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poetry in here,” murmured a terribly familiar voice.
    Joan froze. Her heart jolted into her throat for one terrified moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, turning another page. This time she forced her eyes to read a few lines; it was not, thank the Lord and all his saints in heaven, prurient poetry. “And it’s rude to interrupt someone reading.”
    “No?” A long arm reached past her, above her head, and drew a dusty, battered book from a shelf. “Isn’t it rude to accost someone in his bedchamber and blackmail him into sacrificing his freedom?”
    “How dare you accuse a lady of such unspeakable crimes.” She turned another page. “It would be quite slanderous of you to say such things.”
    Lord Burke leaned one shoulder against the bookcase in front of her and flipped open his book. “I saw it with my own eyes, not half an hour ago.”
    “Indeed?” She batted her eyes at him. “When you tell the tale, be sure to mention your own shocking state of undress. My brother will demand satisfaction before the end of the day.”
    He gave her a slow, simmering smile. As Joan had feared, the dratted man cleaned up very well. His bright green eyes glinted with deviltry, and when he smiled like this, a dimple appeared in his cheek. She’d forgotten the dimple. “He already demanded satisfaction. Why do you think I’m here? Hand over the paper and we’ll go our separate ways with no one the wiser.”
    “Lord Burke, my actions are none of your concern. My brother is a grown man, in body if not in mind, and I daresay if he needs a keeper, you are the last man in England fit for the post. He signed the paper of his own free will.” She gave him a smile of her own, rather smug and superior.
    “And you shall hand it right back to me, of your own free will.” He continued smiling at her in that wicked way that hinted of languid seduction. She had dreamed of a man looking at her this way, as if he meant to pursue her to the ends of the earth, only she hadn’t thought it would be over a silly piece of paper.
    She snapped her book closed and replaced it on the shelf. “I don’t think I’d give you anything of mine, of my own free will.”
    He raised one eyebrow. “No?”
    “Never.”
    “Never?”
    She tipped back her head and widened her smile. “Never.”
    He leaned forward, lowering his face until they were mere inches apart. “I could change your mind,” he whispered.
    Joan heaved a sigh, even though her pulse jumped at the way he was looming over her, almost as if he meant to kiss her senseless. One part of her was strongly tempted to goad him into doing it. Shouldn’t every girl be kissed senseless by a dangerous man, just once in her life? But on the other hand, it was often better not to know what one was missing, so as not to feed sinful longings. Why hadn’t Tristan Burke’s dissipated lifestyle ravaged his looks? This would be much easier if he were fat or pockmarked.
    “Never,” she repeated, telling herself it was true. Even if he did kiss her—which she doubted he could bring himself to do, no matter what he’d promised Douglas—it wouldn’t change her mind, because she would know it was only to win back that paper. If Joan were to let herself fall into a swoon over a kiss, it would be a proper kiss, given in passion and meant to seduce, not to trick.
    For a moment he didn’t reply. His gaze narrowed and roved over her face. “You’re still too impertinent for your own good.”
    “Why, thank you!” She batted her eyelashes at him. “I have achieved my life’s ambition.”
    “And you’re too much trouble to be let loose on the poor, unsuspecting men of London.”
    Her own eyes narrowed. He trod on shaky ground now. “You seem to be the only one troubled. Even Douglas will get over his fit. The paper means nothing, you know; my mother will have him at that ball one way or another, and he knows it.”
    “Then give it back.”
    “No.”
    “I could take