Mayne repressed a wish to laugh. He was used to choosing his own partners, a fact that the Essex sisters seemed to discount. “Yes. Well—”

“Moreover, I’ve gotten myself into an entanglement that I would quite like to end,” she said. “As a man of the world and one who, as I understand it, has had hundreds of these little trysts, I’m sure you understand what I’m saying.”

She was already involved with another man?

Suddenly he felt rather glad that he hadn’t married Tess. Scottish girls were too much for his hidebound English soul. “Of course, I’d be happy to aid you in any fashion whatsoever.”

“Good. In that case, why don’t you take me home, because this food is inedible. Tomorrow I should like to start looking at townhouses. You may escort me.”

“Escort you?” The very idea was inconceivable. Didn’t she have any idea of the implications of him accompanying her on such an errand? He had never, in all his misspent years, engaged in something so scandalous.

Then she turned to him and said softly, “You didn’t think that having an affaire with me was going to be a matter of a few rides in the park, did you?”

He cleared his throat again. This woman had such a way of drying up one’s words that she should be in the House of Lords.

“Tess likely informed you that I am determined to ruin my reputation,” she said, tasting one of the small objects floating in her wine and then spitting it out. Come to think of it, he’d never seen a lady spit in public. “I’m not. I’m simply going to the devil, and if you wish to come along for the ride you may. I’m going to buy a house, and then I’m going to live there, and I don’t give a damn what this whole tedious pack of people who call themselves the ton has to say about it.”

He opened his mouth and closed it again. Suddenly he saw one thing clearly: he did owe Tess something. But this task was Herculean. He had to save Imogen from herself, somehow.

And if he did that—if somehow, by hook or by crook, he saved this woman—perhaps he wouldn’t feel so…tarnished.

Because he did. He felt tarnished, shabby and dirt cheap, and not worth his own time in speaking to. And if he were honest with himself, he’d been feeling like that for quite a while now. Deep down, it didn’t surprise him that Countess Godwin—the one woman he’d ever truly loved—had rejected him and returned to her husband, even though that husband had a mistress and God knows what other terrible habits. In the balance, he, Mayne, wasn’t any better than her husband. But perhaps, just perhaps, he could do amelioration. Was that the right word? Penance.

Trust me, he thought, to find charity work that involves bedding a beautiful woman rather than founding an orphanage. He looked at Imogen again. She was fishing out little pieces of orange rind and cloves and putting them into a straight line.

She didn’t need bedding. She just needed time.

Time…now, that he could buy her.

“Did you say that you had made a previous engagement with someone?” he said. It had to be the Scotsman whom he met last night. Ardmore was a decent fellow.

She nodded, not looking up.

“You’ll need to tell him that it’s off.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, ever.”

He shrugged. “I don’t poach on other men’s territory.”

For a moment, she smiled. “That’s rich, coming from you. The only virtue you have besides your clothing is your ability to seduce married women. My sister Tess always goes to experts when she needs something.”

That stung. Apparently he’d taken on a woman who was halfway to being a raving bitch and it looked as if they’d probably be together for a good period of time. A scourging, that’s what it was.

The key was to be patient and kind. That was how you were supposed to behave with a bereaved person. “As a matter of fact,” he said, schooling his voice carefully, “I have only seduced women whose husbands were all too willing to share.”

She laughed shortly. “And that’s why you’ve been in so many duels?”

“Only two.” And how in the hell had she heard about those, living in the wilds of Scotland? “When I was young and stupid. So I’d like you to clear out my rivals, if you please, Imogen.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I didn’t give you permission to use my first name.”

“Under the circumstances, I took the liberty. Would you like to call me Garret?”

She thought about it. “No. I prefer Mayne. I’ll write Ardmore a note.”

“In person,” he clarified. “These things are done in person. You made something of a fool of him, by all accounts, at that ball last night. You certainly damaged his chance to marry a proper young lady. You might want to offer an apology as well.”

“I’ll apologize when hell freezes,” she said, stung. “You didn’t hear what he—he said to me—he—”

“Frightened you, did he?”

“Never!”

“Offended you, then,” he guessed. “Ardmore must not have much experience of tenderly raised women who decide to go wrong. I’ve found that married ladies remain just as squeamish and proper as they were in their husbands’ beds. It’s one of the things that makes affaires des coeur stale so quickly.”

She shot him a murderous look.

“I can take you home, but I can’t escort you to look at houses. If I did so, Rafe would likely murder me, which is a distinct possibility even so. Where is Rafe?”

“He stayed home, the better to drown himself in a barrel of brandy,” she said unemotionally.

Mayne coughed. “Do you always aim for the jugular?”

“Why bother with flummery? Rafe is a sot, and has been for years. We had someone in the village like that. He won’t live long, at this rate.”

“He doesn’t drink that much.”

“Watch him. He does.”

“He never used to drink to excess until his brother died.”

“Perhaps I should take up brandy,” she muttered.

“It’ll make you fat and give you red veins in your nose.”

She seemed struck by that.

“If we’re going to do this, we might as well do it with finesse. I suggest we join the dancing. But no hanging on me the way you did with Ardmore last night.”

She opened her mouth but he kept talking. “No finesse. Nothing interesting for the ton to talk about except the excesses of a shameless trollop. And that’s a tedious story, and oft told.”

Her eyes looked so murderous that he almost choked, but he plowed ahead. “We’re going to stage something altogether more interesting: a pursuit. I’m going to pursue you, and you are not going to simply fall into my arms.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a novice at this business,” he said.

“I’m a fast learner.”

He leaned over and tipped up her chin. “One of the secrets of the human race, Imogen. Easy women are tedious. I never bed tedious women. Everyone knows that. So you need to be a little less forthcoming than you appeared to be last night. I’m prepared to throw away the last shards of my reputation, but I am not prepared to have it said that I’ve sunk to taking on a woman so desperate that she hung herself out like washing on the line!”