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“And what is that?”

“Lucinda doesn’t like me.” He heaved a dejected sigh.

She cast her eyes heavenward. “It’s only marriage. You need only get an heir or two on her, nothing else. What does liking have to do with it?”

“Everything,” he said. “Everything, alas.” He walked to the door, and the eavesdropping footman flung it open. “Show Lady Belair out.”

“T hat man!” Lucinda’s mother said as she stormed once again into Dorothea’s drawing room. “If he hadn’t ruined you, I would utterly refuse to allow you to wed him.”

“Good,” Lucinda said, “because he didn’t ruin me.” Coding the message was slow going, because she kept thinking about Restive. He had received her note—Dorothea’s footman had given it to his valet—but would he believe her?

It didn’t matter, she told herself, while knowing full well that it did. Which in itself was stupid of her, but that didn’t stop her from fretting.

Mother plumped herself onto the chair indicated by Dorothea. “He used the oldest, stupidest excuse in existence. He said you are too good for him.”

Lucinda didn’t know what to think of that.

Yes, she did. Mere flummery, nothing more.

“He sang your praises. Said how beautiful you are—which you are not, merely pretty—and how intelligent , but what use is intelligence to a woman, I ask you? And other such nonsense.”

What a strange strategy, Lucinda thought. She’d never heard of him avoiding marriage that way before. He was known for giving unkind rebukes to foolish maidens and their matchmaking mothers.

“What a weasel the man is!” Mother cried. “But if he thinks he’ll get away with this, he’d best think again.”

“He is not a weasel!” Lucinda said. “He’s a gentleman who doesn’t wish to marry, and why should he?”

“To get an heir, of course, so why not on you?” In a voice of loathing, she added, “As if marriage has anything to do with liking one’s spouse.”

“It should do,” Lucinda said.

“I never liked your father, but we got on well enough,” Mother said. Lucinda didn’t bother to protest. Papa had simply spent most of his time wherever Mother wasn’t.

“And it’s all your fault,” Mother said. “Restive said the only obstacle to your marriage is that you don’t like him .

Are you a complete idiot ? He’s a peer .

He’s young, handsome, virile, and yes, a libertine, but what does that matter?

He can surely fit getting an heir on you between one doxy and another! ”

Lucinda found she had no words. How could her mother think in such a way? Not to mention how mortifying it was to hear her say it in front of Dorothea.

“I’ll tell the entire beau monde what he has done,” Mother said.

Panic suffused Lucinda. With Papa dead and Matthew on the continent, there was no stopping her. There must be some way to prevent such a catastrophe—but what?

“I’d advise against that, Lady Belair,” Dorothea said calmly. “It will only make you look like a fool.”

Mother ignored her and rose. “Lucinda, come with me.”

The solution descended upon Lucinda like a gift from the gods. But like all gifts thus bestowed, there might well be an unforeseen consequence.

She didn’t have time to think it through. She sat back in her chair. “Please sit down again, Mother. I didn’t mean to tell you this yet, but you give me no choice.”

Her mother turned, arms akimbo. “Tell me what?”

“I cannot marry Lord Restive because I have fallen in love with another man.”

D oggedly, Lord Restive finished his last piece of toast and swallowed what remained of his coffee. He waved away the footman’s offer of more. He stood, assuming a cheerful air, and headed for his bedchamber, then changed his mind. His valet might be there, and he needed to be alone. To think.

He changed course and made his way, whistling softly, to his library. It was the one room where he could count on remaining undisturbed. The maids were under orders to clean it only when he was out.

He shut the door, poured himself an inch of brandy, and swigged it down.

Then he threw himself into a chair and buried his head in his hands. What in the name of all that was idiotic had he just done?

You broke your cardinal rule , Aunt Alice’s voice said in his mind. Again!

“I didn’t tell the lady in question,” he muttered. “I told her godforsaken mother.”

And whom do you suppose her mother will tell?

Lucinda, of course, but he’d said nothing but the truth—she was beautiful, intelligent, forward-thinking, et cetera, et cetera. It wasn’t a compliment as such.

Aunt Alice laughed, or would have if she’d really been there in the room, teasing him.

He banished the thought of Aunt Alice. She was just a way of postponing what he really had to think about. The real question he had to ask himself—and answer truthfully—was, Why did I break my rule?

L ucinda ignored Dorothea’s muffled squeak and assumed what she hoped was a confident air. A girlishly confident one. The air of a giddy young lady who thought she knew her own mind.

“What other man?” Mother huffed. “You’re making this up. I can aways tell when you’re lying, Lucinda—not to mention Mrs. Hale’s shocked expression, which serves as proof.”

“Because it was supposed to be a secret,” Dorothea improvised helpfully. “It was a case of love at first sight, so he must speak to his parents first.”

“Love at first sight ?” Mother threw up her hands. “Sheer twaddle. No one falls in love at first sight.”

“I did,” said Cecil Hale from the doorway. He bowed to Lucinda’s mother. “Good day, Lady Belair. I fell desperately in love with Dorothea the first time I saw her.”

