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“It’s a mystery, isn’t it?” Lysander replied.

“How to be a gentleman and a man, particularly a young man in certain areas of life?” He’d had this discussion with his own father, and with George, more than once.

He’d heard grandfathers musing on the same topic at the clubs, though their rendition usually began with: In my day… .

“Offenbach makes it sound so easy,” Cargill replied.

“First, you scout out all the possible trysting locations that are both convenient, reasonably comfortable, and private. Then, when others are unlikely to observe, you look the lady in the eye with naughtiness on your mind. Next, you drop a few verbal hints, referring to nature or art. You brush up against the woman as if by accident. She brushes up against you or stumbles into your embrace. She returns your bold looks with flirtatious glances. And then,”—he waved a slim hand—“heigh ho, and off to the hermit’s grotto. ”

Offenbach had a list, like steps to a dance. How crass. “That’s one approach, but what is it an approach to?”

“Every hour of the day and evening, to hear Offenbach tell it.”

Lady Cargill had been right about Offenbach, too right, apparently. “And does Offenbach strike you as happy? As a man to emulate?”

Cargill propped a hip on the window ledge, looking both elegant and boyish. “He’s pathetic, if I may speak honestly in confidence. I’d rather not follow his example, but the ladies allow him certain privileges.”

“Some ladies, for which we do not judge them.” Lysander took the reading chair near the second window.

“When it comes to intimate matters, they are all ladies and we must comport ourselves as gentlemen, whether we keep them company for an hour or a lifetime. What varies is how much of our affection they seek and on what terms.”

Cargill was listening, for all he appeared to be fascinated with the garden below.

“You let the lady know what your terms are,” Lysander said, “she lets you know what her terms are. There’s either agreement or not, and you wish each other well at the conclusion of the negotiation, regardless of its outcome.

You pay attention, you ask , you offer the woman honesty.

You never assume and take liberties because that’s a good way to give offense or end up facing a pistol on the field of foolishness. ”

That earned him a signature Cargill smile. Lysander was coming to know the look. “Never heard it called that before.”

“Blowing out a chap’s brains because he spoke unfortunately is perhaps the only thing worse than having your own brains splattered for the same stupid reason.

Honest discourse with women takes courage, and you won’t always express yourself well.

Experience improves your ability to discern when witty banter is sought, and when a bold proposition is in order.

I daresay focusing on the witty banter for now will stand you in good stead.

Too many fellows seek only to perfect their bold propositions, and some ladies take us all into dislike as result. ”

Cargill finished his drink. “Witty banter, sir?”

“I haven’t any. Watch Tremont. The man’s a favorite with the ladies because he’s funny, smart, and never vulgar.

Prescott comports himself similarly, and then there’s Offenbach, who, if we are to be frank, was added to the guest list to serve as a bad example.

Makes a complete ass of himself but keeps the merry widows and bored wives from plaguing the likes of you and me. ”

“While he steals my jewelry and calls it borrowing. Phoebe and Mama don’t care for him.”

Which, to Cargill’s credit, the boy took seriously.

“The ladies have had to learn to trust their instincts, Cargill. If you mis-read a fellow, he’ll make a nuisance of himself over a few hands of cards.

If the ladies make that mistake, it can mean their ruin.

Trust the ladies, and when they give you their trust, never betray it. ”

“Latin is much simpler,” Cargill said, leaving the window sill to set his glass on the sideboard.

“Latin has its place. Why do you suppose your mama was upset?” Lysander could have blustered on, about an upset guest being cause for a host’s concern, but Cargill was a canny lad—very much his mother’s son—and would see right through that.

“She received a letter from Uncle Terrence. He’s greedy, arrogant, and refuses to believe that we can manage without his interference. He wants our money, and we are not inclined to give it to him. Uncle Frederick is getting on though—he’s my guardian and Mama’s brother—so Mama worries.”

