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to India with nothing but the clothes he’d stood up in, and burning ambition, but who’d returned to England with wealth beyond most men’s wildest dreams.
    And nobody was ever going to convince him that a man could amass such a fortune, so quickly, by honest means.
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    Rose Morgan was giving him an odd look. ‘What was that you said?’
    It was only then he realised he’d been getting so worked up he’d begun muttering under his breath.
    ‘I’m thinking of a poem,’ he came back smoothly. ‘Something along the lines of... Your beauty surpasses my wildest dreams, I mean to have you by any means... ’
    Miss Morgan giggled and blushed. ‘You really should not repeat that kind of verse to me. If Robert ever found out, he would be simply furious.’
    But she did not look displeased. She simpered and looked up at him from under those long, dark lashes of hers, with just the hint of a smile hovering round her lips.
    Had Lydia coached her to look at men like that? Miss Morgan must definitely have practised often, to have perfected a look that conveyed so neatly both maidenly modesty, spiced with a clear dash of willingness to accept his suit, should he choose to further her acquaintance.
    Well, if anyone knew how to get her young charge to bag herself a husband, no matter what obstacles society’s high sticklers might throw in her way, Lydia was the woman. Lydia had not appeared to have anything going for her when she’d come to town for her own Season. Not only had she been of a naturally timid disposition—or so he’d thought—but she’d also lacked the means to make the most of what assets she had. He had sometimes overheard other girls mocking her for having no more than two evening dresses, which she’d made over, in various ways, time after time. He had not minded. On the contrary, he’d admired her ingenuity, for he knew what it was like to always be juggling his own finances.
    But she’d clearly minded more than he’d guessed. She’d been determined to marry money, no matter what kind of man would provide it for her. And being wealthy certainly looked as though it had suited her. Just look at her, sitting on the chaperons’ bench, fanning herself indolently while she watched Rose dancing with, he made no bones about admitting, just about the most eligible bachelor in the room.
    Yes, she’d positively thrived on having married money. There was a sleek, contented look about her, like a cat that had been at the cream. He had always known she had the potential to become a beauty, but she’d had to paint on a facsimile of the roses that bloomed naturally in her cheeks now. She’d entirely lost those gauche mannerisms that had so appealed to him, too. And her gawky, coltish figure was now hidden beneath distinctly feminine curves.
    She was no longer that frail, pale waif, who’d made him feel she needed some big strong man to come dashing to her rescue. The girl who’d so cunningly made him feel as though he could be that man. She was a self-assured, healthy, wealthy widow. A woman who’d got exactly what she’d set out to achieve in life.
    In fact, to her way of thinking Colonel Morgan’s age might have been a positive advantage. She certainly had not had to put up with his filthy temper or his unreasonable demands for very long. She’d been a widow now for almost two years.
    ‘Typical,’ he muttered. The very year he’d finally decided that he was ready to dip his toe into matrimonial waters, some malign fate had brought her up to town as well.
    Dammit, how could he search for a bride, when the mere sight of her provoked him so much that he’d started muttering imprecations under his breath while he was dancing with just about the prettiest girl in the room? He’d thought he’d got over his disillusion. His disappointment. His mistrust of everything a woman said. But then he’d seen her sitting there, pretending she had not seen him. Or worse, she simply hadn’t