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“Adrienne,” Lawrence smiled in delight. “I would not have allowed this young scapegrace to detain me for a moment had I known that you were coming out from hiding.”

Lady Enderby smiled in satisfaction. “So there is no need for introductions?”

“Old friends,” Lawrence replied warmly.

“Certainly older than we would care to admit.” Lady Wodesby chuckled.

“Then I shall have dinner announced.” Lady Enderby bustled away, leaving the latecomers to fend for themselves.

“My daughter, Miranda,” Lady Wodesby introduced, drawing her forward.

“This cannot be,” Lawrence said. “Adrienne, this is impossible! Surely you cannot have a daughter old enough for a Season.”

“You always were the most shameless of flatterers, Lawrie,” Lady Wodesby declared, fluttering her fan like a schoolgirl. “Is this your son?”

“Alas, I never married. Would that Peter had not secured your hand first, it might have been different, of course. This is my nephew, Adam.”

“Helen’s son? The resemblance is remarkable; certainly he has her eyes and the Timmons chin. . .” Lady Wodesby observed, taking the arm that Lawrence proffered and strolling with him toward the supper room.

“And Miranda is the very image of . . .” Lawrence’s voice drifted back.

“How discomfiting to be disassembled piece by piece,” the young woman said. “And then be discarded altogether. I know nothing beyond your given name, Sir.”

There was honesty in her eyes, Adam decided, although it was difficult to believe that there was a matchmaking hen in London who had not supplied her chick with such vital information.

But then, upon further examination, it was apparent that Miranda was not the downy fledgling that his uncle had supposed.

Most of those newly-hatched debutantes could not hide their lack of experience, even though they affected the feathers of the world-weary.

Not a one in the flock would have dared to venture a conversational sally upon being abandoned with half an introduction.

Yet this young woman did not seem the least bit unsettled at being left in his company.

“When did you arrive in London, Miss . . . ?” Adam asked.

“Wilton,” she supplied. “Is my lack of Town bronze so apparent? Or did I leave some straw hanging in my hair?”

Twenty? Twenty-five? Perhaps older? Adam found it hard to determine with any certainty.

Not an Incomparable, at least by current standard.

Her lips were too wide to be in vogue, the blue of her eyes more like a summer sky than the current icy ideal.

Clearly she had eschewed parasol and bonnet too often; the sun had lightly toasted her skin and bleached strands within the strawberry blonde of her hair to the color of ripening wheat.

Fortune had blessed her with one of those countenances that seemed immune to change.

At seventeen or sixty, Miss Wilton would draw the eye.

But while her prettiness might capture a man’s notice, it was her piquant expression that would arrest his attention.

Her face was unfashionably alive with interest and amusement.

“No straw,” Adam said, “not even a bit of chaff.”

“Then what gave me away as a country greenling?” she asked. “My gown? I fear it is some time since Mama and I last visited our modiste.”

“Not at all, Miss Wilton.” Adam hastened to assure her. “Your gown is of a classic style, modish for any season. That shade of emerald is an excellent choice for you.” To his delight, she turned an adorable shade of pink.

“I hope you do not think that I was fishing for a compliment, sir,” she murmured.

“Ah, but you should, Miss Wilton, if only to avoid being revealed as countrified. You must fish assiduously for flattery, effect an air of outright boredom and never, ever, under any circumstances, blush at anything you hear. To do so shows a lack of sophistication.”

“And such cynical sang froid is valued above all,” she remarked, with a smile that somehow conveyed a combination of distaste and amusement. “I begin to recall why I prefer the country life, Mr. . . . ?”

“Chapbrook.” Adam gave the family name and waited for a reaction, but there was not so much as a glimmer of recognition in those depths of blue.

It was too bad of him not to say more. Inevitably, she would find out that he was the Marquess of Brand.

Yet, he could not resist the omission. “And why do you favor field and farm? I had thought that every woman longs for routs and levees and balls that last till dawn.”

“Oh, I love to dance,” Miss Wilton said.

Adam shook his head. “Tsk. . . tsk . . . Miss Wilton, the hay is showing.”

“I find dancing . . . tolerable,” she amended in lofty tones.

“Much better,” Adam approved. “But you still would rather be in the hinterlands?”

“There is far more freedom there, Mr. Chapbrook. In Town, I cannot so much as gallop my horse without some biddy running to tell Mama that I am making a scandal of myself. There are always eyes watching, searching for some sin that may be stewed into a tidbit of gossip.”

