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Good night, my lady.”
    “Good night, Mr. Brennan. I’ll see you in the morning at breakfast.” With a stubborn set to her face, she stood there waiting. For him to leave, no doubt. Clearly she was taking no chances. Once he departed, she’d probably scurry about to check if anything were missing. And when she left, she’d lock the door behind her. He’d discover nothing tonight.
    But he’d return another time, for it was clear she was hiding something, and he meant to find outwhat. “All right. Until breakfast.” He started for the door, then paused and turned back as an overwhelming urge to have the last word seized him. “By the way, your line about the ‘iron tongue of midnight’? It’s from A Midsummer Night’s Dream .”
    As her startled gaze fixed on him, he added, “So you see, I don’t only memorize ‘those lines of great literature suitable for deceiving women,’ as you put it. In fact, I remember very well the rest of the passage.” Very softly, he quoted, “‘The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve Lovers, to bed; ’tis almost fairy time./I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn/As much as we this night have overwatch’d.’”
    When his mention of lovers provoked yet another blush in those cheeks, a fierce satisfaction warmed his blood. Yes, the Amazon could be bested after all, and he’d found the way to do it. “While our ‘fairy time’ has been…er…enlightening, we’ve definitely ‘overwatch’d’ the night, Lady Rosalind. So you may wish to take care you don’t ‘outsleep the coming morn’ and arrive late for breakfast tomorrow.”
    He flashed her a mocking smile. “Because if I arrive first, I’ll be tempted to explain just why you are so late. And I have a suspicion that your family—particularly your father—would not approve.”

Chapter 4
Zounds! I have been five minutes too late all my life-time .
Hannah Cowley, English playwright , The Belle’s Stratagem
    A fter the maid finished helping her dress the next morning, Rosalind paced her room in the same state of agitation possessing her ever since Mr. Brennan had exited the study last night.
    He’d as good as threatened her! Him—a man of affairs! Did he actually believe she’d quake in her boots for fear that he’d tell Papa what had happened? If he did, he was a fool.
    She sniffed as she picked up her best lace shawl, tossed it about her shoulders, then headed toward the door. Let that scoundrel say what he wanted to Papa. She didn’t care in the least. She’d simply go down to breakfast and continue about her business the rest of the day. No Irishman with devil-may-care looks and a running footman’s well-formed body could frighten her. No, indeed.
    And if he did speak to Papa? Then she’d reveal how the man had been snooping about in the desk, and Papa would laud her diligence.
    Well, unless Mr. Brennan mentioned her…flimsy attire.
    Scowling, she halted at the door, then turned back into the room. Papa wouldn’t approve, to be sure. The curst Mr. Brennan had guessed aright on that particular.
    Once more she felt the heat of a whisper against her ear— Never challenge a thief, my lady, unless you are well prepared to best him .
    Blast! Mr. Brennan clearly realized that Papa wouldn’t overlook this, especially after hearing the entire story—how the insolent man had dragged her hard against his body and steadied her with a broad hand too intimately placed on her belly, prompting the strangest whirligig sensation in that vicinity. How the heat of his hand had seared her through her wrapper and chemise…
    Heat now seared her cheeks, too, launching her into a quicker pace about the room. That blackguard even had her blushing, for pity’s sake! It was too much to be borne—this absurd reaction to him! It made no sense. Men of affairs weren’t supposed to provoke such feelings in a woman.
    But then, men of affairs were supposed to wear spectacles and cough a great deal. They were supposed to