“Then you will have nothing to lose.”

Beth could stand up in a huff, point her nose in the air as Mrs. Barrington had taught her, and march out. Mrs. Barrington had said she’d slapped a good many would-be suitors in her time, though Beth would leave off the slap. She couldn’t imagine Lord Ian being fazed by any blow she could land, anyway.

“If I said yes, what would you do?” she asked in true curiosity. “Balk and try to talk your way out of it?”

“I would find a bishop, pry a license out of him, and make him marry us tonight.”

She widened her eyes in mock horror. “What, no wedding gown, no bridesmaids? What about all the flowers?” “You were married once before.”

“So that ought to have satisfied my need for white gowns and lilies of the valley? I must warn you that ladies are quite particular about their weddings, my lord. You might want to know that in case you decide to propose to another lady in the next half hour.”

Ian closed hard fingers around her hand. “I am asking you. Yes or no?”

“You don’t know anything about me. I might have a sordid past.”

“I know everything about you.” His gaze went remote, and his hand closed more tightly on hers. “Your maiden name is Villiers. Your father was a Frenchman who appeared in England thirty years ago. Your mother was the daughter of an English squire, and he disowned her when she married your father. Your father died a pauper and left you destitute.  You and your mother were forced into a workhouse when you were ten years old.”

Beth listened in astonishment. She’d made no secret of her past to Mrs. Barrington or Thomas, but to hear it come out of the mouth of a lofty lord like Ian Mackenzie was unnerving.

“Goodness, is this common knowledge?” “I told Curry to find out about you. Your mother died when you were fifteen. You were eventually employed by the workhouse as a teacher. When you were nineteen the vicar newly in charge of the workhouse, Thomas Ackerley, met you and married you. He died of fever a year later. Mrs. Barrington of Belgrave Square hired you as her companion.” Beth blinked as the drama of her life unfolded in the brief sentences. “Is this Curry a Scotland Yard detective?” “He is my valet.”

“Oh, of course. A valet.” She fanned herself vigorously.  “He looks after your clothes, shaves you, and investigates the pasts of obscure young women. Perhaps you should be warning Sir Lyndon about me instead of the other way around.”

“I wanted to discover whether you were genuine or false.”

She had no idea what that meant. “You have your answer, then. I’m certainly no diamond in the rough. More like a pebble that’s been polished a little.”

Ian touched a lock of hair that had drifted to her forehead.

“You are real.”

The touch had her heart pounding and heat washing to every limb. He sat too close, his fingertips so warm through his gloves. It would be a simple thing to tilt her head back and kiss him.

“You are ten times higher than I am, my lord. If I married you it would be a misalliance never to be forgotten.” “Your father was a viscount.”

“Oh, yes. I had forgotten about dear, dear Father.” Beth knew exactly how real her father’s claim to be a viscount had been, exactly how well her father had acted the part.

Lord Ian drew a thin curl between his fingers, straightening it. He let it go, his eyes flickering as it bounced against her forehead. He drew the curl out again, watching it bounce back, and again. His concentration unnerved her; the closeness of his body unnerved her still more. At the same time, her own wanton body was responding.

“You shall take all the spring out of it,” she said. “My maid will be so disappointed.”

Ian blinked, then returned his hand to the arm of his chair as though having to force it.

“Did you love your husband?”

This bizarre encounter with Lord Ian was the sort of thing she would have had a good laugh over with Thomas.  But Thomas was gone, years ago, and she was alone.

“With all my heart.”

“I wouldn’t expect love from you. I can’t love you back.” Beth plied her fan to her hot face, her heart stumbling.

 “Hardly flattering, my lord, for a woman to hear a man won’t fall in love with her. She likes to believe she will be the center of his abject devotion.”

Mather had said he’d be devoted. The crumpled letter burned her again.

“Not won’t. I can’t love you.”

“I beg your pardon?” She’d been using the phrase so often tonight.

“I am incapable of love. I will not offer it to you.” Beth wondered what was more heartbreaking, the words themselves or the flat tone of voice with which he delivered them. “Perhaps you simply haven’t found the right lady, my lord. Everyone falls in love sooner or later.” “I have taken women as lovers, but never loved them.” Beth’s face heated. “You make no sense, my lord. If you don’t care about my fortune or whether I love you, why on earth do you wish to marry me?”

