Beatrice set down her cup of tea, the click of cup to saucer quite loud. “What I just told you is completely untrue.”

Beth blinked.

“You did not hear a single word I said, did you?” Beatrice said in an accusing tone.

Beth hadn’t. She’d been thinking about her meeting yesterday with Westerville. Since that meeting, she’d had the uneasy suspicion that though she’d won the battle, she still had an entire war to fight.

She’d been absolutely right to tell the man she’d never see him again as it was painfully obvious his real desire was to get closer to her grandfather. The problem was, that did not lessen her interest in the man one bit. If anything, it had sharpened it.

She sighed loudly. “Beatrice, I am sorry. I am a sad woolgatherer. Grandfather is forever scolding me for that.”

Beatrice slathered butter on a piece of toast with more force than form. “I don’t care if you ignore me before we’ve had tea, but anytime thereafter, I expect your complete attention. Especially when I’m talking about something important.”

Harry lowered the morning paper just enough to peer over the top. “You were talking about bonnets.”

Beatrice’s face colored. “Bonnets are important!”

He raised his brows. “Why?”

She opened her mouth. Then closed it, her brow furrowed in thought. Suddenly, she gave a little hop in her chair. “Bonnets are important because without them we all might have horrid freckles!”

Beth chuckled, but all Harry said was “Humph!” He was a handsome man, but with none of his wife’s gadfly tendencies. He was quite happy to stay at home with a thick tome, or visit his club, or attend any one of the dozen or so of the scientific societies he so loved. They were a very disparate couple, Beth thought wistfully, but still quite in love with each other. It did her heart good to see them together.

Even now, Beatrice leaned across the table and pulled down one corner of Harry’s paper, amused outrage on her pouting lips. “Harry, if you have something to say, then say it and do not make those rude humphing noises behind your paper.”

His blue eyes, exaggerated in size by the wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose, twinkled a bit at this direct sally. He obligingly put the paper down. “My love, it is not fair for you to tell Beth you expect her complete attention when you ramble on for so long about a bonnet. I couldn’t have borne such a weighty conversation, either.”

Beatrice sent a frowning glare at her husband before turning to Beth. “I asked if you wished to see that adorable bonnet I saw in Bond Street yesterday, the one with the blue flowers and silver bells? It is gorgeous and would look absolutely lovely with your coloring. I just thought that if you wanted to see it, we could—”

“There!” Harry laughed. “Rambling. Thank you for proving my point.”

Beatrice flounced. “Beth, do you see what I have to live with? The harshness I must endure? The criticism I am subjected to? I am so put upon I scarce know whether I should stay or go.”

Harry chuckled, lifting his paper back in place. “You will do what you will do, my love.”

“I am quite distraught. There is only one thing that will cheer me up.”

“Beth,” Harry said from behind his paper, “pray escort my poor, forlorn wife to Bond Street. She will perish does she not spend some of my hard-won funds this very instant.”

“With pleasure!” Beth said, standing. “I will get my reticule.”

“Excellent!” Beatrice said, smiling at her cousin. “I shall order the carriage and then tell Harry what a horrid husband he has become. We can meet in the hall in ten minutes.”

Beth bid Harry goodbye and made her way to her room, where she quickly changed gowns, and then collected her reticule and a pelisse with green stripes that perfectly matched the color of the leaves embroidered on her slippers. She paused in the foyer to admire her morning gown of white muslin. It was adorned on one shoulder with pink and green flowers. A wide green ribbon delineated the seam just below her breasts, while her skirts flowed over her hips and to the floor. The neckline of the gown was deceptively simple, rounded with tiny cap sleeves that fit her to perfection.

“Admiring your gown?”

Beth turned to find Beatrice standing a little behind her, a knowing look in her blue eyes. “What?” Beth said, her cheeks heated. “This gown? It’s nothing special—”

“Oh, don’t even start that with me. Have you forgotten who I am? I can only wonder who you might be hoping to meet in Bond Street. Westerville, perhaps?”

“I don’t care what Westerville thinks of this, or any other gown.”

“Of course you don’t. By the way, I found out some very interesting tidbits about our friend.”

“That’s nice,” Beth said, trying not to meet Beatrice’s gaze. Beth knew she shouldn’t ask any questions. The less she knew about the viscount, the better.

“Don’t you want to know what I discovered?”

