“What does he mean?” Gillian asked three hours later, as she lay prone on her stomach on Charlotte’s bed, kicking her feet in the air and watching her cousin’s maid create long blond ringlets out of the girl’s mass of hair.

“For heaven’s sake, Gillian, you are a goose! I can’t believe you’re seven years older than me. He’s paying court to you, of course. Just as the dangerous Raoul did to Beatrice in The Castle of Almeria.”

Gillian looked thoughtful as she picked at the soft shawl in front of her. “Was that the novel that opens with the heroine covered with blood after she believes she murdered her father who tried to rape her and is later befriended by the kindly vegetarian?”

“No, that was Louisa, or The Cottage on the Moor.”

Gillian tapped a long finger on her lower lip. “Is it the one that had the heroine beset with wolves and marauding strangers after she’s kidnapped by her sinister father’s men, only to be nearly ravished in a French chateau?”

Charlotte frowned briefly, then shook her head. “No, that was Romance of the Forest.”

“Then it must be the one where the heroine strangles the nefarious lord who attempts to sully her virtue, and the evil villainess gets an unspeakable disease due to her lust for anything in trousers.”

“Yes, that’s Almeria, although I don’t understand why Madam de la Rouge was made out to be such an evil woman. I quite understood her fascination with the count. And the blond footman. And, of course, that rogue of an under-gardener. However, as I was saying, Lord Weston is clearly made of the same romantic material as Raoul. Just as Raoul fought the kidnappers, pirates, and the evil brandy-swilling monks of Clermont in order to be with his true love, so, I feel sure, would Lord Weston fight for you.”

Gillian rolled her eyes and made an unladylike snort. “Oh, yes, why didn’t I see that? Of course, it makes perfect sense. Here is a man — wealthy, enormously attractive even if he is thought to be a murderer, and in possession of a title — and he falls madly in love with untitled, poor, freckled, opinionated, clumsy me. How could I have missed such an obvious fact?”

“Don’t be sarcastic, cousin, it will give you spots. You have many charms, even if you don’t have a dowry or a title. Perhaps Lord Weston is enamored with you. After what you’ve told me about your drive this afternoon, such a romantic gesture would certainly fit with his actions today.”

Gillian sucked in her lower lip and considered Charlotte’s comments. She possessed enough self-awareness to realize that the attraction she felt for the Black Earl went beyond what was acceptable for casual acquaintances, and in an honest moment she even put a name to the emotion. That same honesty forced her to admit that such instantaneous and overwhelming attachments were rare and not, as a rule, duplicated on the gentleman’s side. Pride drove Gillian into wanting the earl to spend time in her company not because he was bored and had nothing better to do, but because he found her witty, amusing, and completely captivating.

She frowned at the figure seated before the dressing table. “What charms?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said I have many charms. What, in particular, do you consider my many charms?”

Charlotte waved away her maid and turned to look at her cousin sprawled out across her bed.

“Stand up.”

Gillian sighed and rose from the bed, trying without success to smooth the wrinkles out of her new gold evening gown.

“You’re tall,” Charlotte pronounced, circling her cousin and eyeing her from ears to toes.

“I know that,” Gillian replied tartly. “I’m taller than most men.”

“But not taller than the earl. In fact, you come only to his nose. That’s good.”

Gillian rolled her eyes again but kept her comments to herself.

“You carry yourself well.”

“Oh, come now, cousin! I fall over my own very substantial feet!”

“Only when you aren’t watching where you are going. Henceforth, and especially when you are in his lordship’s presence, you will watch where you are walking.”

“This is ridiculous.” Gillian waved a hand in a gesture of defeat. “He’s not really interested in me; he’s only passing time until he finds someone suitable to wed.”

“Why would he pass time with you when there are suitable women available now who would throw themselves at his feet?”

Gillian thought about that for a moment. Her hopes and reality were separated by a deep, dark abyss. “I believe I amuse him. His mouth is always twitching, as if he wants to smile but won’t let himself.”

“Aha! Compatibility! It’s very important in married life. I wouldn’t want you to dislike your husband. Now, let’s see…” Charlotte continued her tour around Gillian. “You’re intelligent. You can speak three languages and you’re very well read.”

“Only in the classics, although I have been enjoying the novels you’ve lent me. Uncle Jonas wouldn’t let me read them — he said they are sinful and depraved and would lead to the downfall of society as we know it.”

