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Lady Emma Renfrew’s hands were steady the next morning when Graves announced that her new fiancé, John Davenport, had arrived and requested the honor of joining her for breakfast. The teacup in her hand didn’t shake even a hair, and the memory of the electricity in their kiss was not even a faint blush upon her cheek. But inside, she was quaking.

It had all seemed like a perfectly good plan when she first conceived it. Selecting a man who was already indebted to her would give her the upper hand in this arrangement and prevent her from being at his mercy. For that was a position she had sworn she would never be in again.

She had thoroughly researched Mr. John Davenport’s character, even dispatching Graves to make discreet inquiries.

She had approved of what she found. While Mr. Davenport did indeed have an inordinate love of games of chance and a reputation as a heartbreaker, he never actually dishonored a young lady.

He flirted as if it were a dance, bringing ladies just to the edge of scandal before stepping away, leaving them breathless, dizzy, disappointed, but still uncompromised.

He seemed to enjoy seduction rather than conquest. From all appearances, he was disreputable, not immoral. Emma could live with that.

And so, proposing a marriage of convenience between them had seemed easy and logical. A way to thread the needle between needing a husband to access her inheritance without having to actually lose the freedom and independence she so valued.

Yet, she hadn’t really considered the reality.

In her mind, her future husband had been an abstraction, not a living, breathing man who might appear at her breakfast table.

Even the handful of lovers she had taken over the years were never so bold as to call on her before noon.

But now, that imaginary future husband had transformed into a real being.

A man she would have to spend time with and interact with.

A man who was mere moments away from appearing before her.

And Emma realized she had no idea how to respond to that reality.

I cannot continue the cold, proud attitude I took with him yesterday at our first interview. Not forever. But if not that, what attitude am I to take?

Emma had precious few moments to decide, as Graves now opened the door to the breakfast room and announced her fiancé.

“Good morning, my dear,” Mr. Davenport— John , she firmly reminded herself—said as he entered. He noted that she was already dressed for the day and added, “I see you’re ready for the races today.” The twinkle in his eye and the rakish grin upon his face expressed his pleasure.

No doubt, his pleasure in going to the racetrack today, knowing he will soon be free of the debts he’s incurred there. In a way, Emma couldn’t begrudge him that pleasure. She herself enjoyed the thrill of the racetrack and had made considerable sums there from men like her future husband.

“These are for you,” the gentleman in question continued, stepping forward and presenting her with a small bouquet of pink roses.

“Oh, they’re lovely,” she murmured, accepting the fragrant blooms. She raised them to her face and inhaled deeply. Her eyes fluttered closed, and the scent carried her back to her youth, when she wore white roses in her hair at her very first ball.

She opened her eyes and examined the man standing before her.

Even Lord Renfrew didn’t bring me flowers when he was courting me.

Is that what John thinks he’s doing now—courting me?

Or is he merely going through the motions of courtship for the benefit of my neighbors?

Either way, his gesture further threw her off, leaving her confused and unbalanced about how best to respond.

“Thank you,” she said, putting as much genuine gratitude into the sentiment as she dared.

“Please, sit. Smith, bring tea for Mr. Davenport.”

He settled himself in the chair closest to hers, that damned tempting, teasing smile on his face. If Emma didn’t know better, she would think he was turning his notorious charm onto her, a widowed lady of two-and-thirty. His fiancée.

As John sipped his tea and claimed a biscuit from the platter before her, Emma studied the man she had selected as her future husband.

In many ways, he was the exact opposite of her late husband, Lord George Renfrew.

John was Emma’s own age, whereas Lord Renfrew had been twenty years her senior.

John’s dark hair and light blue eyes were a direct contrast to Lord Renfrew’s light hair and dark eyes.

And based on what Emma had seen and heard of him, John had an easygoing, mild temperament, inclined to pleasure and leisure.

At least in that, we are similar. The cold, serious-minded politician Lord Renfrew had seemed like a good match to an innocent, wide-eyed girl of eighteen who was dazzled by his title and urged toward an advantageous marriage by an ambitious aunt.

And in that, I could not have been more wrong.

