‘To what purpose?’

Lord Richard looked amused. ‘My dear Mrs Stratton, to have the pleasure of your company, of course! May I escort you somewhere?’

‘No, thank you,’ Deb said, determined to be strong.

Richard looked enquiring. ‘Are you then intending to stay rooted to the spot here in Quay Street? I do believe that you are in the way of the other passers-by.’

‘How absurd you are,’ Deb said. ‘I was not refusing to move, merely refusing your offer of escort, my lord.’

‘Ah.’ Richard took her arm and steered her expertly out of the path of a large lady with an even larger marketing basket. ‘That is a pity, for I have a gift I wished to give to you.’

Deb was taken aback. She did not want to accept gifts from Lord Richard Kestrel. It seemed too intimate a gesture and she was sharply aware that if she were to give him any latitude he would take advantage with shocking speed. He had demonstrated that on more than one occasion. Yet despite her determination to withstand his advances, it felt rather as though they had already made the first moves in a game of chance and the game was becoming complex and unpredictable. She had no certainty that she could win.

Richard was proffering a brown paper parcel that was tied neatly with string. ‘I remembered our conversation about poetry,’ he said, ‘and that you were studying the work of Andrew Marvell in Lady Sally’s reading group. Please take it.’

Deborah reluctantly put out a hand. The parcel was the right shape and size to be a book. She enjoyed receiving books more than anything, and she felt a sudden rush of pleasure followed by a rather alarming urge to rip the paper off. She held the present stiffly out to him.

‘I do not believe that I can accept this, my lord.’

‘Please try, ma’am,’ Richard said persuasively. ‘I chose it especially for you.’ He waited, watching her. ‘Are you not going to open it?’

Deb was in two minds and she knew that he could tell, for he was smiling at her. She tried to resist, but willpower had never been her strong suit. With a little sigh of abandonment she tore off the paper.

As she had thought, it was a book of poetry, with a marbled cover and a beautiful leather binding trimmed with gilt.

‘Oh, how lovely!’ She could not help her involuntary exclamation.

Richard looked pleased. ‘I was anxious to demonstrate, Mrs Stratton, that my interest in seventeenth-century poetry was not merely assumed. There is a bookmark in the poem that is my favourite.’

Deb opened the book. The wind off the river riffled the pages a little and then the book fell open at the point where Richard had inserted the bookmark. Deb read the title of the poem, then looked up, caught between amusement and exasperation. ‘I might have guessed!’

The poem was ‘To His Coy Mistress’ by Andrew Marvell.

Lord Richard spoke softly. “‘Had we but world enough and time,”’ he quoted, “‘this coyness, lady, were no crime.” How very appropriate, Mrs Stratton.’

Deb shut the book with a decided snap, knowing that she had to depress his pretensions here and now. ‘There is nothing appropriate about it at all, Lord Richard.’

‘How so? Do I not admire you, and you in turn spurn my advances?’

Deb frowned. ‘I do not wish to debate literature with you.’

‘No? Must I then join Lady Sally’s reading group if I wish to have a literary discussion?’

Deborah’s steps quickened. He kept pace with her easily as she headed down the road towards the quay. ‘I am sure that the ladies of the reading group would be happy to benefit from your literary insight,’ she said. ‘Alas that I am not so eager for your company.’

Lord Richard did not seem cast down. In fact, Deb could not help but notice that he seemed amused and encouraged by their apparent discord.

‘Is that so? The other night you were persuaded to stay and talk to me, yet now it seems that you do not wish to discuss anything with me, Mrs Stratton, never mind literature. I wonder why that might be?’

Deb shot him an irritated look. ‘It must be painfully obvious to all but the most limited intellect,’ she said, ‘that I do not wish to speak with you, Lord Richard, because I do not trust you. I do not trust you, I do not like you and I do not enjoy your company!’

Richard took her hand in his, perforce requiring her to stop walking. Deb was vaguely surprised to see that they had come as far as the waterfront and were now in the flower gardens that bordered the edge of the river. The air was keen here. The breeze tugged at the brown wrapping paper, making it crackle. Deb held on to the book a little more tightly to prevent it blowing away.

‘Mrs Stratton,’ Lord Richard said, ‘at least two of those three statements you have just made are false.’

Deb looked at him. She raised her chin a little haughtily. ‘Indeed, my lord?’

‘Yes. If you must have me spell it out, you neither dislike me nor my company.’ Richard paused, thoughtful. ‘Probably it is true that you do not trust me.’