“No. Not really.” Beth removed her gloves from her reticule and pulled them on. “Shall we leave? I must see this bonnet you’re so in love with.”

Beatrice’s brows rose. “Beth, you must want to know about the viscount.”

“Well, I don’t. Now, may we go shopping? I need to find a pair of slippers to go with that new silk ball gown Grandfather sent last week.”

Beatrice looked Beth up and down. “Hm. I see what it is. You are upset. With Westerville.”

“I am not.”

“You are, too. Why else would you not want to hear the gossip about Viscount Westerville unless you were angry with him? Which means, of course, that you’ve seen him since we last talked.”

“Ah!” Beth said with relief at the sound of a carriage pulling up. “There is your cabriolet. Are you ready?”

“Beth, I want to know what happened. Has he said something to you? Been rude or suggested something improper? Did he—” Beatrice’s eyes widened. “He kissed you, didn’t he?”

“No!” Beth said, very aware of the stoic footmen who stood flanking the hallway. She grabbed her cousin’s hand and pulled her to the front door. “Come! We can finish this conversation in the cabriolet.”

“Oh yes we will,” Beatrice said, not a bit abashed. She tucked Beth’s arm in hers and led the way to the waiting carriage.

They were barely settled and on their way when Beatrice faced Beth. “Now. Tell me everything. Why are you upset with Westerville?”

Blast it, would Beatrice never leave this alone? Beth gritted her teeth. “I told you before that I am not upset with him, I only—oh bother. Just tell me what you found out about the viscount.”

Beatrice sighed. “You are a woman of secrets. I wonder why I never knew this before.” She slid a bit closer in the seat and leaned toward Beth. “When I started inquiring about our friend, I was given the oddest looks, but no one would really say anything! Oh, there were the usual rumors, that he’d taken up with Mrs. Edlesworth, which is not to be wondered at, for I vow, every man newly come to London seems to do the same thing. She’s had more traffic through her doors than London Bridge. They should just declare the woman a national monument and put a plaque on her door that reads, ‘Here is the house of Louisa Edlesworth, London’s most notorious female!’ I would pay money to see such a thing and I think other women would, too, if—”

“Beatrice.”

Beatrice blinked. “What?”

“What did you find out about the viscount other than he dallied with Louisa Edlesworth?”

Beatrice clasped her hands together excitedly. “Well! There are the oddest rumors floating about that have to do with the viscount—”

“Yes, yes. You said people were whispering that he was a highwayman. I don’t believe that myself, but—”

“Oh, they are saying all sorts of things! Apparently he was nowhere to be found for several years. Rumors are rife that he was doing something”—Beatrice lowered her voice—“illegal.”

“It would not surprise me.”

“Or me!” Beatrice gave a delicious shiver. “There is something dangerous about that man. Lady Chudrowe was wild with envy when I told her he’d ridden with us in my new cabriolet.” Beatrice sighed happily. “And Lady Thimpkinson was positively green when she discovered I—”

“Beatrice, I am certain you are widely admired. What else did you find out about Westerville?”

“Well, some would have it he runs a widespread smuggling operation off the French coast. Others whisper he was the kept lover of an Italian countess—”

“Those all sound preposterous to me,” Beth said in a lofty tone, though to be honest, she could see any of those dashing professions fitting the viscount. He seemed to have no fear of danger, and heaven knew he enjoyed taking chances.

She frowned. She knew how he seemed but not how he really was. The man was a mass of secrets. In fact, all she really knew was that he could turn her bones to jelly with one well-placed kiss. Well, she knew a little more than that. She knew, for instance, that he had an interest in Grandfather for some inexplicable reason. That he had a warm and witty sense of humor. That his eyes crinkled in the most beguiling way when he smiled. That his lips were firm and—

“Beth? There you go again! I have said not less than three important things in the last minute and you haven’t heard a one.”

“I’m sorry,” Beth said, instantly contrite. “What did you say?”

“Lady Jersey says Westerville asked if he could meet her privately to discuss his mother.”

“His mother?”

“Yes. I don’t know the entire story, of course, but Lady Jersey thinks he’s on some sort of quest to find out about his past.”

Beth found herself looking down at her gloved hands, which were clasped in her lap, the fingers neatly interlocked. Westerville had said something about searching for the truth. But what truth?

The truth about his mother, perhaps?

