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Emily watched, intrigued, as the Earl lost himself in what could only truly be termeda snit.

“And,” he went on, apparently warming to his topic, “not to put too fine a point on things, but I am an earl, Miss Rutley. I am not a fortune hunter. Your sister would be a countess with a fine allowance. I truly,trulycannot fathom why you would not want that for her.”

“Well, that’s very simple,” Emily said plainly. “It’s because I don’t like you.”

The Earl of Moore stared at her as if she’d saidit’s because you have four heads and cannot play the hurdy-gurdy.

“Don’tlikeme?” he echoed. “What onearthdoes that have to do withanything? I’m not marryingyou.”

This last bit was said with just enough emphasis that Emily decided it was insulting.

“I suppose,” she said archly, not letting on that his words had stung, “it has to do with whatever reason you had for dragging me over here and asking for a truce. I decline. If you would like peaceful interactions with the family of a lady you’re courting, I suggest you find another lady. My sister is not the woman for you.”

“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head decisively. The confusion was gone, and he no longer looked even the slightest bit amusing. No, he was glowering again. And that left him looking…

Well, nothandsome. That was obviously ridiculous, and Emily didn’t even know why it had popped into her head.

“No,” he repeated. “I cannot find another woman. Absolutely not.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. You scarcely know her. You cannot mean to argue that you’re already in love with her or some such nonsense.”

“No, certainly not,” the Earl said, almost offhandedly. “That’s the point.”

There was a tense moment where her eyes narrowed, and he froze, seeming to realize his mistake.

“What,” she asked, tone dripping acid, “do you meanthat’s the point.”

He went for haughtiness again. “That’s not your concern. What matters is that I am a suitable match, as is your sister. I intend to marry her.”

Oh, he couldn’tpossiblythink that was going to work, could he?

“Marry her but not love her,” she demanded, taking a furious step towards him. “Is that what you mean to say?” His silence spoke volumes. “Perhaps you think you can get her to give you an heir and a spare and then ship her off to molder in some dusty country estate?”

“Of course not!” the Earl exclaimed, and for two heartbeats Emily wondered if she’d slightly misjudged him. Then he kept speaking. “She can stay in London, of course. I’m not the villain from a gothic novel.”

Emily felt rage set upon her like a haze.

She’d been angry before. She’d been angry when she’d been twelve and the twins seven, and they’d ‘borrowed’ her best pairof stockings to stitch together a kite. She’d been angry at her father during the countless incidents where she’d begged him to pay more attention to his younger daughters to absolutely no avail. She’d been angry with the man standing in front of her, even, numerous times before.

It was nothing like the anger she felt now.

“Howdareyou!” she cried. “You awful, awful,awfulman! My sister deserves someone a thousand times better than you—a million! She deserves someone who will love her and care for her just as she is, not some horrible Earl who thinks he’s impressive because he has some money and a title. She deserves someone who woulddiefor her. And I will die before I let you marry her, just see if I won’t!”

At some point in this diatribe, Emily’s voice had become—it had to be said—a true shriek. She hadn’t noticed how loud she’d gotten though, in truth, she was unlikely to have cared, anyway.

What she did notice, however, was the Earl of Moore’s hand coming down over her mouth.

She blinked at him in utter shock. If the hand hadn’t already been stopping her speech, the shock that the man wastouching her mouthwould have done it.

“Would you please,” he hissed furiously—but quietly, “shut up? You are going to attract attention, and I donotwant to be the subject of gossip.”

Emily reached up and grabbed his hand in hers, yanking it away from her face. When she retorted, however, she did make sure to remain quiet.

“Perhaps,” she suggested in an irate whisper, “you wouldn’t be the subject of gossip if you didn’t go aroundaccostingpeople?”

“Accosting.” His eyes flashed. “Isn’t that just so typical—you are overreacting. Again. Tell me, Miss Rutley, why must you persist in making a fuss over matters that do not affect you in the least?”

He was trying to intimidate her with his looming and his closeness and his low, irritated voice. She would not stand for it.