"You're foxed," she protested.

"Intoxicated," Vaughn corrected, using his fingers to trace the arch of her brows. His lips formed the words very deliberately. Mary couldn't take her eyes off the sight of them. "Drunk on the sight of you."

Mary tilted her chin, looking him straight in the eye. Her show of bravado might have been more effective if her heart wasn't pounding quite so hard, all but drowning out the sound of her own voice. "Eyes don't inebriate."

"Yours do. Stronger than port wine, sweeter than champagne, more biting than brandy. One gaze and a man is left staggering, sotted."

"I think you confuse me with the claret, my lord," she managed.

"Who needs claret?" His hand infiltrated the carefully arranged locks of her hair, twining through the long strands with a fine disregard for her hairdresser's art.

"You did, an hour ago."

Vaughn's thumbs smoothed over her eyelids, coaxing them closed. "'Drink to me only with thine eyes,'" he murmured, his voice pitched deep and fathomless as midnight, "'and I will pledge with mine.'"

One finger brushed across the sensitive skin of her lower lip in a pledge of things to come. They both knew how the verse ended, but Mary found herself waiting breathlessly for the final line, like the final words of an incantation.

Vaughn's voice dropped to something scarcely above a whisper, his breath soft against her lips.

"'Or leave a kiss but in the cup, and I'll not ask for wine.'"

She could taste the claret he had drunk, headier from his lips than from the glass. He gave her a sporting chance to pull away, his lips a mere whisper on hers, his hands braced on the wall behind her. She could so easily have leaned away, have broken the fragile contact, as good sense and all her upbringing commanded. There was no profit in his kisses, no prospect of matrimony to follow.

That, at least, was what she should have been thinking. Instead, she found herself leaning forwards, sharing the draft he was offering. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the fine linen of his shirt as her hands moved up his arms to his shoulders, the muscles tensing beneath her touch, moving to hold her closer. His skin was warm, so warm, warding off the chill of the cold porcelain behind her back, the echoing gilded rooms, the night outside. His hands slid beneath her cloak, molding themselves to her waist, drawing her nearer, warming wherever they touched. Perhaps it was the wine, tingling on her tongue, inebriating by extension. Or perhaps it was just Vaughn — Sebastian — cradling her as though she were more precious than the porcelain on the walls, his lips exploring hers with the skill of a decade of assorted debaucheries.

At the nape of his neck, his hair feathered against the back of her hands, surprisingly soft, just as the skin beneath his collar was warm and supple, a world away from the starched shirts and stiff coats with which the Lord Vaughn she knew always barricaded himself. Mary let her hands slide further beneath his collar, feeling the muscles of his back undulate beneath her touch. Her fingers roamed over his shoulder blades, like an explorer traversing a mountain range in a strange, new land, and she could hear a roaring in her ears like the fall of a distant waterfall.

Until the hands holding her abruptly pulled away, and she opened her eyes to see Vaughn, her hair tousled and his eyes the color of an old silver coin.

Blinking a few times, Mary touched her fingers to her lips. She had been kissed before, more times than she cared to admit to. In her first Season, fresh from the country, she had allowed liberties in the hopes it might bring someone up to scratch — and, if she were honest, because she had been curious. It hadn't always been unpleasant. There were men who knew what they were doing, who didn't grab, who didn't slobber, who didn't try to colonize her vocal cords with their tongues. But it had never, ever so absorbed her attention or scattered her senses.

Despite her four Seasons, Mary suddenly felt as callow as any girl on her first balcony, all her worldliness in tatters around her.

Perhaps it was the claret.

"My lord — " she began, before realizing that she no idea where the sentence was supposed to end. "Sebastian…"

The name felt awkward on her tongue, despite the license he had given her to use it.

Vaughn's arm stiffened beneath her hand. Stepping back with unflattering promptness, he stared at her as though seeing her for the first time, his gaze raking her face as though he were seeing straight through the skin.

Pressing his eyes tightly shut, he took a deep breath. "Mary — " he began, and then stopped, scraping a hand through his hair in an entirely uncharacteristic gesture of confusion.

"Yes?" said Mary, trying to keep her voice neutral and failing utterly.

