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concern for his well-being was an abrupt volte-face, Neal was aware; but he was not surprised that Cressida should be so inconsistent as to in one moment consider Sandor an ogre, and in the next a saint. Females were consistently inconsistent, in Neal’s experience—save for his sister, and on the same subject. Too, Cressida’s melting expression would have soothed the ruffled sensibilities of a far more discerning gentleman.
    “You need not worry for my safety,” he responded, though gratified that she should. “Sandor would not dare go so far—at least, I think he won’t. My darling, I am a brute to harangue you in his stead; and you are an angel to put up with me.”
    At that moment, and by design, Cressida looked angelic indeed. “If you wish it so very much,” she offered nobly, “we may be married before the spring. My mother will be disappointed, I daresay—but for myself, I don’t care a rush if we are married here or in Hanover Square.” Modestly, she blushed. “You are to be my husband, after all. I must learn to defer to you in all things.”
    Confronted with a vision of lovely and submissive femininity, Neal was positively bewitched—but not so bewitched that he failed to heed a deep pang of conscience. Also, and oddly, Cressida’s sudden acquiescence roused in him a reluctance to be so abruptly wed. “No, no!” he replied quickly. “It must be as you wish. A wedding is a solemn matter.” Strange how that remark roused in him unease. “I would not wish to cause you unseemly haste.”
    “Dear Neal.” Cressida’s long lashes fluttered. “You are so very good.”
    With this, too, Neal disagreed; at that moment he felt himself an utter varlet of insincerity. “I must go,” he said abruptly. “I will call upon you tomorrow, Cressida.” She suffered him to salute her hand.
    She also allowed herself the pleasure of watching his handsome figure move away from her down the street. His brusque leave-taking she attributed to consideration other sensibilities; obviously he had been laboring under strong emotion, and he would not wish to offer her further affront. All in all, and despite Neal’s various misdemeanors, she was content with the interview. He would learn to be less frivolous and volatile, she believed, once she had separated him from his frippery fellow officers.
    Miss Choice-Pickerell might have been less complacent had she been aware that at that very moment her fiancé was seriously questioning if there was any point on which they thought as one; but Miss Choice-Pickerell saw no reason to concern herself with what her prospective bridegroom might and might not think. Lieutenant Baskerville was, to her, no more than a means to an end. She would have preferred a title, naturally, but she knew the folly of setting her sights so high. Neal would serve her purpose very nicely; his lineage was impeccable, and no one could sneeze at a lieutenant in the Tenth Light Dragoons; he would make an unexceptionable husband, once he was properly trained.
    With the practicality on which she prided herself, Cressida contemplated the main topic of their recent conversation, and decided that Neal was not entirely rational on the subject of the Duke of Knowles. To Cressida, the duke habitually behaved with a pretty deference that pleased her well. She was not so much a fool as to set her cap at Sandor; His Grace would no more marry a merchant’s daughter than he would the dashing Phaedra Fortescue, who was already married anyway. Still, Cressida thought it would be very nice to be related to His Grace by marriage. Obviously, Neal was unaware of the advantages of relationship to such a very important man.
    That reflection brought Miss Choice-Pickerell to a matter that caused her considerable discontent. Who was this Miss Mannering that Neal had gone to fetch? More important, what would she mean to Cressida’s carefully laid plans? Neal was a very engaging young man, and Miss Mannering, by her presence