“Rumor has ever been the grist for society’s mill,” he agreed, suddenly conscious of surreptitious glances, whispered words behind the screen of fans, an eddy of ominous undertones beneath the flow of conversation.

“‘Tis almost a tangible force, this social cannibalism. They fete you, feed you, then eat your reputation for breakfast,” she said lightly

Although her tones were mocking, Adam detected an underlying tinge of bitterness.

Wilton? Wilton? There was a nagging familiarity to the name, but try as he might, he could not make the connection of memory.

The announcement of dinner precluded any further exploration in the mines of recall, but eventually, he knew, the nugget would come to the surface.

“May I escort you to the table?” he asked, offering his arm.

“Would the confession that I am ravenously hungry put me beyond the pale?” Miranda asked, astonished at her own audacity as they strolled to the dining room.

In the past, she had found it necessary to supply no more than a sentence or two before relinquishing the reins of conversation.

Most men were well content to steer the subject to themselves and remain on that road.

“Absolutely,” her partner informed her. “Young women subsist on nectar and ambrosia. Occasionally, in tribute to their hostesses, they may allow a few morsels of food to pass their lips.”

“How much constitutes a morsel?” Miranda asked.

Never before had she enjoyed this bantering back and forth with a stranger It was almost like talking to Damien; except that she was quite conscious that this man was not her brother.

Though he was not quite as tall as the lanky Damien, Mr. Chapbrook was somewhat broader built.

Solid muscle rippled beneath the tight cut sleeves of his evening jacket, no padding there, she would wager.

Nor anywhere else; his closely tailored attire left little room for doubt.

“If a morsel consists of less than a fair cut of beef, I fear that I may be about to disgrace myself.”

“Then as it appears we are seated next to each other, I shall guard my plate,” he whispered solemnly, as she took her seat to his left. “Lady Enderby is not known for the generosity of her table.”

Her answering grin caught him off guard.

Not a social snicker, nor a simpering polite gesture, but a wide expression of pleasure transformed her face.

Suddenly, Adam felt the corners of his mouth stretching dangerously upward, well beyond the bounds of the urbane smirk that Polite Society deemed proper.

He was precariously close to outright laughter.

However, it appeared that poor Miss Wilton was already one foot over the edge.

Her shoulders were trembling, and her bottom lip was gathered mercilessly beneath her teeth.

For a few seconds, it appeared that she had succeeded in barricading it in, but the gate could not be held.

Ringing with delight, the melodic sound of Miss Wilton’s laughter floated across the stagnant pool of conversation.

Lyric and light as a soft zephyr, it nonetheless caused ripples of consternation that deepened into a veritable maelstrom of murmurs.

Quizzing glasses glinted in the candlelight as all eyes focused on the spectacle of honest emotion.

The panoply of reactions chilled Adam; for among the stares and glares, there were few smiles.

Beyond the bland facades, he sensed the cold calculation of predators scenting blood.

They would make her suffer for this compliment to his riposte, unless . . .

Adam began with a tentative chuckle, his deep baritone joining in counterpoint to her delicate alto.

Little more than a look at Miss Wilton’s face was necessary for hesitant mirth to graduate into genuine laughter.

The sparkle in her eye proved to be an irresistible inducement.

As their voices twined in a humorous duet, Adam found himself forgetting about the other people at the table, losing sight of everyone but the girl in the jewel-green dress, the pulsing dance of the emerald that adorned the long, slim column of her throat, the gleam of her hair like a sheaf of wheat satin wrapped in a nimbus of light.

Even as the gale diminished and the last gasping chuckle faded to an echo, Adam could not shake this bewitching sense of communion.

“Will you not share the joke, Lord Brand?” A high-pitched voice broke the spell.

“Forgive me, Miss Belgrave,” Adam said, using the process of being seated to shield his befuddlement.

Unless he could gather his wits, his aching side would be for naught.

“It was the type of humor which builds itself sentence by sentence,” he explained to his other seatmate, and by way of raised voice to the rest of the table.

“I could not hope to repeat the effect again, nor would I. I fear I have discomfited Miss Wilton entirely too much.” His apologetic glance swept the company.

To censure Miss Wilton, they would have to condemn him as well.

Luckily, the Brand title and newly restored fortune sufficed to put him well above reproach.

Just as he had hoped, the buzz of table talk began anew interspersed with the rattle of china as the first remove appeared.