Vaughn's lips twisted. "I can't say I never intended it, because I did. When I saw you standing there, I thought…"

Mary waited for him to finish the thought, but Vaughn turned abruptly away. "The time has come to restore you to the bosom of your family. I'll have Derby ready my sedan chair to take you home. You shouldn't be abroad at this time of night."

Bending, he yanked violently on the tongue of one the gilded dogs. The tongue rolled forwards. Somewhere in the depths of the door, a catch clicked and the panel sprung smoothly open.

"What of Vauxhall?" Mary asked.

Vaughn paused with one hand on the panel. "Vauxhall," he repeated, as though it were an unfamiliar term.

"The reason for my visit," Mary reminded him lightly.

Vaughn's brows drew together. "Of course. I knew that."

He looked rather adorable when he was befuddled, Mary thought giddily, although whether he was befuddled with claret or the kiss was unclear. She preferred to credit the latter.

Drawing himself up with exaggerated dignity, Vaughn addressed the air somewhere beyond her left shoulder. "There are arrangements to be made for our trip to Vauxhall. I'll see to them. It is," he added, with a crooked smile, "the least I can do."

"Until tomorrow, then?" Mary asked archly.

"Yes," Vaughn said, and there was nothing to be read in the silvered mirrors of his eyes. "Until then."

Chapter Twelve

"So…," Colin said.

"So," I agreed, nodding heartily.

Now that I had him, two hours before schedule, I had no idea what to do with him. Here we were, out in the middle of Mayfair, me in my sloppy archive clothes, Colin as dishy as ever, and all I could do was bob my head like one of those Chinese dolls.

Needless to say, I had had it all planned out. There was a charming little Greek restaurant next to my flat — well, Cypriot, but close enough — with coarse red tablecloths, heavenly food, and a rough but surprisingly potent Greek wine. Between the impact of the wine, the conveniently dim lighting, and the exotic strains of Greek music playing softly in the background, it was the perfect place for a first date, the sort of place where they would let you sit for hours, intruding only to refill your wine glass and bring you yet another plate of olives.

I had pointedly ignored my friend Pammy's advice to spend the week practicing seductively extracting pits from olives. I didn't see anything the least bit seductive about an olive pit. That was, Pammy informed me, precisely my problem. On the other hand, trying to ditch the olive pit could provide an icebreaker if conversation ever got slow.

But my little Greek restaurant — and my sleek, black going-out pants, my deodorant, and my hair dryer — were all back in Bayswater. We were in Mayfair. It was what one might call a slight logistical problem.

"So," I repeated, since it seemed to be the word of choice. "What shall we do?"

"Eat?" Colin suggested, with a little lift of the eyebrow that made the grainy November dusk as bright as any Technicolor fantasy land. It was, I realized, going to be okay. In fact, it was all more than okay.

"Squirrel stew?" I suggested, pointing to one who was regarding us curiously from his perch on a metal railing.

"I'm sure we can do better than that."

And it was as easily done as that. In one moment, his hand was at my elbow, as if it had always belonged there. Either he was, as my friend Pammy would say, a first-class smooth arse, or he liked me. Like really liked liked me. That's also Pammy, only circa sixth grade.

"True," I agreed giddily, leaning happily into the hand on my elbow and feeling the brush of his Barbour jacket against mine. Perhaps our Barbour jackets could give birth to a litter of lovely little Wellies. "There must be a pigeon or two somewhere. We could have pigeon pie."

"You have to be fast," cautioned Colin. Away from Bond Street, in the gloom of a residential street, I couldn't quite make out his face, but I knew the glint was there. "They're speedy little buggers."

"Dangerous, too. There was one time — my little sister had just left to go to school. Next thing we know, poof! She comes back in, absolutely covered — " I broke off with something that was half-hiccup, half-snort, trying to choke down the silly giggles.

I couldn't believe I was launching the Date to End All Dates with a disquisition on pigeon poo. I'd never read The Rules, but I was sure there had to be something in there about saving scatological humor for the third date. After all, he'll never respect you if you give it to him on the first date. And there was no reason Colin needed to know about Jillian's close, personal acquaintance with the Metro New York pigeon population.