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keeper, and was determined to do her duty despite the urgings of her common sense to keep a safer distance between them, was oddly satisfying. Oddly endearing. He smiled charmingly, too wise to smirk. “If I weaken and need support, you’ll be the first to know.”
    She glared, but the concern in her dark eyes was very real. As was her suspicion.
    “Very well.” She lifted her head. “And now, if you please, your real name?”
    Lucifer looked down at her; he made no attempt to disguise the tenor of his smile. “I told you. Lucifer.”
    She met his gaze directly. “No one is called Lucifer.”
    “I am.” He stepped forward; she backed.
    “That’s ludicrous. That cannot be your real name.”
    He continued his advance; she continued to fall back.
    “It’s the name I’m known by. There are many who would tell you it suits me.” He held her gaze and continued his prowling stroll. “If you ask anyone in the ton for Lucifer, they’ll instantly send you to me.”
    Her eyes had grown wider—their expression informed him she’d never encountered a man such as he. She was both fascinated and defensive—and, he suspected, disapproving. Desire flared; he tamped it down, kept that truth from his eyes. That he delighted in transforming disapproving ladies into wanton houris was a truth she didn’t need to know.
    He took the last step that backed her over the room’s threshold. Glancing about, she discovered herself in the corridor. She stiffened; the look she threw him as she stepped aside was distinctly irate. And not a little surprised. He hid a grin. It seemed likely that no one had ever managed her as he just had. He’d herded her out of the room—no hands, no voice—simply him. And there was hay yet to be made on this fine summer’s day.
    Closing the door, he looked down at her. “You shouldn’t be alone with me. Especially not in a bedroom.”
    She held his gaze; he struggled to keep his eyes on hers rather than focus on her swelling breasts, rising as she drew in a long, rigidly controlled breath. Lips compressed, she held it in, along with her temper.
    Not at all innocently, he raised a brow at her.
    Her eyes spat sparks. So fleeting was the sight, he could almost think he’d imagined it; his body’s reaction confirmed he hadn’t. In the next instant, her eyes once more dark pools of calm composure, her expression, as it so often was, deceptively serene, she inclined her head and turned down the corridor.
    “Thank you for the warning.” Her words drifted back to him. “You may tell Papa your name directly. If you’ll follow me?” Head high, she moved toward the stairs.
    Lucifer watched her hips sway, unconsciously seductive, the delectable hemispheres of her derriere and the graceful lines of her legs occasionally outlined by her gown. Lips lifting, he stepped out in her wake, very ready to oblige.
    The room she led him to gave onto the back lawn and onto the terrace along the side of the house. The long windows were open, letting the balmy breeze bring the summer day inside. A family group was gathered about the tea trolley, stationed in front of a chaise . A middle-aged lady with a hard expression wielded the teapot; beside her, a dandy, her son by his features, lounged petulantly. On her other side, a younger gentleman slouched—another son, this one sulky. No wonder the lady looked so worn down.
    Two other gentlemen stood beside the chaise . The younger, an insouciant male version of Phyllida, grinned engagingly. The older man, large and dressed in country tweeds, studied Lucifer from under shaggy brows.
    Preceding Lucifer into the room, Phyllida waved to this gentleman. “Papa?”
    Lucifer joined her as she halted before her father. She slanted him a glance. “Allow me to present . . .”
    He smiled, then turned to her father and held out his hand. “Alasdair Cynster, sir. But most call me Lucifer.”
    “Lucifer, heh?” Sir Jasper shook hands without any evidence of disquiet. “What