“Might I escort you to the races in my carriage?” John asked, his tone hopeful, though his posture was relaxed, as if he either already knew her answer or didn’t truly care about it.

“You drive a phaeton?” she asked, recalling seeing him about town. The thought of flying through London’s streets in such a fast, open contraption was equally exhilarating and frightening. Much like the reality of being around this devilishly handsome, charming man.

“I do indeed.”

Emma hummed in acknowledgement. In her youth, she had longed to be taken on a drive in such a vehicle.

It had always struck her as particularly romantic and adventurous.

But Lord Renfrew had been too sensible for such a vehicle, and Emma had resigned herself to her fate.

But now, perhaps, she was being given another chance.

“I would enjoy that,” she finally allowed.

John grinned at her, seemingly pleased with her response.

From there, he made several comments about the weather and the various horses expected to race today, but Emma barely heard him.

Instead, her thoughts were occupied by the questions: What is John doing?

Why is he behaving this way? And how am I to respond?

He acts as if I am another of his innocent young ladies, not a widow who has seen too much of life and love.

Why? What is he after? Or is this all perfectly natural and how he thinks he ought to behave?

Evidently, laying out the terms of their marriage hadn’t included the personal questions of how to relate to one another, and now, Emma felt foolish for not considering that.

At last, John realized she was not attending to their one-sided conversation. He sobered, sat up straight, and addressed her in a far more serious tone. “Lady Emma, enough of this.”

She started and broke out of her reverie of worries and questions.

John’s studied posture of repose had melted away, and he now sat upright, his countenance set and almost grave. “We do not have to continue this charade if you do not wish it. If you have doubts about me or second thoughts about this plan?—”

“I assure you, it’s nothing of the sort,” Emma rushed to explain, cutting him off rudely in the process. Her face heated. “It’s simply… I suppose I hadn’t thought this through.”

John tilted his head to the side, indicating that she should continue.

“It is a mutually beneficial plan. And yet…” Oh, how do I explain this? “I have been a widow for over ten years. I am used to having my home to myself. My time and my person have been my own. I hadn’t thought through what it would mean to… share it again.”

After a moment’s hesitation, John offered, “We do not have to live together. We could keep separate lodgings.”

Emma was shaking her head before he had finished. “That is unnecessary. It would only attract scandal.”

John leaned forward and placed a hand over Emma’s.

The touch of flesh to flesh was not electric, as it had been yesterday, but was instead comforting.

His smile was sad, yet measured. “Neither of us need fear scandal. I believe there has already been more than enough of that attached to both our names.” Here, his grin turned knowing.

He continued, “At the same token, we needn’t be adversaries in this.

Neither of us has illusions of love or romance.

” For a moment, his eyes darkened, and Emma wasn’t sure if she fully believed him.

“But there is also no pretense to cut through. We needn’t pretend to be anything other than who and what we are.

The world will believe I am marrying you for your money, and in that, the world is correct.

After all, you are also marrying me for your money. ”

Emma chuckled, acknowledging his point.

“So, can we not be friends as we enter into this endeavor? We already have many shared interests, many mutual friends. I have even read and admired your novels. And I would much rather go into the married state with a friend and ally than a wide-eyed miss with no knowledge of the world.”

By the end of this speech, Emma’s heart was beating hard in her chest. He was right.

There needn’t be this stilted distance between them.

She didn’t need to pretend to be who she had been when courted by Lord Renfrew, when she was a mere child.

She didn’t need to guess at who she was expected to be now that she was engaged again.

She was Lady Emma Renfrew, notorious for attracting scandal.

And he was Mr. John Davenport, noted rake.

“Quite right,” she said with a nod and a genuine smile—the first one she had offered him since he gave her the flowers.

“Mr. Davenport, I would be delighted to be your friend and ally in this endeavor.” She took one last sip of tea and placed her napkin on the table.

“Now, shall we go scandalize the neighbors with our new union? I find I would quite like to ride in your phaeton.”

He grinned back at her. “I should caution you, I am fond of driving fast.”

“As fast as you please,” she answered. “I wish to fly through the streets of London.”