“He’s a gold digger with the intelligence of a goat.”

“Of course he is,” she said, simply, as though he had just proclaimed the sky blue.

His brow furrowed. “Then why come here with him?”

“Because he asked.”

The answer, so obvious, frustrated him. He ran a hand through his hair before pointing out, “That shouldn’t be enough, Callie. For God’s sake.”

She smiled then, a sad, small smile that set him on edge. “You’re right. It shouldn’t be enough.”

He felt a strange pressure in his chest at the words and, in that moment, the decision was made. Oxford couldn’t have her. Ralston wouldn’t allow it.

Their gazes locked for several long moments before she moved to pull her hand from his, and he found that he could not let her go. His fingers tightened around hers, unyielding. She looked to him with surprise.

“Let me take you somewhere,” he said.

“My lord?”

“Where would you like to go? Surely you’ll afford me the same opportunity you’ve given Oxford.”

“It’s not a competition.” The words were quiet, and he sensed an underlying meaning in them that he didn’t entirely understand.

Ignoring that for a moment, he repeated, “Let me take you somewhere. You choose. The theater again. A picnic with Mariana and Rivington. A damn carriage ride.”

She thought for a moment. “I don’t want your escort to any of those places.”

“Why not?”

“I am turning over a new leaf. Nowhere plain. Nowhere missish.”

He felt the words like a blow, immediately recognizing the hurtful words as his own. Damn it. What could he say to make it right? He ran another hand through his dark hair, setting several thick locks loose. Suddenly, the conversation seemed one of the most important he’d ever had.

“God, Callie, I’m sorry. Give me a chance to prove that I’m not entirely a cad and an imbecile.”

“I don’t think you are an imbecile.”

“I note you did not refute the other claim,” he said, with a crooked smile. “Anything you want.”

She gave a frustrated sigh, looking anywhere but directly at him. Her eyes settled on their entwined hands before she met his gaze again. “Anything?”

His eyes narrowed as understanding dawned. “You’re thinking about your damned list, aren’t you?”

“Well, you did request I refrain from completing any other items on the list without your escort.”

“Indeed, I did.”

“I could always ask Oxford…” She trailed off deliberately, coaxing a half laugh from him.

“You are learning to play me quite well, Minx. Fine. We shall complete another item on your list. Which shall it be?”

She thought for a moment, worrying her lower lip. The action served to draw Ralston’s attention away from the conversation for a brief moment, as he considered kissing her to stop the nervous habit. For a moment, he was lost in the memory of the sweetness of her mouth, the softness of her lips, the wild abandon with which she met him at every turn. He felt himself harden at the thought, and was mere seconds from taking her mouth again when her lips formed a single word.

“Gambling.”

His eyebrows shot up, and he shook his head as though to clear it. Surely she hadn’t just said—“Gambling?”

She nodded eagerly. “Yes. Gambling. In a gentleman’s club.”

He laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

“Indeed, I am, my lord.”

“You just asked me to smuggle you into Brooks’s, Callie. I think we’re rather past the point where you need stand on titular ceremony.”

She offered a small smile. “Very well, Gabriel. I should like you to take me gambling. At your club.”

“No woman has ever breached the defenses of Brooks’s, Callie—”

She interrupted him dryly, “I find that rather difficult to believe.”

“Very well, no gentlewoman has ever breached the club’s defenses. I would be exiled from its ranks if we were discovered.” He shook his head firmly before continuing. “May I talk you into a game of vingt-et-un at Ralston House instead? We shall play for money. I can assure you the experience will be quite the same.”

“I don’t think it would be the same at all, actually,” Callie speculated. “Part of the draw of this item is the experience of the club itself.”

“Whatever for?” He was genuinely baffled.

She paused, changing tack. “Have you ever wondered what it is that women do behind closed doors at teas and after dinners? What we talk about, how we live without you?”

“No.”

“Of course not. Because our lives are out in the open. We may be alone in a room, sequestered from men, but you own the houses in which we congregate, you’ve been in the rooms in which we cloister ourselves. There is always the possibility that you might enter, and so we set ourselves to needlepoint or idle gossip and never allow ourselves to say or do too much beyond the bounds of propriety, for fear that you might see.

“It’s different for you,” she pressed on, growing more impassioned as she spoke. “Men have these secret locations…taverns and sporting clubs and men’s clubs. And there you can do and feel and experience anything you’d like. Far from the prying eyes of women.”

“Exactly,” he said, “which is why I cannot take you to Brooks’s.”

“Why should you be the only ones to have that kind of freedom? Why do you think I’ve got the list at all? I want to experience that sense of freedom. I want to see this secret place—this inner sanctum where men really can be men.”