“Maybe he does want me,” Isabel said, peevish, “but I cannot imagine he wants to marry me.”

Lara lifted herself up on her elbows to look her cousin in the eye. When she spoke, her words were rife with offense. “Whyever not? You are an ideal candidate for Lord Nicholas’s bride! One might argue that, as daughter of an earl, you are well above marrying a second son!”

Isabel laughed at the idea. “Perhaps if my father weren’t quite the lowest form of aristocratic life, that would be true. As it is, I think Lord Nicholas could do a fair bit better than me.”

“Nonsense.” Lara’s words shook with irritation. “You are lovely, capable, intelligent, amusing.” She ticked the qualities off on her fingers. “Any gentleman would be lucky to have you.”

Isabel’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Thank you, coz.”

Lara’s brow furrowed. “It was not a compliment. It was fact. You must know a man like that would not consider marrying you if he did not find the idea more than palatable.”

Palatable. What a horrible word.

Isabel did not reply, instead setting her head against the high back of the tub and closing her eyes.

Not twelve hours earlier, hearing that Lord Nicholas found her palatable would have set Isabel on edge—sending her fleeing his company and vowing never to return for fear of his opinions of her growing more committed. Now, she rather detested the very idea that he might have such ambivalent feelings for her.

How was it possible that she was beginning to care for this man? How had he invaded her thoughts in less than two days? How was it that she was actually considering placing her trust in this complete and utter stranger? She knew nothing of him, for heaven’s sake.

Nothing but how he made her feel.

She sighed. She did not like the way he made her feel. She did not like the way his words made her pulse race, or the way his wicked smiles made her skin flush, or the way his simple, honest gaze made her want to tell him everything and give him access to her entire world. To her past. And her present.

And now he tempted her with a promise of the future by going and mentioning marriage. And for the first time in her life, Isabel was actually considering the idea. It did not seem that the marriage he meant was anything like the marriages she had experienced in the past—traps, battles for power, struggles for self-preservation.

A marriage to Nick would not be any of those things.

And, suddenly, marriage did not seem so bad.

Except…

“He has not offered to marry me.”

Lara rolled her eyes. “Of course he has.”

“No. He did not say the words.”

“Which words?”

Isabel looked down into the bathtub, noting the way her body disappeared in the darkened water, hidden by the flickering candlelight bouncing like starlight across the surface—reminding her of the darkened ballroom and their waltz … and her confession. “He did not say, ‘Marry me, Isabel.’ ”

Lara waved one hand. “A semantic issue.”

Semantics seemed rather vital, suddenly.

“Nevertheless.”

Lara stilled, leaning forward over the edge of the bed, squinting in the dimly lit chamber. “Oh, my.”

Isabel turned at the breathy words. “What is it?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

“You are … enamored.”

Isabel looked away. “I am not.”

“You are!” Lara’s words were triumphant. “You are enamored of Lord Nicholas!”

“I’ve only known the man for three days, Lara.”

“After last night … the dinner … the dancing … three days is enough,” Lara said, as though she were an expert in all things romantic.

“Oh, how would you know?”

“I know. In roughly the same manner that I know that you are enamored of Lord Nicholas St. John.”

“I do wish you would stop saying the word enamored,” Isabel grumbled.

“How did this happen? ”

“I don’t know!” Isabel cried, lifting her hands from the water to cover her face. “I don’t even know the man!”

“It seems you know enough of him,” Lara teased.

Isabel looked up. “It isn’t funny. It’s awful.”

“Why? He wants to marry you!”

“Not for any rational reason.”

Lara tilted her head. “I am not certain that there has ever been a rational reason for marriage, Isabel.”

“Certainly there has been!” Isabel insisted. “He could marry me for money, or land, or to appease society, or to add respectability to his name. But … no, he cannot be doing it for any of those reasons, because I decidedly cannot provide any of those things!”

Lara giggled at the words. “Isabel.”

“It isn’t funny, really. Well, not outside of a dark, macabre sense of humor.”

“You are being dramatic. Can you really say that you aren’t the smallest bit intrigued by the prospect of marrying Lord Nicholas? ”

The frank question fell into the silence, and Isabel looked to the ceiling with a frustrated sigh.

She had spent twenty-four years telling herself that she did not want marriage. That she did not want children. That she did not want a mate. She had had a clear vision of her future—of helping James to restore the dignity of the earldom, of securing the future of Minerva House, of aging with the not inconsequential knowledge that she was impacting the world in some small, positive way.

Until tonight, she had been perfectly satisfied with her life as she knew it.