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and I should keep my opinions to myself."
    "Yes, perhaps you should," Grace said sharply. She had never heard anyone speak of the bishop with anything other than admiration and respect. It shocked her to hear Lord Rochdale, of all people, take him to task. And she was certain it had not been said to deliberately upset her, as all his other actions had been. He'd really meant it. To think that anyone could have such an opinion of Bishop Marlowe shook her totally off balance.
    "I do apologize." He took her hand again and his voice returned to the more usual deep timbre, spilling over her as thick as honey. "That was rude of me. And quite spoiled my mood. Let us have no more talk of the bishop and his reforms." He began to softly caress her fingers again.
    "But I never mentioned his ideas of reform," Grace said, determined to hang on to the one subject that seemed to take his mind off seduction. "I am working on his church sermons, which are quite different. He liked to take a verse from Proverbs, for example, and build a whole sermon around its lesson. Why, just yesterday I found his notes for a sermon based on the proverb 'Pride goeth before a fall.' It is most enlightening."
    "And wrong, if that's how he quoted it."
    Grace furrowed her brow. "What do you mean, wrong? Proverbs sixteen, verse eighteen. 'Pride goeth before a fall.'"
     
    * * *
     
    Rochdale smiled as he realized he'd found the opening he needed. "I say you are wrong."
    She gave a little chortle of laughter. That unexpectedly dark, husky laugh again that made him want to lay her down on the bench and make mad love to her. He would have to be careful of that laugh. It was a sound that could get under a man's skin and melt it right off. Pure seduction, and she did not even know it.
    "As if a man like you," she said, "would have even a passing acquaintance with the Bible."
    "I am willing to wager that you have the verse wrong."
    "And I am willing to wager that it is correct."
    He smiled. "Excellent. We shall have a proper wager, then."
    She eyed him warily. "I have heard about men like you, chronic gamblers who will wager on anything and everything."
    He shrugged. "I will not deny that I enjoy a good game. And a wager will always make a horse race or a cockfight or a mill all the more enjoyable. A bit of risk now and then adds a hint of piquancy to the everyday humdrum of life. You should do it more often. Taking risks. Stepping outside the strict boundaries of what you think is expected of you. This will be a good start for you. A small wager over a Bible verse."
    "But there is little risk when I know I am right."
    Better and better. This would be as easy as the turn of a card. "Since you are so confident, then you will have no objection if I set the stakes."
    "This is one wager you will not win, sir. I am a churchwoman. A vicar's daughter and a bishop's widow. I know my Bible. In fact, set the stakes high, for when I win I shall use the money to help build my new wing at Marlowe House."
    "You agree that I may set the stakes?"
    "So I have just said. Name any amount."
    "All right, then. But I wasn't thinking of money. I was thinking of ... a kiss."
    Her smoky eyes widened and her cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink. Lord, she was trying so hard to pretend not to be affected by him, and had no idea how delightfully she failed.
    She bristled into speech. "You have already kissed my hand, Lord Rochdale. That was quite enough."
    "Was it? Not for me, I assure you." He brought her hand to his mouth again and slowly drew his lips across her knuckles. He inhaled a deep breath through his nose, taking in the incredible fragrance she must have dabbed at her wrist. It was not the sort of soft, flowery scent he would have expected from her, but something slightly heavier and more intoxicating — jasmine, perhaps? — and as incongruous as her laugh. Rochdale added a quick flick of the tongue across her knuckles before lifting his head.
    She sucked in a sharp breath and drew her