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her forebear had most likely faced the French at Agincourt, with a slight smile on her lips and bloody resolve in her heart—the same resolve that had caught the king’s eye and gratitude. “Though from what I hear, not as much as you, Lady Kipps.”
    Gratitude was not the word Roxley would use at this moment. She hadn’t just said—
    Oh, yes, she had. If this were Gentleman Jim’s boxing ring instead of Lady Knolles’s annual soirée, round one—bloody hell, the entire match—would be awarded to Harriet.
    Which, Roxley had to imagine, was the direct result of the minx spending way too much time in his great-aunt’s company. She had managed to capture Lady Essex’s interfering tones and insulting turn of phrase precisely.
    He shook his head. As if Harriet needed any help with perfecting her skills of butting her nose into matters that were none of her business.
    But you made your business hers when you ruined her . . . all but promised her . . .
    Yes, well, there was that.
    For her part, Lady Kipps looked as if she’d swallowed a bucket of coals. The countess drew in a deep, furious breath, which did nothing to cool the fire in her belly, rather it made her brows knit together in indignation, and her eyes narrowed.
    “Lord Roxley, do you know this person ?” Miss Murray asked, her hands fluttering in Harriet’s direction like one might ask a footman to take away a plate of kippers that had gone off.
    Harriet’s gaze narrowed, looking from him to Miss Murray—more specifically, Miss Murray’s gloved hand atop his sleeve—and then back at him. Her eyes widened as she obviously came to the conclusion that he’d been too cowardly to tell her.
    Written to her. Gone to her and begged her forgiveness. If he thought he’d done the right thing, hoping to spare her from having to watch his fall and then his marriage to another, he was wrong.
    The hurt and anger in her eyes was enough to cut him in two.
    “Roxley?” Miss Murray’s jaw set with a determined line. “Do you know her?”
    “Of course he does,” Harriet supplied, before she leaned in and explained, “We were betrothed for a night.”
    “Harriet!” Roxley shot back, before he turned to the lady at his side. “Miss Murray, let me explain—”
    Lady Kipps stepped in to do it for him. “I fear Lord Roxley’s previous inclinations toward these country sorts is showing. How you once preferred a lady who is not a fair blossom, but more like a common cornstalk, I cannot see, my lord.”
    True enough. Miss Murray was a petite June bell compared to Harriet’s lofty reach.
    “Perhaps my father was misinformed about your intentions—” Miss Murray began.
    “No, no, no!” he rushed to assure her. “I fear Miss Hathaway is a bit of a . . .”
    All three of the ladies glared at him as they awaited his answer.
    Oh, how the devil had he ended up in this spot?
    He caught Miss Murray by the arm and turned her so her back was toward Harriet. “I fear Miss Hathaway is a matter of honor—”
    The lady’s brows arched slightly.
    Damn, that had hardly come out right.
    “Not that sort of honor,” he corrected. “It has to do with her brother—”
    The brows rose higher.
    Now that had definitely not come out correctly.
    “No, no,” he raced to explain. “The Hathaways are old friends. Nearly family. She is rather like a sister to me. I promised her brothers—”
    Harriet leaned between them. “I’ve never known a brother to kiss me like you did, Roxley.”
    The earl held his ground. As he should have done that reckless night last summer instead of . . .
    Oh, demmit! Now was not the time for recriminations or regrets. Besides, he reminded himself, strangling her in public would only cause a scandal.
    Just as ruining her that night should have.
    He notched up his chin and ignored Harry, focusing what was left of his tattered charms and grasp on the heiress’s attentions. And mostly reminding himself what he must do—if only to keep Harriet