“Getting on, how? ”

“He’s older than Mama by a considerable patch. They have different mothers, and Uncle Frederick’s heart pains him. He’s stout, gouty, and loves his port, but insists he’ll live until I’m one and twenty purely to thwart Uncle Terrence.”

The boy worried too, apparently for good reason. “Families are the very devil, some families.”

Cargill crossed to the door, his stride the loose-limbed blessing of a very young fellow. “What will you do about Mrs. Cavanaugh? Shall I keep watch for you like a chaperone?”

What a kind young man he was, and shrewd like his mama. “Does Tremont fancy her? They would be nearly of an age.”

“I haven’t seen any particular attraction there, sir. Mrs. Cavanaugh is well to do, according to Offenbach. She has two settlements, he says, and she need not consider Mr. Tremont simply on the basis of his situation.”

Young Tremont was a favorite with the ladies, while Lysander was getting on . Of course Mrs. Cavanaugh had chosen the fellow for whom there was virtually no competition.

“Keep watch,” Lysander said. “I’d take it as a personal favor if you’d discreetly keep watch.”

Cargill winked, saluted with two fingers, and jaunted out the door.

The moaning began after midnight.

Daphne had sought the shelter of Mrs. Gavineau’s company at dinner, the better to ignore Mrs. Cavanaugh’s compulsion to sit nearly in Lord Montmarche’s lap. Phoebe had taken supper with Mr. Tremont, and Charles had joined their party.

Which was as matters should have gone, and yet, Daphne had trouble finding sleep.

Then an odd, low, warbling moan had sounded from the far side of the bedroom wall. Not a sound of terror, but neither was it pleasant.

Daphne donned her dressing gown, pulled on a pair of wool stockings, and let herself into the corridor. The moaning came from the bedroom on the far side of Daphne’s chamber, another guest room.

A door clicked open across the way, and the Montmarche stood in the shadows cast by the hall sconces.

“No more house parties,” he said. “Not until I lose most of my hearing. As your host, I apologize for that racket.”

“Do you suppose someone’s in distress?”

The moaning crested higher and acquired a particular vibrato.

“Mrs. Ingersoll is assigned to that room,” Montmarche said, taking Daphne by the wrist. “I shudder to think who is inspiring her to such raptures.”

Mrs. Inger—? “Oh, I see. Raptures. Well then.”

Montmarche led her back to his open door.

“The look on your face, my lady, is priceless. You are trying not to laugh, because you know if you allow yourself any display of mirth, you’ll dissolve into whoops, and the footman on the landing will come at a dead run, and then Sophronia will scamper down from the nursery, and we’ll have a scandal of royal proportions. ”

Warbling graduated to thrilling as Montmarche pulled Daphne into a sitting room and closed the door.

He guffawed, then chuckled, and Daphne’s composure went completely to pot. “Raptures have never sounded so… so….” She dissolved into renewed laughter.

“Precisely,” Montmarche said. “Raptures have never sounded so. It’s as if the happy couple seeks to be discovered, but we must not oblige them.”

“Raptures,” Daphne said, chortling heartily. “Heaven help me. I’ll never be able to look a lover in the eye again, not that I expect to have any lovers.” How good it felt to laugh out loud. “How does a man keep his concentration amid all that racket? ”

Montmarche drew a handkerchief from the pocket of his dressing gown.

“Men are amazingly focused under some circumstances, and amazingly easy to distract under others, largely for the same reasons.” He passed Daphne the handkerchief.

“Ah, the silence. Cupid’s arrow is apparently spent for the nonce. ”

The moaning, warbling, and trilling had ceased, and the late night quiet was more profound for the contrast.

“I should go back to my room,” Daphne said, dabbing at her eyes. “Though if Cupid’s arrow takes flight again, I will not answer for the consequences.”

“I’d wait a few moments,” Montmarche said. “If Mrs. Ingersoll is entertaining Mr. Offenbach, he’ll be sneaking down the corridor any moment now. He’s not one to linger over his pleasures, apparently. Would you care for a brandy?”