‘And with good reason!’

‘Ah, you are thinking about our kisses last week.’

‘I am not!’

‘Yes, you are. I saw it in your face when I came through the inn door and was hard put to it not to kiss you again there and then.’

Deb bit her lip, trying to repress the jumble of words that were clamouring to escape.

‘And I feel rather inclined to do it now,’ Richard added, his gaze going to her mouth.

Deb took a hasty step away from him, pulling her hand from his grasp. ‘Lord Richard-’ She cleared her throat. Her voice did not sound convincing enough. ‘Lord Richard,’ she said again, more strongly, ‘it seems to me that I have tried to be civil to you-’

‘Have you?’ Richard enquired. ‘I confess that I had not observed it.’

‘I have tried to be civil to you,’ Deb soldiered on, ‘but now I shall have to be more blunt. You are a scoundrel-an untrustworthy scoundrel-and I do not seek your company. What woman of sense would do? If you approach me again in future, I shall be obliged to cut you dead.’

‘Will you?’ Richard said with the greatest admiration. ‘I shall look forward to that immensely.’

Deb wrinkled up her face with frustration. Why could the wretched man not take her point?

‘You are not a stupid man,’ she said wrathfully, ‘although I am still unsure whether or not you are a shallow one. On this occasion, however, I am aware that you are merely being deliberately awkward! I do not wish to associate with you.’

Lord Richard did not look cast down. ‘You associated with me last week and it was delightful.’

A tinge of colour crept into Deborah’s cheek. It was monstrous difficult to summon up the resolution required to dismiss him. A part of her-a large and perfidious part-enjoyed his company immensely, and the more time that she spent with him the more attractive he seemed to become to her. It was like an inverse equation. Whilst she was telling him how little she cared for him, she found that she was making a liar of herself.

‘You are a rake, my lord,’ she said, rallying.

‘My dear Mrs Stratton, I do not think that anyone disputes that. What is your point?’

Deborah glared at him. ‘That is the point, my lord! I do not seek the company of rakes.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You have made no secret of the fact that you wished me to be your mistress last year. Your intentions were entirely dishonourable!’

Lord Richard smiled ruefully. ‘I cannot dispute that either,’ he said.

Deb felt a confusing mixture of emotions. Uppermost was the need to tell him to withdraw his attentions to her, but beneath that was a guilty sense of enjoyment. She knew that a respectable widow should not be having such feelings when speaking to a rakish gentleman. She pushed the feelings away.

‘Let me construe for your further, my lord,’ she said. ‘I am a respectable lady and females of good reputation do not consort with rakes-not if they wish their reputation to remain intact, that is.’

‘And you feel that neither your reputation nor your virtue could remain…intact…were you to spend some time in my company?’ Lord Richard queried softly.

‘Precisely!’ Deb had agreed before she thought that one through properly. ‘That is…’

‘You do not think that you could withstand the onslaught of my charm?’ Lord Richard asked whimsically and Deb blushed.

‘I did not say that,’ she said hastily. ‘I did not mean to imply that I thought you could seduce me-’

‘Would you care to wager on that?’ Lord Richard asked.

Deb felt a surge of anticipation. Yes, she would like to wager on it. Very much. And she would like to lose…

She bit her lip. ‘Certainly not!’

‘Then you do have doubts over your ability to withstand my seduction. Otherwise why refuse the bet?’

‘Because I do not gamble!’ Deb said. ‘You are the most provoking man!’

‘And you prefer the companionship of more sober gentlemen, I assume?’

‘No,’ Deborah said. ‘I do not seek male companionship at all.’

Now Lord Richard looked even more interested. Deb could have kicked herself for the unwary comment.

‘Tell me why that is,’ he said.

‘No,’ Deb said again. She was gripping the book so hard that her fingers cracked. ‘You ask too many questions. In fact, you are impertinent, my lord.’

Lord Richard laughed. He thrust his hands into the pockets of the green jacket.

‘And you enjoy crossing swords with me, Mrs Stratton. Admit it!’

‘I…’ Deborah hesitated on the very point of denying it. This was the perfect moment to dismiss him, to tell Lord Richard Kestrel that she did not wish to see him ever again. But the only problem was that it was not true and she had always had terrible trouble with lying. Even simple social untruths were a problem for her, such as telling her hostess that she had enjoyed an evening when in fact it had been a dead bore.