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to do so?”
    He glanced away; she blinked. “No. The opera is one experience we’ve yet to enjoy.” Studying him, she couldn’t see him enthralled by opera or a play. Couldn’t resist asking, “Have you succumbed to its lure recently?”
    His lips twitched. “Opera isn’t my weakness.”
    Weakness—did he have one? Given all she could sense, it seemed unlikely. She realized she was gazing at him, trying hard not to stare, not to show any consciousness of him, of the potent masculine aura of which, as the confines of the crowded ballroom necessitated them standing mere inches apart, she was very much aware.
    She’d been going to dismiss him. She drew in a breath.
    “I thought you’d want to know that the proper authorities were informed of Mr. Ruskin’s sad end.” Those fascinating black eyes returned to hers; he’d lowered his voice so only she could hear. “In the circumstances, I saw no need to implicate you. You knew nothing of the situation leading to Ruskin’s death—or so I understood.”
    She nodded. “That’s correct.” As if in support of his judgment, she added, “I have no idea why he was stabbed, or by whom. I had no connection with him beyond a few social exchanges.”
    Torrington’s black gaze remained steady on her face, then he inclined his head and looked away. “So from which part of the country do you and your sister hail?”
    Given he’d just informed her he’d been instrumental in protecting her from precisely the sort of imbroglio she’d been frantic to avoid, she felt compelled to answer. “Warwickshire. Not far from Banbury.” She and Adriana had decided it would be wise henceforth to avoid all mention of Chipping Norton.
    “Your and Miss Pevensey’s parents?”
    “Are no longer alive.”
    That earned her a glance, black and sharp. “She has no guardian other than yourself?”
    “No.” She lifted her chin. “Be that as it may, I believe we’ll muddle through.”
    He registered her acerbic tone; he glanced again at Adriana. “So you’re solely responsible for…” He looked back at her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve taken on?”
    She raised her brows, no longer amused. “As I said, I believe we’ll manage nicely. We have until now, and quite well, I would say.”
    His black gaze held hers with a disturbing intensity. “I would have thought your husband would have had some hand in that.”
    She blushed. “Yes, of course, but he’s been dead for some years.”
    “Indeed?” Torrington’s black eyes gleamed. “Might one inquire from what he died?”
    “An inflamation of the lung,” she snapped, not at all sure to what in his question she was reacting. She looked away at the surrounding crowd, tried to realign her thoughts with the requirements of her charade. “It’s unkind of you to remind me, sir.”
    After a moment came the dry comment, “My apologies, my dear, but you don’t appear to be a grieving widow.”
    She made the mistake of glancing at him.
    He caught her gaze, held it.
    After a moment, she narrowed her eyes, then, deliberately, looked away.
    Fought to ignore the soft, very masculine chuckle that fell, a distractingly warm caress over her senses.
    “Tell me.” He’d lowered his voice and shifted closer; the deep rumble teased her ear. “Why aren’t you joining your sister in hunting for a husband?”
    “I have other matters in hand, other responsibilities. I don’t need to add a husband to the list.”
    She refused to look at him, but sensed she’d said something to make him pause.
    Not for long. “Most ladies in your position would look to a husband to shoulder their responsibilities for them.”
    “Indeed?” Still surveying the crowd, she raised her brows as if considering, then shrugged. “Perhaps, but I have no ambitions for myself in that direction. If I can see my sister comfortably established, married to a gentleman worthy of her, then I’ll retire from this Season well pleased.”
    Glancing at Adriana’s