Daphne offered the earl his handkerchief. “A tot to settle my nerves?”

“Keep it.” He opened a low cabinet that also served as a table between two reading chairs facing the hearth. “I offer you hospitality because I enjoy your company. Then too, I’d hate for you to encounter Mr. Offenbach in an awkward moment.”

“I would not mind in the least catching him out at his silly games.”

Montmarche set two glasses on the table and poured a serving into each. “But then he’d have grounds to inquire as to where you’d been wandering at this late hour. Can’t have that, can we?”

He passed her a glass, and touched his drink to hers. “To house parties concluded without drama.”

Daphne drank to that, but why must the house party conclude with only a handful of truly enjoyable moments, all of them spent with her host?

“Shall we sit?” Daphne asked. “This Armagnac is to be savored.”

Montmarche regarded her, amusement lingering in his eyes, and something more. “An excellent suggestion. I find having a house full of people whom I am expected to entertain and be endlessly gracious to taxing, and yet, at the end of the day…”

He waited for Daphne to take one of the wing chairs.

“At the end of the day,” Daphne said, “you would sleep more easily if you could recount your domestic adventures with somebody who was also sharing hers?”

“Something like that.”

Firelight might hide age, dust, and wrinkles, as the saying went, but it also fostered a mood of shared confidences. Daphne tucked her feet up and prepared to enjoy her host’s exclusive company one last time.

“Your house party has gone well,” she said. “No smoldering disagreements, no scandals, no food poisoning, nobody refusing to speak to anybody else. You and Lady Cassandra have shown your guests a wonderful time.”

The earl made a handsome picture, drink in hand, the brocade dressing gown testifying to both his wealth and his inherent dignity even when informal. Daphne shoved aside the question of what he’d look like without his clothes. He’d look like a man. She’d seen her share of those.

“My sister’s agenda for this gathering extended beyond providing genteel entertainment.”

“She’ll want to see her daughter married of course, but first we must get through tomorrow’s scavenger hunt.” The wedding would happen on Saturday in the family chapel, and Sunday, the final day of the gathering, would be for rest, and then Monday the guests departed.

“What were your objectives for these two weeks?” he asked. “Beyond painting the distant reaches of the park.”

Daphne had spent several fine days in his lordship’s deer park, and she had some excellent renditions of Marche Hall to show for it.

“I wanted Charles to gain some experience in good society, and for Phoebe to spend time with friends.”

He set down his drink and took Daphne’s hand.

“But what do you want for yourself , my lady? I know the dreaded uncle has plagued you even while you bide as my guest, and that vexes me beyond bearing. Who the hell is he to question the terms of his brother’s will, when clearly, both of your children—whose rearing has been left almost exclusively in your hands—are more than decent people? ”

Montmarche’s grasp was warm and firm, and pleased Daphne for too many reasons.

“I suspect Terrence’s debts are mounting. He has expensive tastes, and four daughters. He also knows Charles is losing the last vestiges of impressionable boyhood, and if Phoebe remains unmarried at age twenty-five, she gains access to her own funds.”

Daphne fell silent rather than descend into outright babbling.

Montmarche kept hold of her hand, stroking his thumb across her knuckles. He offered not a gesture of friendship, but a lover’s overture. He and Daphne were adults, he need not send her a scented invitation.

“Tell me what you want, Daphne. I know the question is difficult, because I’ve been considering it myself.”

Daphne . Nobody called her by name, and that was at her insistence. She was Lady Cargill, the better to have some consequence when consequence was needed.

She did not need or want her consequence now. She longed to be simply Daphne, enjoying a brief, discreet moment with a man she esteemed very much. Such an opportunity might never befall her again, and as goodnight waltzes went, Montmarche would be a splendid partner.

“I want you,” she said. “Right now, Montmarche, I want you.”