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    Chapter 4
     
     
    She ought to have been exhausted. It was past two in the morning, but Rosie didn't feel the least bit tired. The evening had been so full of excitement for her that she still felt agog with it all. When they finally went home, she doubted she would be able to sleep a wink.
    Her head was spinning with introductions and flattery and flirtations. When she had first begun planning her trip to London, she had secretly hoped there might be a remote possibility of attracting at least one gentleman's regard. Not with the usual goal of marriage, of course, but only to experience it, to know what it was like to have a gentleman admire her. More than admire, actually. She longed for more than that. After all, she had added "to be thoroughly kissed" to her list of things to do in London.
    Giddy with a first night's success, Rosie thought it might not be the impossible goal she had once imagined.
    Upon reflection, she was genuinely amazed at what she had been able to accomplish as Rosalind. The old Rosie would have quivered in her slippers to have endured the often presumptuous addresses of so many gentlemen—from fresh-faced young fops to seasoned rakes to aging rou és . The old Rosie would likely have swooned at the way Lord Radcliffe used the crowd to allow himself to brush up against her, at the way Mr. Hepworth had teased open the buttons of her glove in order to stroke the skin of her wrist, at the way Mr. Davenant had boldly held her hand in his for longer than was absolutely proper. Such gentlemen, and such behavior, would have frightened the old Rosie almost to death.
    But not Rosalind. She had rather enjoyed it.
    Too distracted to concentrate on cards, Rosie had excused herself from the last hand, retrieved her shawl, and wandered onto the terrace. She leaned against the balustrade overlooking a moonlit garden below, and retrieved the notebook from her reticule. She began to check off a few entries from her list, those objectives she had so far succeeded in accomplishing: to wear a beautiful dress, to have her hair cut and fashionably styled, to be admired by a gentleman—she was reasonably sure most of the men she'd met were gentlemen. Even Fanny's friends must be gentlemen.
    And she grinned as she checked off her latest item, "to flirt with a rake." Yes, she had flirted, and not only with Mr. Davenant but with other men who must surely be rakes. Rosie supposed she still had a lot to learn about flirtation, but she had made a start and had thoroughly enjoyed herself. It was quite liberating to realize she could, for the most part, behave exactly as she pleased without worrying about the consequences.
    At the sound of footsteps approaching, she turned to see Mr. Davenant walking toward her. She returned the notebook to its case and dropped it in her reticule, then smiled up at him as he leaned back against the balustrade beside her.
    "You're still laughing at me, Miss Lacey. Were you making a note in your diary about my foolish behavior this evening?"
    Her smile widened, but she refrained from laughing. She and Fanny had already teased the poor man relentlessly earlier in the evening. "I am merely smiling, Mr. Davenant, as you see."
    "Maybe so," he said, and offered a smile of his own that made him look even more devilishly handsome. "But you don't fool me. You are laughing inside. I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to have been such a source of amusement for you and Fanny."
    She lost the battle with restraint and began to laugh softly. "You can hardly blame us, sir. The look upon your face was priceless."
    "No doubt. But you can hardly blame me, either, my dear, when you look so completely different from the way you did at that first brief meeting. By God, you seemed the perfect little brown mouse."
    "I know."
    "And now." He paused and gave her a look that sent a shiver dancing up and down her spine. "Now, you look quite lovely. Not even remotely mouselike. Red becomes you, my dear."
    His