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creditors.
     
    She turned the ribbon over in her hands. The light reflected off the shiny strip, giving the prized scrap an almost iridescent effect. If she were permitted to wear a gown other than the pale hues insisted upon by Mother, she’d have the finest French modiste design her a gown to match this very shade.
     
    The butler, entered. “My lady, you have a caller.”
     
    Startled by the unexpected intrusion, the ribbon slipped from her fingers and fluttered in a whispery dance to the floor.
     
    The older servant who’d been with them since she was just a girl cleared his throat. “The Earl of Stanhope,” he introduced, admitting Harry.
     
    She leapt to her feet as he stepped into the room like Michelangelo’s David come to life. Impossibly tall and sinfully handsome with his thick, unfashionably long golden hair, he cut quite the figure. Anne dipped a curtsy.
     
    He grinned. Then he glanced at her pile of ribbons.
     
    Heat blazed in her cheeks. The butler ducked from the room. “Er…Mary,” she called softly. “Would you see to refreshments?”
     
    Her maid hurried from the room.
     
    Harry beat his hand against his large, muscular thigh. He sketched a deep bow. “My lady,” he drawled.
     
    Anne motioned for him to sit. She sank into the gold-brocade sofa. “My lord,” she murmured as he sat in the giltwood open armchair beside her. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and hooked them at the ankles. Anne angled her head. Hmm. She’d never before noticed anything about the Earl of Stanhope other than the fact that he infuriated her with his roguish grin. After all, rogues were unreliable, and unreliable gentlemen did unreliable things. She’d learned as much after her father’s betrayal. Since then, she’d developed a new appreciation for staid, respectable gentlemen. And wealthy gentlemen; that mattered, too.
     
    Harry drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Perhaps Crawford’s disinterest stems from a lack of conversation?” His amused baritone jerked her from her melancholy.
     
    She kicked his ankle with the tip of her slipper. “Oh, do hush.”
     
    He continued to study her through thick, hooded, golden lashes.
     
    Anne sat, perched at the edge of her seat. She folded her hands in her lap and glanced down at the forgotten orange ribbon in her fingers. Her fingers curled reflexively about the satin strip that represented her past, and now her present day goals.
     
    Harry leaned over and plucked the precious fabric from her grip. “You’ve quite the collection of ribbons, Anne.” He trailed his forefinger down the stretch of material and she studied that oddly sensual movement.
     
    Her cheeks warmed. She said nothing, praying he’d move the topic to far safer grounds.
     
    Alas, God appeared otherwise busy. “It seems like a rather exorbitant amount,” he said.
     
    Anne bristled at the mocking edge to his words. She didn’t expect he’d understand. She reached for her fabric. He held it just out of her reach. She gritted her teeth. “Give me back my ribbon.” She made another unsuccessful grab for it. With an indignant huff, she settled back in her seat.
     
    Harry shoved himself up and claimed the seat beside her.
     
    “What are you…?” She swallowed hard.
     
    He touched his fingers to her hair and claimed a single lock. With an expert precision a lady’s maid would have admired, he wove the ribbon through that lock, knotting it, and draping the tress over her shoulder. “There,” he said softly. “This is how you use a ribbon to attract a gentleman’s notice.” Something dark and indefinable glinted in his eyes.
     
    She followed his gaze to the point where the fabric nestled between her breasts. “Oh.” She’d scandalize the matrons at Almack’s and every other polite member of Society if she arrived at any event with her ribbon displayed so. Anne frowned. “I’d not have a roguish gentleman.” She would not settle for a gentleman