The music played on, but Tess walked around the edge of the room and slipped out the door.

She walked down the corridor, wishing nothing more than to return to their simple life in Scotland where there wasn’t any silk to turn her favorite sister into a shimmering siren capable of drawing the attention of any man for miles around, let alone Mr. Felton from London. Back to her father’s house, where there weren’t any polished marble or polished rosewood or polished smiles. Tears pricked her eyes. There was a sudden swell of music as the door to the sitting room behind her opened.

Tess turned sharply, opened a door to her right, and slipped in. It was a small room that must have been used as a music room at some point. There was a harp standing in the corner and a large chair with a bass viol leaning against it. A tiny harpsichord was jammed against one wall. The far end of the room was a recessed window, framed in drapes of scarlet velvet.Tess walked over to the window seat tucked into the alcove and looked down. The stones in the courtyard were polished with rain, making them look sleek and hazy in the twilight. She swallowed hard. What had she to cry about? She was about to marry a man who professed fascination with her face and admiration for her character. And that—she reminded herself—was more than enough as a foundation for marriage. Never mind the fact that sometimes all his flowery compliments made Mayne sound like an empty-headed fool—

Could she have even thought of that word in terms of her future husband?

Tess shook her head. She had to remember how lucky she was. Her sisters were quite likely to make brilliant marriages; if Annabel married the richest man in all England, no one could be more happy than she. Right?

There was a sudden noise at the door, and Tess was horrified to find that tears were snaking down her cheeks. She pulled the velvet curtains closed, sheltering her window seat from the room, hoping that the intruder would simply peek into the room and leave.

The door opened and then closed again. Footsteps walked across the room. The note from one plucked harp string trembled on the air. She swallowed and scrubbed away another tear. The room was papered in exuberant apple trees. She tried to breathe silently, leaned her head against the paper orchard and told herself that she would be perfectly happy to stay here all evening. It was irritating to watch Annabel seduce Mr. Felton. Irritating, that’s all.

Then the curtain was plucked aside and she jumped to her feet.

Of course, she knew who it was. She’d known from the moment he entered the room, even if she was pretending to herself that she didn’t know.

His eyes were very dark, looking down into hers. “Hello.”

Tess said nothing.

“I appear to be following you wherever you go.”

Tess suddenly felt as if her whole body were alive, the blood thrumming through her body with reckless haste, making her head feel slightly dizzy. She still said nothing, watching the way that his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.

“I suppose you think that I’ll kiss you again,” he said.

Speak, Tess thought to herself. “You have shown a marked propensity for that particular activity, Mr. Felton,” she observed.

“True,” he muttered. He didn’t look quite so impervious now, so expressionless. There was something puzzled in his eyes.

He moved toward her, silently, like a cat. Tess pressed back against the wall and concentrated on breathing. His mouth—his body—was very close to hers. But she refused to look away.

“I won’t kiss you again, Tess,” he said to her. “You belong to someone else. I wouldn’t want it to become a habit.”

Disappointment coursed to the tips of her fingertips. “Habits can be disagreeable,” she agreed, dropping her eyes.

“After all, you have agreed to marry another,” he prompted, watching her sooty lashes against her cheek.

There was a sudden noise at the door. He moved even closer to her, until the velvet curtain at his shoulder swung free, and they were both hidden in the curtained alcove. Obviously, protection of Tess’s reputation demanded that he stand so close to her that no one knew they were unchaperoned.

A woman began speaking in rushed, emphatic tones on the other side of the curtain.

The room was as busy as the Royal Exchange: not that Lucius cared. It was quite dusky as the sky darkened through the window, but he could see the cream of Tess’s cheek, curving down to her small chin. The shadow of her eyelashes. The way she seemed to disappear into stillness, holding herself quiet with the concentration of a cat.

He bent over her deliberately and put his mouth to her ear. “Of course,” he said, under the babble of the voice behind him, “you could kiss me.”

Tess’s mouth curved into a reluctant smile. She was beginning to listen to the conversation taking place outside the curtain.

A man—not any man, but Draven Maitland—was talking now. “Do you mind telling me precisely why you dragged me into this room, Miss Pythian-Adams? My mother wouldn’t approve.”

“I must speak to you. As I just explained to you, Lord Maitland.”

There was a heavy sigh.

“I am proposing,” Miss Pythian-Adams said painstakingly, “that you inform your mama that we are not suited.”

“But I don’t think we are unsuited,” Maitland said, sounding profoundly uninterested. “I’m sure we’ll rub along fine together. You have your—your Shakespeare and the like, and I have my pursuits. There’s no doubt I would prefer a little less poetry, especially during meals. It puts me off my beef, but I don’t mind it in other places.”

“We will not be happy together. I shall not be happy.”

There was a silence while Maitland digested her statement. “If you feel that way, you’d better call it off,” he said, without a shadow of remorse in his voice.

“I can’t,” she snapped. “You know as well as I do that your mother is holding the papers to my father’s estate.”

“As far as that goes, my mother has made it quite clear that she’ll cut off the funding to my stables if I throw you over. So I’m afraid, m’dear, that we’re destined for the altar.”

“But Lord Maitland—”

“There’s no point in further discussing it,” he said, interrupting her without ceremony. “I’ve no particular aversion to marrying you—told my mama so when she picked you out. And you agreed to do the pretty as well. So we might as well go through with it, because things will be unpleasant if we don’t.”

“Haven’t you any sensibility?” she gasped.

“None,” he said without hesitation.

“You would be a great deal happier with Imogen Essex. She shares your interest in horses. And more importantly—she loves you!”

“I’ve noticed that.” A thread of pride crept into Maitland’s tone. “But she’ll have to find someone else.”

“Won’t you mind dreadfully?”

Another silence, then: “Not particularly.” Tess wished Imogen were in the room. There was something profoundly convincing about Lord Maitland’s answer. He truly wouldn’t mind if Imogen married another man.

“Miss Imogen has a horse for a dowry,” Miss Pythian-Adams noted, trying another avenue. “I gather the animal in question is quite famous. I’m sure he would be a notable addition to your stables.”