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as she trembled. In the fall and subsequent rescue, one of his fobs had become tangled in Iselle’s hair. He struggled to release the curl, but managed to pull the whole topknot down around her shoulders. Iselle tried to catch the falling hairpins, and suc ceeded in dislodging the dandy’s elaborate neck cloth. When the baronet reached to save his miraculous creation, somehow the crested button on his coat sleeve snagged on the fabric at Iselle’s plunging neckline, with even more plunging results. Iselle screamed again and jumped up, trying to hold the scraps of fabric together, but Farrell’s silver-buckled evening pump was firmly atop the net overskirt of her gown, which pulled away, leaving opened seams in the ivory silk.
    My God, Wingate thought in horror, the chit is half naked! The death grip on his coat had been relaxed, so he started to shrug out of the tight-fitting garment, to throw it over the now-hysterical female on the stairs. Instead, he felt a decidedly unladylike kick to his shin. “Ouch!” he yelped, and looked down to see a dark blot from Irma’s kid slipper smeared across his silk stocking. “Hell and tarnation!”
    But she was screaming by now, and so was the sister on the stairs, despite Farrell’s feeble attempts at comfort. The deuce, they’d have the whole house party out here in a flash. Wingate clamped his hand over Irma’s mouth—and her pearly little teeth chomped down on his flesh. And she winked! The bedlamite actually winked at him as he sucked his finger, before she set up another howl.
    The Bannisters, their servants, and their guests were all pouring into the hall by now. Only Inessa’s sobs could be heard for a moment while every stricken gaze focused on the couple on the stairs. Then Lady Bannister shrieked before fainting dead away. Lady Rothingham gasped, two of the younger ladies yelled for their vinaigrettes, some of the gentlemen nobly turned their backs, and Lord Bannister turned as red as a baboon’s behind.
    “She fell, Papa,” Irma explained, as three footmen carried Lady Bannister away and levelheaded Inessa snatched up the hall rug, threw it over her sister, and led the still-weeping Iselle back up the stairs.
    Evan Farrell stood, tried to straighten his clothes, ran shaking hands through his hair. He staggered down the stairs. “I…I am terribly sorry, Lord Bannister, and I take complete blame for the unfortunate accident. Clumsy, don’t you know. New shoes.” He swallowed audibly. “I am”—another swallow—“prepared to do the honorable thing to relieve the lady’s embarrassment.”
    The servants and guests alike exhaled. Dobbs, the butler, started herding them back to their appointed places. He signaled for another round of drinks to be poured in the drawing room, and sent a message to Cook that dinner might be a tad delayed.
    Lord Bannister was mopping his brow. “Gentlemanly of you, I’m sure,” he complimented Farrell. “No one’s fault and all. Still, don’t look right.” He turned to Wingate, who had stayed on in the hall with Irma. The baron was obviously hoping for another solution, one with a higher title and bigger fortune. The viscount didn’t need Irma’s pinch to stay mum.
    Farrell squared his shoulders. “If you are worried about my reputation, I have sown all my wild oats. I haven’t been in debt or haunted the gaming dens in ages. I hadn’t thought to wed, but my affairs are in order so I can keep your daughter in prime style, my lord, if that’s a concern.” He made an attempt at a laugh, “I suppose a wife shall complete my reform, what? Had to marry someday, I suppose.”
    Lord Bannister nodded. “You’ll do. Better than I expected of a popinjay like you, in fact. Not what her mother wanted for the gel, I have to admit, only a baronet, but you’ll do. Tell you what, give you a year to get used to the idea of leg-shackles. Bride clothes and all, don’t you know.”
    Irma pulled on her father’s sleeve. “Papa, I