“Enough,” Lord Maitland said. “My mama has her heart set on my marrying you. And while Imogen is beautiful enough, she’d make an uncomfortable wife. I can only take that sort of emotion in very short doses. I expect you and I will suit each other well enough. Imogen would expect an entirely different level of devotion on my part.”

Lucius’s fingers touched Tess’s lips just as she was about to explode from the recessed window.

But Miss Pythian-Adams had not given up. “I’m amazed you aren’t ashamed to be so tied to your mother’s apron strings,” she said, her voice generously lashing on scorn. “And what pleasure I have to look forward to in my married life! Why, I always meant to marry a milksop man, driven hither and thither by his mama’s hold on the purse strings. I assure you, it has long been my deepest desire!”

“Well, if you ain’t a tallow-faced witch,” Maitland observed, sounding (for the first time) a bit nettled.

“Precisely,” Miss Pythian-Adams returned coldly. “I expect it will do my temper no end of good to be married to a man as shallow and easily driven as yourself. After all, the cure for any shrew is to be given her way at all times. Once I control the household, you shall have to curb your gambling. I am quite certain that your mother will give me control of the household funds. She is so fond of me.”

Although Miss Pythian-Adams paused, Maitland said nothing.

“Your poor, dear mother,” she continued, “What a remarkable situation it is, to find a dowager so entirely in control of the estate. Yet one can hardly disagree with your father’s judgment in that regard. And your mother undoubtedly agrees: she seems to have a particularly unambiguous doubt in your ability to keep two guineas in the same pocket without putting one out on a bet.”

“You’re hiding your real character under all that cultural twaddle. You’ve tricked my mother!” Maitland sounded utterly stunned. Mr. Felton’s eyes were gleaming with laughter.

“You’ve—you’ve tricked me!” Maitland gulped.

“Since I have the choice of being shrewish versus cultured, would you like to bet on which of my characteristics rule once we are married?” There was the sound of a door being pulled open and a rapid exit.

Lucius’s mouth was at Tess’s ear. “Do you think they both left?” he breathed.

His hand was on her back. It felt warm, even through her gown, almost scorching. It was most distracting to feel a shuddering wish that he would pull her even closer.

“Hush!” Sure enough, a moment later they heard the scrape of a boot, and then the protesting squeal of a harp string being snapped, leaving a screeching little echo in the air. The door opened again, and then slammed shut.

Lucius’s hand dropped from her back. “The auspices for that particular match are not altogether blissful,” he said. He had made no attempt to move away from her, or to open the velvet curtain. “Miss Pythian-Adams appears to believe that Lord Maitland never progressed intellectually after age eleven.”

“One would be foolish not to agree with her,” Tess said. “If only I were certain that Maitland wouldn’t turn to my little sister in despair, I would celebrate her effort to break free.”

“Dear me,” Lucius said. “An unexpectedly bloodthirsty vein emerges in the placid Miss Essex.”

“I am not placid,” Tess protested.

“Oh yes, you are,” he said, sounding amused. “Always watching and thinking about others, aren’t you. Observing.”

“That cannot be construed as a complimentary description of my behavior,” Tess said.

“No, no.” His finger ran slowly down her cheek. “I merely noted that you are, by nature, an observer. Watching it all go by rather than rushing into the fray yourself.”

Tess frowned. “You seem to be offering me an oblique insult,” she observed, reaching toward the curtain. “I shall certainly—”

But his hand stopped hers before she could pull back the velvet. And suddenly he had both her hands, pulling her palms to his mouth.

Instantly her heart began to thunder again. “Am I wrong then?” he asked, watching her intently.

“Of course you are,” Tess said. But she had lost track of the argument.

“Do you not simply accept what happens to you: my kisses, Mayne’s proposal of marriage…”

“And what else can I do?” Tess said, staring up at him. She didn’t even try to take her hands away. “You kiss me for some sort of diversion that I don’t quite understand. But you show no real wish to marry me. The Earl of Mayne does wish to marry me—”

“Also due to some desire that you don’t quite understand?” Lucius murmured, kissing each palm in turn.

“Perhaps,” she managed. “As the eldest, it is my duty to marry so that my sisters can have their seasons. I see my actions as arising not from lethargy, but from common sense. You seem to be suggesting actions that would arise from a disproportionate romanticism. That, sir, is not in my nature.” And this time, when she pulled away her hands, he let them go. They tingled from his kisses. She left the alcove and skirted the harp, its broken string trailing to the ground.

She could feel his gaze burning into her back, so she turned, on the very edge of opening the door. “I don’t know what sort of actions you expect from me!” she said with exasperation. “Are you implying that I should have run wailing to Rafe because you have occasionally kissed me in a hurly-burly fashion? I am not a child, sir! Or are you thinking that I should have accepted your oh-so-reluctant proposal of marriage? Would that somehow count as less lethargic than accepting the earl?”

“Only if you wanted to marry me,” he said.

She ignored that question. “Your proposal was reluctantly given.”

“So that is the criterion for your acceptance: genuine enthusiasm? You accept my kisses because I am genuinely enthusiastic about giving them? And you accept Mayne’s hand in marriage because—” He paused.

She nodded and turned to go. “Precisely. He genuinely wishes to marry me. Perhaps you overestimate how much command a lady has over her future, Mr. Felton. As I see it, the best I can do is observe who is authentic in his attentions, and choose that man.”

She left Lucius staring at the door, a faint smile playing around his mouth.

For all Tess spent her life observing, she was being damned unobservant at the moment.

Chapter 18

I f there was one thing in the world that Imogen loved better than Draven Maitland, it was her own horse, Posy. For a time, Posy had been Papa’s favorite. Her ears had perked back and forth as she listened to the stream of affection coming from his lips, telling her that she had beautiful legs and the withers of a winner. But Papa quickly grew disillusioned with Posy. She liked to canter, not gallop, especially during races. In short, she was lazy.

“She doesn’t want it,” Papa had said in disgust one day. And after that he walked past Posy’s stall with just an absentminded pat on the nose, never noticing the way her dark glossy eyes grew sad to see him whisper and chuckle to Balladino, whom he had begun grooming to make their fortunes.Imogen waited until Balladino won his first race (that was before the poor horse collided head-on with another horse during training and strained a fetlock). When Papa was in the glow of the winner’s circle, she asked if she might have Posy for her very own, and because the dibs were in tune that particular day, he said yes. It took only a few weeks for Posy to start whickering for Imogen, rather than for her father. Imogen never visited the stables without bringing her a treat and staying to rub her nose.