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attending the opera—for the sole purpose of picking up the stray opera dancer, of course….
     
    “Do you attend the opera?”
     
    He blinked. “Yes, of course,” he said automatically.
     
    She wrinkled her nose again. She was rather amusing, he thought dazedly. Like a puppy. “I went once. I fell asleep.”
     
    “Well, it is….”
     
    “My brother Daniel says most men attend to look at the pretty ladies on the stage.” She chuckled, a low, warm sound. “He then had to explain to me that the stage in opera is not the same as the stage one rides on to travel around. Isn’t that silly? Of course, I was quite young at the time, not yet out.”
     
    “He said that to you when you were still in the schoolroom?”
     
    “Oh, I was out of the schoolroom. But not ‘out’ yet, you know. When a girl is presented and all that.”
     
    “Yes. Yes, I understand.”
     
    “I thought you might,” she said complacently. “You look like a clever person.”
     
    He opened his mouth, then closed it again, bereft of any comment suitable for mixed company.
     
    “I am not at all clever,” she said. “But I have no difficulty asking people to explain things. Some people do, you know. But I don’t. For instance, I would like to ask you a question.”
     
    “Fire away,” Tristan said.
     
    “Would you like milk? Oh, that isn’t the question. That’s just an inquiry.”
     
    “No, nothing, thank you.”
     
    “Well, tea, of course, so not quite nothing.” She poured him a cup of tea and handed it to him.
     
    He had just taken a sip when she asked, “Are you diseased?”
     
    With an effort, he kept from either spitting it out or choking on it; when he’d managed to swallow, he asked, “I beg your pardon?”
     
    Her demeanor was as calm as if she’d just asked him the time. “Diseased. I overheard my brother Daniel discussing you with my papa, and he said I would be lucky if you weren’t diseased. He said that you made a habit of… well, I can’t say the word, it’s most improper, but it means that you lie with ladies and that that frequently breeds disease.” A faint frown appeared on her forehead. “I don’t understand quite how that would happen, but I thought I’d better ask.”
     
    He gave a bark of laughter. “No,” he said in amusement, “I’m not diseased. I take precautions to avoid, er, engendering offspring, and it seems to have a salutary effect on the spread of… illnesses.”
     
    She cocked her head, like a little wren. “What sort of precautions?”
     
    “This is a most improper conversation,” Tristan said, fighting back the little imp of depravity that was encouraging him to elaborate.
     
    “But we are betrothed. I do most sincerely wish to confirm that you are not ill before I marry you. Please explain how you prevent this.”
     
    “Are you serious ?”
     
    She blinked. “Yes, why?”
     
    “Well-bred ladies do not discuss such things with gentlemen they have just met.”
     
    “Perhaps if they did,” she said meditatively, “there would be less spread of illness.”
     
    He opened his mouth, then shut it again. And sipped his tea. Finally, he said, “I always use a French letter.”
     
    She frowned. “A French letter? You mean one of those like the c with the little squiggle beneath, or the o with the hat?”
     
    He laughed out loud. “Lady Charlotte, you are a delight. No, it is a sheath that fits over the—” He started to say, “Membrum virilis,” which was how his tutor had described it when he’d given Tristan “the talk,” but realized quickly that she would have no idea what he was referring to. So he took a breath and went on, “The male member. My dear Lady Charlotte, you must swear that you will never repeat a word of this conversation, or your papa will have me horsewhipped!”
     
    Her eyes met his, thoughtful and innocent. “Of course not. It is a private conversation. How does this prevent engendering?”
     
    “By keeping a man’s