Beatrice pursed her lips. “I think I like the story of the Italian countess best, though I can quite see him as a highwayman. He does wear black well.”

“As do all the best highwaymen,” Beth said in a dry voice. “Beatrice, did you find anything else out? Anything certain?”

“Well…he dresses well and dances divinely. Lady Hemplewaite declares she’s in love with him, and Miss Lucinda Garner has already told her father—who is nothing more than a fat cit—that she will marry Westerville and no one else.”

For some reason, the mention of so many admirers quite put Beth out of humor. “Yes, yes. The list of his admirers is endless. Lady Hemplewaite and Mrs. Edlesworth and Miss Sofia Longbridge and Julia Carslowe and—”

“The Carslowe chit? The one with big front teeth? I didn’t know—”

“Beatrice, the point is that it would be simpler to list those women who do not admire him rather than those who do.”

Beatrice pursed her lips. “I can only think of one. You.”

“If you knew him as I do, you wouldn’t think him so dashing, either.”

Beatrice’s brows rose. “Beth, just how well do you know him?”

Beth toyed with the ribbons on her reticule. “I may have spoken to him after our cabriolet ride.”

“I knew it!”

“It wasn’t anything serious. I ran into him at the British Museum.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “By yourself?”

“No! Of course not. There were many people there. I was standing at one of the front cases, talking to a woman about a fan that was on display, and suddenly, he was there.”

“I see. Did you speak for long?”

Beth hoped her cheeks were not as red as they felt. “Not long, no. He…he knows I do not stutter.”

“Thank goodness for that!” Beatrice exclaimed.

Beth frowned. “That is not a good thing.”

“It is for me,” Beatrice said frankly. “The sooner you get rid of that stutter, the better. It is most vexing for those of us who must listen to you.”

“As soon as there are no more suitors, I shall do just that.”

“I know, I know. And I do not blame you for taking up a stutter in the first place. Being placed upon the marriage mart is a fine idea for a chit of seventeen; you are too mature to be cursed with such an effort. What your grandfather should have done was simply sponsor some quiet house parties at Massingale House. House parties are all the rage nowadays. Perhaps I should mention that to him the next time I see him. I am certain he would—”

“No. Beatrice, please. Massingale House is my home and I love it because it is peaceful. It would not be so if it was infested with obnoxious suitors who might trod upon my flower gardens, spill their wine on my carpets, and never give me a moment’s peace.”

Beatrice looked at her oddly. “Beth, do you never wish to marry?”

“Of course I do. Only…it must be someone interesting.”

“And none of your suitors are interesting? What about the viscount? You seemed quite taken with him. In fact, I was worried you’d do something rash, like meet him in private or begin a correspondence with him, both actions that could get you into severe trouble with your grandfather. Of course,” Beatrice sent a sly glance at Beth, “your grandfather might well find the viscount a good match for you.”

“You said it’s rumored he was a highwayman!”

“He was a highwayman. Or a smuggler, depending on who you ask. Now it seems he has joined the cream of society and everyone is enamored of him. Beth, I was astounded at how many people are inviting him about.”

“I am not surprised. The man thinks he’s a charmer.”

“He does have excellent manners. I did hear that one of the stipulations of his fortune is that he cannot be involved in a scandal. Of course, now that I’ve thought about it a bit, I can see where he might have been desperate before coming into his inheritance. There is no telling what I might have become had I been left alone at the age of ten.”

Beth raised her brows. “Left alone?”

“His mother was imprisoned, charged with treason. It was later disproven, but he was left to fend for himself. He and his brother, Tristan, who is now the new Earl of Rochester.”

Beth bit her lip, thinking of Westerville’s expression when he’d spoken of his past. There was something dark there. Something infinitely sad. She wondered if she’d dismissed him too quickly. Perhaps what he’d needed was understanding.

But no. She couldn’t allow pity to rule her emotions. She had been right to decide to avoid him; it had been an act of self-preservation on her part. He was too handsome and too appealing for her to just allow him to walk in and out of her life, especially since she knew he wasn’t pursuing her for her own sake at all. His motives were unclear, but they had very little to do with her. Of that, she was certain.

Which was still quite puzzling. Perhaps Beth should ask Grandfather what he knew about the viscount and his family. That might be the best thing. She caught Beatrice’s stare and lifted her chin. “I must say, you have certainly changed your opinion of the viscount.”