Ian reached for the curl again as though he couldn’t stop himself. “Because I want to bed you.”

Beth knew in that instant that she was not a true lady, and never would be. A true lady would have fallen out of her chair in a gentle swoon or screamed down the opera house.  Instead, Beth leaned into Ian’s touch, liking it. “Do you?” His hand loosened more curls, rendering the maid’s work useless. “You were a vicar’s wife, respectable, the sort to be married. Otherwise, I would offer a liaison.” Beth resisted rubbing her face against his glove. “Have I got this right? You want me to come to your bed, but because I was once a respectable married lady, you must marry me in order to get me there?”

“Yes.”

She gave a half-hysterical laugh. “My dear Lord Ian, don’t you think that a bit extreme? Once you’d had me in your bed, you’d still be married to me.”

“I planned to bed you more than once.”

It sounded so logical when he said it. His deep voice slid through her senses, tempting her, finding the passionate woman who’d discovered how much she loved touching a man’s body and having that man touch her.  Ladies were not supposed to enjoy the marriage bed, so she’d been told. Thomas had said that was nonsense, and he’d taught her what a woman could feel. If he’d not taught her so well, she reflected, she’d not be sitting here boiling with need for Lord Ian Mackenzie.

“You do realize, my lord, that I am engaged to another man? I have only your word that he is a philanderer.” “I will give you time to make inquiries about Mather and put your affairs in order. Would you prefer to live in London or my estate in Scotland?”

Beth wanted to lay her head back on her chair and laugh and laugh. This was too absurd, and at the same time dismayingly tempting. Ian was attractive; she was alone. He was rich enough not to care about her little fortune, and he made no secret that he wanted to enjoy carnal knowledge of her. But if she truly knew so little about Lyndon Mather, she knew nothing at all about Ian Mackenzie.

“I’m still puzzled,” she managed to say. “A friendly warning about Sir Lyndon is one thing, but to warn me and then offer me marriage in the space of minutes another. Do you always make up your mind so quickly?”

“Yes.”

“ ‘If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly’? That sort of thing?”

“You can refuse.”

“I think I should.”

“Because I’m a madman?”

She gave another breathless laugh. “No, because it is too enticing, and because I’ve drunk whiskey, and I should return to Sir Lyndon and his aunt.”

She rose, skirts rustling, but Lord Ian grasped her hand.

 “Don’t go”

The words were harsh, not a plea. The strength left Beth’s limbs and she sat down again. It was warm here, and the chair was oh, so comfortable. “I shouldn’t stay.”

His hand closed over hers. “Watch the opera.” Beth forced her gaze to the stage, where the soprano was singing passionately about a lost lover. Tears gleamed on the singer’s face, and Beth wondered if she were thinking about Lord Cameron Mackenzie.

Whoever the woman thought of, the notes of the aria throbbed. “It’s beautiful,” Beth whispered.

“I can play this piece note for note,” Ian said, his breath warm in her ear. “But I cannot capture its soul.” “Oh.” She squeezed his hand, hurt for him welling up inside her.

Ian almost said, Teach me to hear it as you do, but he knew that was impossible.

She was like rare porcelain, he thought, delicate beauty with a core of steel. Cheap porcelain crumbled to dust or shattered, but the best pieces survived until they reached the hands of a collector who would care for them.  Beth closed her eyes to listen, her enticing curls trembling at her forehead. He liked how her hair unraveled, like silk from a tapestry.

The soprano ended the piece on another long, clear note.

Beth clapped spontaneously, smiling, eyes glowing with appreciation.  Ian had learned, under Mac’s and Cameron’s tutoring, how to applaud when a piece stopped, but he never understood why. Beth seemed to have no trouble understanding, and responding to, the joy of the music.

When she looked up at him with tears in her blue eyes, he leaned down and kissed her.

She started, her hands coming up to push him away. But she rested her hands on his shoulders instead and made a soft noise of surrender.

He needed her body under his tonight. He wanted to watch her eyes soften with desire, her cheeks flush with pleasure.  He wanted to rub the sweet berry between her legs and make her wet, he wanted to drive into her until he released, and then he wanted to do it all over again.