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been so delicious.
    Spinton seemed uncomfortable, shifting in his chair as though he had a rash in a most embarrassing place. His cravat and shirt points were perfect—not too starched, not too elaborate or too high. His buff pantaloons and blue jacket complemented the shades of the room, unlike her gown, which clashed in a most unflattering manner. Normally she liked this room and all the colors in it, but not tonight, it seemed.
    “What is the matter?” If nothing else, she and Spinton had known each other long enough not to stand on ceremony. For that matter, they’d known each other long enough to use their Christian names, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it on a regular basis.
    He flushed. He colored as easily as a schoolgirl. “I have something to confess to you.”
    He was already secretly married. He preferred the company of men. These possibilities and more raced through Octavia’s mind. It was not lost on her that every one of them was a reason that she and Spinton couldn’t wed.
    “We are old friends,” she reminded him. “You may say anything to me.”
    He drew a deep breath. “I saw North Sheffield yesterday.”
    Nothing could have shocked her more—not even an announcement that he liked to dress up in women’s clothing and sell oranges in Covent Garden. He had seen North? Her North? She had yet to see him for heaven’s sake!
    He flashed her a sheepish smile, and Octavia bit her tongue, waiting for him to continue. A lady, her grandfather had taught her, did not make demands of a gentleman unless he was her husband, and even then she must be careful not to seem like a fishmonger’s wife.
    Devil take it. “Why in the name of God did you visit him?” That was a fishwife if ever she heard one.
    He was surprised by the ferocity of her outburst; it was written plainly in his eyes. “Well, I…er, wanted to discuss your… admirer with him.”
    She could strangle him, the stupid, well-meaning dolt. “After I asked you specifically not to investigate the letters?”
    Another sheepish smile. “I am afraid so.”
    He was afraid so. What had happened? Had some invisible force pushed him to North? Had someone held a pistol to his head and made him do the one thing she’d asked him not to do?
    “Why?” she managed to ask in a civil tone. “Why did you go to him?” Of all people.
    “Because I am concerned for your welfare, and as your future husband it is my business to look after you.”
    Octavia couldn’t stop herself; she leaped to her feet, tossing her book on the sofa. It bounced once and then lay silent. “You are not my husband yet, Spinton, and you never will be if you go against my wishes again.”
    His thin lips twitched, then parted, and finally his entire jaw dropped, creating a great gaping hole where his mouth once was. She’d shocked him, that was evident. In all the long years of their acquaintance, he had never seen her temper provoked, but he had crossed the line with her, and she was very tempted to say promise be damned, and tell him where to stick his marriage proposal.
    Spinton’s mouth worked, but nothing came out. Sighing, Octavia pressed the fingers of her right hand to her forehead. The left went to her hip. “Forgive me, Spinton. I forgot myself.”
    Speech eluded him for several more seconds before he finally nodded. “Of course, my dear. But it is I who should ask forgiveness. In my desire to protect you, I obviously ignored my promise to you, and I am sorry for it.”
    He had such a way of making her feel so horrible—as though she was the one in the wrong, not he.
    Then again, he had gone to North out of some misguided gesture of affection. His intentions had been good, even if utterly stupid.
    She was saved from having to apologize further, or from any questions her outburst might have raised in Spinton’s mind, by the arrival of her cousin Beatrice.
    Beatrice Henry was a few years younger than Octavia. However, where Octavia’s wealth and position made