“Not really. I think he is dangerous. But a man who is dangerous and ineligible is a different horse than one who is dangerous and eligible. There is no harm in being seen with Westerville, though I certainly wouldn’t advise anything more.”

The cabriolet pulled up to the modiste’s on Bond Street, where a large window displayed an amazing assortment of bonnets. Beatrice collected her reticule and smoothed her gown. “By the way, we have an important decision to make. Tomorrow night there are two entertainments scheduled, which is quite unacceptable as they are both touted as the events of the season.”

“They always are.”

“Yes, usually by a friend of the person holding the event. Anyway, we must decide which we want to attend—the Crossforth Ball or the Devonshire Musicale. They are too far across town to attend both.”

“The Crossforth Ball, please. The Devonshire set has never been a favorite of mine. The new duchess is positively horrid.”

“I cannot abide her, myself. The entire lot of them is thick with politics, too, yet another reason to miss their musicale.” The coachman opened the door, and Beatrice gathered her skirts and stepped lightly out into the sunshine. “Very well then, the Crossforth Ball it will be.”

Beth allowed the footman to assist her from the carriage. The sun warmed her instantly even as a cooling breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt. It was a lovely day.

Beatrice tucked Beth’s hand into the crook of her elbow. “There it is!” Beatrice pulled Beth down the street to a large window filled with hats of all kinds and sizes. “Here is the adorable bonnet I saw yesterday! Beth, it’s just the thing for you.”

Beth pretended an interest in the straw formed bonnet before her. It was quite pretty, even to her distracted gaze, trimmed with a blue and silver ribbon and adorned with flowers and tiny little bells. She had to admit Beatrice was quite right—the bonnet was adorable.

But even as she looked at it, her mind roiled around the information Beatrice had given her. All those women interested in Westerville. It stood to reason, of course. He had wealth, title, and was certainly pleasant to look upon. Had those women any idea how talented he was at kissing—Beth didn’t want to even think about how the viscount would be pursued then.

She wasn’t sure how long she was standing there, staring blindly into the display window before she became aware that her gaze was not focused on the bonnets or hats, but rather on the reflections in the glass. She and Beatrice stood, the wind ruffling their gowns. But it was the figure over Beth’s shoulder that captured her attention.

Beth whirled around to face Westerville.

He was standing directly behind her, dressed in his usual black, a damnable half smile on his face. He captured Beth’s hand, bowed over it, and placed a kiss on her gloved fingers. Beth’s body reacted instantly, a shiver tracing through her. She snatched her hand back and without thinking, hid it behind her.

He laughed softly at the childish gesture and, color high, Beth forced herself to put her hands back at her sides.

The sound of the viscount’s laughter turned Beatrice’s attention away from the display window. “Viscount Westerville! What brings you out today?”

He bowed, tipping his hat in a rakish manner, his green eyes shimmering under his hat brim. “I am shopping, Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton.”

“So are we!”

His eyes found Beth’s and she saw that he was tempted to tease her, which would never do. Beatrice would miss nothing of this encounter, both because she wished to brag upon the meeting to all her friends, but also because she was still a bit wary about how Beth felt about the mysterious viscount.

Right now, Beth could have set her cousin’s mind at ease—all she wanted was to get far away from the viscount, and soon. She wished with all her heart she was immune to the man, but the truth was, she was far from it. Every time he was near, her stomach tightened, her lips tingled in memory of their kiss, and her fingertips itched to touch him.

His gaze met hers, and she thought she detected the slightest bit of mockery in them, though all he said was, “I wish to buy something for a friend of mine. A female friend.”

“Oh!” Beatrice brightened immediately. “We can help you with that.”

Beth had to grit her teeth to keep her smile in place. Beatrice was already imagining how much in demand she’d be if tomorrow morning she could tell one and all that she’d helped the dashing viscount choose a gift for his lady love. She’d be invited to every private party, every special event at Vauxhall, every balcony box at the theater.

Well, Beth would put a stop to that. “Lord Westerville, I wish you luck in your purchase, but my cousin and I have many errands to do and we really must be going.”

Beatrice frowned. “No, we don’t. Harry doesn’t expect us back for hours, and the only reason we came here was so that you could try on that bonnet I told you abut.”

“Bonnet?” the viscount asked, slanting a look at Beth. “Perhaps I can help. I am considered something of an expert in assisting women with their raiment.”

