Callie made a little sound of frustration. “You, sir, are incorrigible.”

“Indeed. As we can agree that my reputation is beyond repair, may I suggest we return our attention to yours?” He did not wait for her response. “You will cease risking your reputation, Calpurnia, at least until Juliana is out. That means no unchaperoned visits to London public houses. Strike that. No visits to London public houses whatsoever. And, if you could see to it that you avoid leaving the house in the dead of night, that would be excellent.”

“Certainly, my lord.” Callie turned willful, her courage bolstered by drink. “And how would you suggest I prevent men from inappropriately accosting me in my ancestral home?”

The brashness of her statement surprised him, and he was immediately chagrined. “You have an excellent point. Please accept my—”

“Don’t you dare apologize.” Callie’s voice shook as she interrupted him. “I am not a child, nor will I be made to feel as though I have no control over my actions. Not by you, or by anyone else. And I could not—”

She stopped short. And I could not bear hearing that you regretted our kiss.

Of course, she knew in her heart that it was true, that he had trapped her in that alcove to prove his superiority, to pass the time, or for some other decidedly unromantic reason. But, for the first time in her life, she had felt sought after. And she would not have him ruin it with an apology.

In the silence that fell between them, mind reeling, Callie finished the last of her scotch. Ralston had been right, of course. The liquid seemed to go down much more easily with practice. She set the glass down, watching a droplet of whiskey make its slow, meandering way down the inside of the glass to settle at the bottom. She traced its path on the outside of the glass and waited for him to speak.

When he didn’t, she was flooded with a desire to escape the now-too-small space. “I am sorry to have spoiled your evening, my lord. As I have completed the task for which I came, I believe I shall leave you in peace.”

She stood, replacing her hood and pulling her cloak around her. He stood with her, immediately swinging his cloak around his shoulders and taking his hat and walking stick in hand. She offered him a direct look, and said, “I do not need a chaperone.”

“I would not be much of a gentleman if I did not escort you home, my lady.” She noted a slight emphasis on the last two words, as if he was reminding her of her position.

She refused to argue with him, refused to let him further ruin an evening that should have been bright with possibility—after all, she had succeeded in crossing yet another item off her list. Instead, she turned and began the long journey through the crowded taproom to the door, eager to exit the tavern ahead of him, certain that, if she could only reach the street first, she could hail a hackney and leave him—and this horrid interlude—behind. This time, however, she seemed less able to avoid being jostled by the crowd; her balance seemed somehow off, her thoughts slightly fuzzy. Was it possible that that small amount of scotch had gone to her head?

She exited the room into the cool spring evening beyond and marched to the street, head high, to search for a cab. Behind her, she was aware of Ralston calling up to the driver of his coach, who was waiting for him. Excellent, she thought to herself, perhaps he has decided to leave me alone after all. Ignoring the pang of disappointment that came with the thought, Callie stepped off the edge of the sidewalk to peer around another parked carriage. At the last minute, she recalled the puddle that she had met with earlier in the evening, and she increased the length of her stride, avoiding the muck. She landed off-balance and felt herself pitching forward onto the cobblestones. Flinging her hands out to catch herself, she prepared for impact.

An impact that never came.

Before she could grasp what had happened, she felt the earth shift and was caught against a rigid wall of warmth. She heard Ralston’s mutter of “Infuriating female” as his arms came around her like stone, and she gave a little shriek when he lifted her into the air, flush against his chest. His very broad, very firm chest. The hood of her cloak fell back, and she found herself staring straight into his angry blue gaze. His lips were scant inches from her own. Such marvelous lips. She shook her head to clear it of such silly thoughts.

“You could have killed yourself,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion she could not quite place. Likely fury, she thought to herself.

“I would think ‘killed’ is rather unlikely,” she said, knowing as she spoke them that the words would not engender his goodwill.

“You could have fallen and been run over by a passing coach. I think killed is a fair statement.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he shifted her, distracting her from continuing their argument. Setting her down on the sidewalk in front of the open door to his carriage, he pointed a single finger toward the dimly lit interior of the vehicle. The single word he offered brooked no refusal. “In.”

Taking his offered hand, she stepped up into the carriage, settling herself on the seat. Noticing that several curls had come down and were brushing against her cheek, she lifted a hand to check the positioning of her cap, only to discover it was missing. “Wait!” She called to Ralston just as he was about to lift himself into the coach. He paused, offering her a questioning look. “My cap. It is gone.”

At the words, he ascended into the vehicle, taking the seat next to her and nodding to the footman to close the door behind him. She watched in shock as he removed his gloves and hat and set them on the seat across from them before banging on the roof of the carriage, signaling to the coachman to drive on.