“I am not so industrious.”

“And yet you are no less successful than Hastings.”

He shrugged good-naturedly, but the gesture also indicated that he was not about to discuss the specifics of his moves any further.

“I know how you do it,” she said.

He raised a brow.

“When you walk into a room of mixed company, you never head for the prettiest ladies right away. You will talk to the gentlemen for some time, or maybe one of the dowagers. But at the same time, you are perfectly aware of where the candidates are, and you know which ones are looking at you.”

He smiled very slightly, and took a sip of his mineral water. “Go on.”

She was abruptly aware that what he was listening for was not her analysis of the mechanics of his seduction, but an account of just how much she’d observed him, closely, while pretending not to. She could not, however, bring herself to stop.

“You are not that different from Hastings: You know exactly which woman you want. And you are no less a predator than he; but you are like the spider, content to wait for your prey to come to you.

“So the ladies take note of you, young, gleaming, and assured. With their fans, they beckon you to approach. You never oblige them immediately. You speak with the hostess. Share another joke with the gentlemen. Only then do you pretend to notice the ladies signaling you.

“You start with the one in whom you have the least interest and end the night chatting with the one you’d decided on in the first place, when you walked into the room. And then a few days later the gossip will get around to me—but I already know.”

He drank some more of his mineral water, then some more. The sun had set, the sky was indigo, the torches on the terrace cast a muted golden light upon him.

“It’s quite possible,” he said, “that you know me better than anyone else.”

She certainly paid the most minute, constant attention.

“I don’t know you half as well,” he continued.

“There is not much to know about me.”

“I beg to differ. There is not much you wish to be known about you—and that is not the same thing at all.”

Sometimes she wondered whether he studied her as she studied him. Now she had her answer: He did. And she had no idea what to do with that knowledge.

Tamping down the fluttering in her stomach, she went after the fish on her plate. “Why, this is delicious. Don’t you agree?”


They left Lake Como two days later, spent a week in Milan, then traveled east to Lombardy for more mountains and more lakes—Lake Iseo, this time, arriving at their destination late in the day.

The innkeeper was full of apologies. A large wedding party had descended and he had only one room left—a very nice room, but only one.

“We’ll take it,” said Fitz.

“Did you not hear him?” Millie said when they were out of the innkeeper’s hearing. “It’s only one room.”

“I heard him. But it’s late. We haven’t had our supper and I’d rather look for another inn tomorrow.”

“But—”

“I remember exactly what our pact entails. You are in no danger from me.”

And why, exactly, was she in no danger from him? Why didn’t he want her with the fervor of a thousand over-heating engines? She ought to be constantly ogled and groped, having to beat him off with her parasol, her fan, and maybe one of her walking boots.

“All right, I suppose,” she said reluctantly.

They were shown to the room, which was nice but small, and the bed laughably tiny.

She was speechless. He cast a glance at the bed and turned away. But he stood in front of the washstand and she saw a lopsided smile on his reflection in the mirror. Her face heated.

“It’s only for one night,” he said.


They ate a quick supper. She retired directly afterward; he did not join her until the clock had struck midnight.

The light from his hand candle preceded him. He set the hand candle on the mantel and pulled off his collar and his necktie. From beneath her lashes, she watched him. She’d seen him stripped to the waist, bathing in a stream, but she’d never seen him disrobe.

He drew out his watch and laid it on the mantel. His jacket and waistcoat he draped over the back of a chair. Then he pushed off his braces and took off his shirt. She bit on the inside of her cheek. The one time she’d seen him, he’d been skin and bones. Now he was fit and sinewy, as handsome unclothed as one of those garden statues in Versailles.

She’d laid out his nightshirt for him before she went to bed. He picked it up, put it on, then pinched out the candle flame. In the dark, she heard him remove his trousers.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight. She held herself very still and did not even breathe.

“You might as well breathe. You have to breathe at some point,” he said, a smile to his voice.

What?

“I know you are awake.”

“How do you know?”

“If I’d never had anyone in my bed before, I know I’d still be awake.”

She pulled her lips. Out of bed they were equals: She was just as well-spoken and poised as he. But in this particular arena he was vastly more experienced than she, an arena in which theoretical knowledge counted for nothing.

“When did you sleep with a woman for the first time?” she asked, her voice clipped.

“At my gentlemen’s party, supposedly.”

“Supposedly?”

“I was three sheets to the wind. Can’t remember a thing.”

“When was the first time you remember? Mrs. Bethel?”

“No, it was her sister, Mrs. Carmichael.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I can hear your disapproval.”

“I can hear your smugness.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m smug about it. Mrs. Carmichael passed me on to Mrs. Bethel because she knows Mrs. Bethel likes her men young and inexperienced—so you can also say that Mrs. Carmichael found me an inferior lover.”

“I assume you are not an inferior lover anymore since you’ve had a bit of practice since.”

“I am passably competent,” he said modestly. Then he chuckled. “I never thought I would lie in bed in the dark and discuss my competence or lack thereof in this matter with my wife.”

The bed creaked. Had he turned toward her? “I don’t wish to presume, but you sound curious.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I don’t mean that you are curious about me or that you are itching to try something yourself, but you sound intrigued about the matter as a whole.”

She bit her lip. “Do I?”

“Nothing wrong with it. You are of an age to be curious. Do you still have news of your fellow?”

So he still remembered. “Yes.”

“Ever think of him?”

She grimaced. “From time to time.”

“Have you two ever—”

“Of course not.”

“I don’t question your virtue. But have you two ever kissed?”

“Once.”

“How was it?”

You were there. What did you think? “I’m not sure I can describe it. I was in such despair. As was he.”

“Is he married now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you ever jealous of his wife?”

And how did she answer that? “It’s late. Let’s sleep.”

The bed creaked again as he shifted and put another few inches between them. “Just make sure you don’t kick me out of bed. I don’t like sleeping on floors.”

“I’ve never kicked anyone out of bed my entire life.”

“True, but you’ve never had anyone in it either. So…watch yourself.”

He fell asleep long before she did, his back turned toward her, his breathing deep and even.

She lay in a nameless agitation until she too finally dropped off.

Only to awaken with a start as he flung his arm around her midsection. One hand over her open mouth, she tried, with her other hand, to move him. But his fingers, when she touched them, were completely slack.

He’d turned in his sleep. Nothing else.

Her hand lingered on his, coming into contact with the signet ring she’d given him, warm with the heat of his body. Someday, she thought, someday…

Suddenly he yanked her toward him. She gasped—but made barely a sound, her shock stuck in her throat. Now they touched from shoulders to thighs. He buried his face in the crook of her neck. Dear God, his lips grazed her skin. And his stubbles, the sensation of it against her skin—

Things ran riot in her. Heat, want, confusion. What was he doing? Was he even aware of what he was doing? And did she want him to stop this moment…or not to stop at all?