Beatrice gasped, but then laughed. “I daresay you are.”

Beth did not find this nearly as amusing as her cousin. “Come, Beatrice. The viscount has many things to do and—”

“Yes, I do,” he agreed smoothly. “I have many, many things to do. Like look inside this very shop for a bonnet.” He smiled down at Beatrice and held out his arm. “It so happens that I was looking for a specific bonnet for a female acquaintance of mine. A friend of the family, you might call her.”

“How fortunate!” Beatrice said, all smiles and blushes as she took the viscount’s arm, glancing around as if hoping someone of importance might see her thus occupied. Seeing no one, she said to Beth, “Perhaps Westerville will give us his opinion of this hat for you, while we are here.”

Beth had to force her stiff lips to smile. There was really little else she could do without appearing rude. With just enough reluctance to let Westerville know how she felt, she followed Beatrice into the store. Westerville stepped inside the door and released Beatrice and closed the door the second Beth whisked inside.

While Beatrice went in search of someone to assist them, the viscount stood beside Beth, a bit too closely for her peace of mind.

Of course, anything this side of London Bridge was too close, so perhaps it was too much to expect him to keep a healthy distance.

A young lady bustled forward, Beatrice following as they went to the window to remove the admired bonnet. While the two were thus engaged, Beth hissed under her breath to Westerville, “You, my lord, are incorrigible!”

He looked at her with such an innocent expression that for an instant, her lips quivered irrepressibly. He must have caught her spontaneous amusement, for his innocent air slipped behind a grin. “I don’t know what you are talking about, my dear. I am just shopping.”

“For a woman?”

“Yes. An elderly woman.”

This startled her a bit. She glanced toward Beatrice to make certain she was still well out of hearing, before whispering back at the viscount, “Lady Jersey, perhaps?”

His brows shot up. “Lady Jersey would not appreciate being described as ‘elderly.’”

Beatrice came over at that exact moment with the bonnet held aloft like a prize, “Here, Beth! Do try this on! I would buy it for myself, but the colors are horrid with my eyes.”

Beth raised her brows. “The bonnet is trimmed in blue.”

Beatrice colored. “So?”

“Your eyes are blue. It would look wonderful on you.”

“But it is perfect for you—Westerville! You are here. You must tell Beth it’s the most beautiful hat you’ve ever seen and that she looks positively ravishing in it!”

Westerville nodded, his green eyes sliding over Beth as he bowed. “It will be my pleasure.”

Beth hid a grimace. But she had no choice; she took the bonnet from Beatrice and walked to the mirror to put it on, far too aware of the viscount’s presence for her own peace of mind. It was so awkward, doing things while he was about. Her hands and arms felt wrongly jointed, as if they’d suddenly grown larger than they should be.

Still, she forced herself to stop before the mirror and place the hat on her head. She tied a bow to one side of her chin, then turned. “Well?”

Westerville crossed his arms, tilting his head to one side as he carefully looked her over. Though his attention was supposed to be on her hat, his gaze wandered literally everywhere. Beth shifted her feet, her face heating. “Westerville, if you do not have an opinion—”

“I have an opinion. That bonnet…” He leaned back and tapped a finger against his lips. For all his serious expression, his eyes laughed at her. “I believe I like it quite well. It makes you appear younger.”

Beth narrowed her gaze. “It is obvious you know nothing about bonnets.”

“Beth!” Beatrice bustled up. “I am certain Lord Westerville knows all about women’s bonnets.” She blinked. “I mean, I do not mean that he knows all about them, but—”

“I know more than the average man,” Westerville finished helpfully.

She beamed. “Exactly! Therefore, Beth, you should let him render his opinion. For my part, I think it is ravishing! Even more on you than in the window, which is not usually how things happen for me. I don’t know if it’s the color or the shape of the brim, but it suits you monstrously well.”

Westerville nodded. “Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton, you are an arbiter of taste. You have created a picture of loveliness that will stay with me for days to come.”

Beth saw the exact moment her cousin melted. It was obvious in the way she giggled a bit when he bowed in her direction. And no wonder—in one short statement he had validated Beatrice’s sense of fashion with an almost pithy quote. And a quote it would become when Beatrice repeated it far and wide.

The viscount sent a glance toward Beth from under his long lashes. “Lady Elizabeth, what do you think of that charming bonnet?”