“As did I, when I first saw Cecil, that is. It was at a wedding,” Dorothea said, which Lucinda knew wasn’t quite true, but it was the perfect lie. “Cecil had been shot by a smuggler only a few days earlier. He was wounded, and so devilishly handsome and romantic-looking that I toppled like a tree.”

Mother sniffed. “Typical folly. By what I hear, Mr. Hale was a completely unacceptable revenue officer at the time. It was sheer luck that he proved to be the heir of an earl.”

“My true love is a poet!” Lucinda said with her best attempt at a fatuous smile.

“Restive said something about an infatuation,” Mother said. “You must put this poet from your mind.”

“How can I? He’s perfect. Just like Papa, he writes Latin epigrams, as well as poems in English, of course. Charming sonnets about nymphs and shepherds, flowers and sunsets and…” She heaved what she hoped passed for a besotted sigh. “He composed a poem for me and read it at Mrs. Haraldson’s.”

Mother sniffed.

“His given name is Melrose . How strange; I never liked that name before, but now I adore it. Melrose Pearce, and I shall soon be Lucinda Pearce.”

“I’d never heard of him before today,” Mother said, “so he must be a nobody . No doubt he is as useless as your father. I daresay he wears worn breeches and a neckerchief, just like an impoverished artist. Completely ineligible.”

“On the contrary,” Lucinda said. “Mr. Pearce dresses in the best of taste—has the most beautiful waistcoats I have ever seen—and is accepted everywhere. His ancestry dates back to the Conquest. Everyone describes him as an extremely handsome, well-mannered gentleman. I am the luckiest woman in the world.”

“Good God ,” Mother said. “You’re as crack-brained as Susannah. If you fell into anything at first sight, it was lust, which is all very well, but not until you have given Restive an heir.”

“Surely you don’t condone adultery, Lady Belair?” Cecil asked gently.

Mother had the grace to blush. “Well, no, naturally not, but one must be realistic about such things.” She glowered. “Are you acquainted with this Pearce person?”

“We’ve met,” Cecil said. “He’s a good sort and a tolerable poet. Gentle, kindly, unassuming.”

“In other words, useless.”

“Not to me, Mother,” Lucinda said. “I told you I would wait for the right man—and Melrose Pearce is he.”

Mother threw up her hands. “As if I didn’t have enough troubles, now I have to put a stop to this folly.” She left.

“That should keep her busy for a while,” Dorothea said, when they heard the front door close behind her. “I hope she won’t frighten Mr. Pearce away. We need him until tomorrow night.”

“Oh dear,” Lucinda said. “I shouldn’t have said I meant to marry him, but I couldn’t think of any other way to counteract Restive’s stupid, stupid statements.”

Cecil looked from one lady to the other, brows raised. Dorothea obliged with a brief explanation. “Good Lord,” Cecil said. “How very unlike him.”

“How dare he!” Lucinda cried. “He fed my mother all that nonsense about me, knowing she would return here immediately! All I could think of—apart from visiting some ghastly revenge upon Restive—was how to get rid of her, and it suddenly occurred to me that Mr. Pearce was the perfect excuse.” She paused. “I’m sorry if I spoiled your plans.”

“We haven’t quite made plans yet. We’re waiting to see what Davis learns. He and Restive will improvise, if necessary—as you just did.”

A kindly way to put it, Lucinda thought. What she’d done was closer to panic than improvisation. She had to find a way to fix things.

“Calm down,” Cecil said, crossing the room to pour her an inch of brandy. “Restive and Davis are resourceful fellows.”

“What I wonder is, did Restive do it on purpose or not?” Dorothea asked.

“Do what?” Cecil asked, and then, “Oh. Lady Belair. It does seem strange. He usually just sends them away with a flea in their ear.”

“Of course he did it on purpose,” Lucinda retorted.

“As far as the words he used, yes,” Cecil said. “He’s good at thinking up the right lines to say, so to speak. He probably enjoyed the process while it was happening. But…did he pause to consider the consequences?”

“He knew it would infuriate me,” Lucinda said.

“He knew it would infuriate your mother ,” Dorothea countered. “He knew you would be annoyed at him, but if he thought about it for more than a few seconds, he assumed you’d get over it.”

“Yes, it’s no worse than anything else he has said or done,” Lucinda said. “But in the meantime, I long to throw something at him, except that mother has tantrums at the slightest provocation, so I have sworn never to do so.”

“I suspect he didn’t want to give your mother the same old blather he usually gives matchmaking mamas,” Dorothea said.

“Not that he cares a fig for her, but it would have amounted to an insult to you. You’re not on the prowl for a husband, and it would be unfair and unkind to respond as if you were. ”

Lucinda gave that the two seconds’ consideration it deserved. “How very thoughtful of him, but need he spout a lot of foolishness about me?”

“None of it was foolishness, Lucinda. You are indeed possessed of a great many desirable qualities.” She glanced at her husband and away again. “However, he could have taken a different tack—so why did he choose this one?”