she too felt her pulse flutter and her breath catch.

“You can, but what would be the point?” she asked nervously, adding a smile so he wouldn’t realize she was seriously asking. Why would he flirt with her when their near courtship was only pretend?

He paused, turning toward her slightly. “The point is in showing everyone within eyesight and earshot that you are a woman worth flirting with. Because you are.” He leaned close and whispered, “Don’t ever think you shouldn’t be flirted with. Now, bat your eyelashes. And smile. Everyone will wonder what I’ve just said to you.”

She did, and when he straightened, she sent a furtive glance around and saw that there were indeed people watching them. “Perhaps your plan has merit.”

“Tomorrow at the Phoenix Club ball, you will have three dances and at least two promenades. And not with me.”

“How can you promise that?” She was consistently amazed by his confidence. In this, anyway. He’d been different that afternoon, more vulnerable. She thought she might prefer that version of the roguish viscount.

“Trust me, Miss Price.”

She couldn’t help but do so—not when he looked at her as if he ruled the social world. And perhaps he did.

“I forgot to speak with you as if you were a potential suitor,” she said with a faint grimace.

“We did forget that. Ah, well, next time perhaps—if it’s even necessary,” he said. “Allow me to return you to your mother.”

When they parted a few minutes later, she noted that her pulse was still fluttering, and her breath was perhaps a little short.