She untied the ribbon and took it off. “I don’t know; I am not a woman given to sudden decisions.” She handed the bonnet to the disappointed assistant who hovered nearby. “I shall think on it a few more days, and if I find myself longing for it, I shall return.”

His gaze narrowed. “And if you don’t?”

“If I find it unworthy of my time and effort, then I shall leave it in the window for some other women of less discriminating tastes.”

Beatrice gasped. “Someone else is bound to see it and snap it up and then where will you be?”

“Yes,” Westerville said, his lips curved in a knowing smile, “then where will you be?”

“Precisely as I am now,” Beth said, turning to the door. “Perfectly happy without the bonnet.” With that, Beth turned and made her way back to the street. Westerville and Beatrice caught up with her there.

Beatrice looked regretfully at the display window where the assistant was placing the hat back on a stand. “You are going to regret that decision. At least let me purchase it for you now and if, later on, you decide you don’t wish for the hat, you can give it to your stepmama.”

“Charlotte would like that,” Beth said, “though the color is too strong for her. She needs more muted blues.”

“I suppose you are right,” Beatrice said with a disheartened sigh.

“The bonnet is better left in the window where it can be admired.” Beth slanted a gaze toward Westerville. “I think it rather enjoys that.”

“Who doesn’t?” The viscount looked at her from beneath his lashes. “Even you enjoy being admired.”

Beth sniffed.

“Oh, I know when you enjoy something, my lady.” He leaned a little closer and said under his breath, “I can taste it on your lips.”

Beth gasped.

“I beg your pardon,” Beatrice said eagerly, trying to lean closer. “What did you say?” She looked at Beth. “What did he say? I couldn’t hear.”

“Nothing,” Beth said, her face heated. She shot a resentful look at the viscount. “Westerville merely sneezed.”

His brows rose, an amused twitch to his lips. “Indeed. I fear I am allergic to beautiful women. Walking between the two of you is almost overpowering.”

Before Beth’s disbelieving gaze, Beatrice broke into a decided simper. Beth sent an annoyed glare at the viscount.

There was a devilish gleam to his eyes that sent Beth’s heart pounding into her ears as she remembered their kiss from the day before. She wished she could forget that blasted moment. Of course, wishing to forget something and actually forgetting it were two different things, something she was just coming to realize.

“What is it?” Beatrice asked, looking from one of them to the other. “That was no sneeze. What did you say, Westerville? Beth is positively pink.”

He adjusted his hat a bit. “Nothing, Mrs. Thistle-Bridgeton. Nothing at all. Ladies, it was a pleasure seeing you. Will you be at the Crossforth Ball tomorrow evening?”

“No—” Beth said at the same time Beatrice blurted out, “Yes.”

For an instant, the two cousins glared at each other.

Westerville laughed. “I shall hope to see you there, then. Good day, ladies.” He tipped his hat, then turned and began sauntering down the street, whistling as he went.

Beth watched him go, her hands fisted at her sides. Of all the arrogant, insufferable, rude—

“I thought we were going to the Crossforth Ball,” Beatrice hissed, though her gaze was still on the viscount. He’d paused by a shop window filled with watches and snuffboxes and was even now being eyed by every passing damsel.

“We were,” Beth said. “But not now. Now we will go to the Devonshire Musicale.”

Beatrice sighed. “I do wish you’d make up your mind.”

“I have,” Beth said, catching the viscount’s eyes on her once again. He smiled, this time a slow and lazy grin that crinkled his eyes and made him look almost carefree.

Beth didn’t respond. She turned on her heel, pulling Beatrice with her. “Shall we look for a pelisse? I don’t have a thing to wear with my new morning gown.”

Beatrice was distracted soon enough. As they entered a modiste’s shop a little way down, Beth glanced back to where the viscount had been. There was no sign of him; he must have entered the store.

That was fine, she decided, for she did not need to see him again. Tomorrow she’d go to the Devonshire Musicale and not think about the viscount even once, no matter the cost. She would discover the viscount’s plan soon enough, but in her own time and manner. It would not do to see him any more than was necessary, as every meeting seemed to increase the tension between them. Besides, the Crossforth Ball would be hugely attended, and every eye would be fastened on the viscount.

Beth would find a place and time of her own choosing and then woe betide the man. She’d show no mercy, none at all.