It was Charlotte’s turn to snort. “Weston is surely a man who appreciates a mind in a woman, no matter what she reads. I can’t see him with a simpering idiot like Diana Templeton, can you?”

“She does have a large dowry. And a large…er…bosom. Men like that too.”

“She’s also the daughter of a marquis, but she has the wits of a common garden toad. No, your brain is sure to appeal to Lord Weston, and your bosom is just as large as hers, so you’ve met both of those requirements.” Charlotte tipped her head as she considered her cousin. “I hope you’re not afraid to speak your mind in front of him.”

Gillian smiled. “Have you ever known me to be able to hold my tongue?”

Charlotte continued to look thoughtful. “No, but I don’t anticipate that that should be too much of a problem. I fancy Weston enjoys honesty.”

“So I have all the necessary ingredients to make me the perfect wife to the Black Earl?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Charlotte replied cheerfully and checked her own figure in a long oval mirror.

“Except one.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s not in love with me.”

Charlotte turned and looked at her cousin with a gentle, pitying smile. “What has love got to do with the earl asking you to wed him?”

“Charlotte! I couldn’t possibly marry a man who didn’t love me.” Charlotte gave her a weary look that spoke of wisdom beyond her eighteen years. Gillian looked at her hands twisting the gold gauze of her overskirt. “I suppose a love match is out of the question — no one marries for love any more.”

“Only romantics and women of a low station,” Charlotte agreed.

Gillian released the handful of gauze and smoothed her palm over it. Meeting her cousin’s eyes in the mirror, she smiled. “As if it matters — we’re talking foolishness, my dearest Charlotte. The earl has much plumper pigeons to pluck than me.”

Charlotte gave her gown a final tweak and spun around.

“We’ll see what happens tomorrow. If he calls for you again, we’ll know he’s serious. Mama wouldn’t allow him to dally with you if his intentions weren’t honorable. Heavens, there goes the second gong. Papa will be furious if we hold up dinner!”

The two women hurried down the hallway.

“What will you wear tomorrow?” Charlotte asked, pausing to pirouette before a mirror at the top of the stairs.

“What does it matter?”

Charlotte made an annoyed sound and started down the stairs. “What you wear matters greatly! You don’t want to appear before the earl in another of your work gowns,” she tossed over her shoulder. “You should strive for a look of sophistication and elegance, as I do.”

“A gown isn’t going to make me sophisticated and elegant.” Gillian laughed. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, made a face, then turned and sprinted down the stairs. “I have red hair, green eyes, and freckles, Charlotte, and I’m not in the least sophisticated or elegant. You can put your faith in the fact that no matter how well suited you might believe us to be, the earl will not pay his addresses to me.”

Charlotte gave her cousin a mysterious smile as she swept into the dining room.

Unaware that he was the object of discussion, Noble Britton, the most infamous of all the Black Earls, sat in the smoke-filled card room of White’s and proceeded to win most of the family fortune of Manfred, Lord Briceland. Despite his reputation as a merciless, cold predator, Noble did not enjoy destroying men, even foolish young men like Lord Briceland.

“My vowels, Lord Weston.” The young man’s hand trembled as he scrawled his signature.

“You will, of course, be by in the morning to redeem them?” Weston drawled as his long fingers stroked the tablecloth. The earl had every intention of refusing to accept the viscount’s money, but he wanted him to spend a sleepless night considering the implications of his foolish behavior first.

Pale and looking distinctly ill, Lord Briceland nodded and staggered out of the room, calling hoarsely for a whiskey.

“Well done, Noble; you haven’t lost your touch. I do hope the young man is duly appreciative of the fact you saved his fortune from the likes of Mansfield and the other vultures who have been circling him all evening.”

“Thank you, Harry.” Weston acknowledged his friend’s compliment and waved him and Sir Hugh into nearby chairs. “Brandy, gentlemen? Dingle! Three brandies.”

The Marquis Rosse adjusted his spectacles and took the offered balloon of brandy. Like Weston, he was in his evening blacks, creating a somber counterpoint to Sir Hugh’s emerald waistcoat and indigo coat and breeches. Weston thought the younger man looked like a peacock as he sat casting nervous glances around the room to see who was present, fiddling with several watch fobs, his quizzing glass, and two large emeralds on his pudgy fingers. He had reason to know those emeralds were paste and not the real thing.