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never spoken frankly, you and I.”

    38 Julia
    Quinn
    “No.”
    She was more intelligent than he had been led to believe. This was a good thing, he decided. Vexing at times, but overall, a benefit. “How old are you?” he demanded.
    Her eyes widened. “You don’t know?”
    Oh, bloody hell. The things females chose to get up in arms about. “No,” he said, “I don’t.”
    “I’m twenty-one.” She curtsied then, a mocking little bob. “On the shelf, really.”
    “Oh, please.”
    “My mother despairs.”
    He looked at her. “Impertinent baggage.”
    She considered this, even looked pleased by the insult. “Yes.”
    “I ought to kiss you again,” he said, lifting one brow into a practiced, arrogant arch.
    She wasn’t so sophisticated that she had a ready retort for that, a circumstance with which he found himself quite satisfied. He leaned forward slightly, smirking.
    “You’re quiet when I kiss you.”
    She gasped with outrage.
    “You’re quiet when I insult you as well,” he mused,
    “but oddly, I don’t find it quite as entertaining.”
    “You are insufferable,” she hissed.
    “And yet they arrive,” he sighed. “Words. From your lips.”
    “I’m leaving,” she declared. She turned to stalk back into the assembly hall, but he was too quick, and he slid his arm through hers before she could escape. To an onlooker, it would have seemed the most courteous Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
    39
    of poses, but the hand that rested over hers did more than cover it.
    She was locked into place.
    “I’ll escort you,” he said with a smile.
    She gave him an insolent look but did not argue. He patted her hand then, deciding to let her choose whether she found the gesture comforting or condescending.
    “Shall we?” he murmured, and together they strolled back in.
    The night was clearly drawing to a close. Thomas noted that the musicians had set down their instruments and the crowd had thinned a bit. Grace and his grandmother were nowhere to be seen.
    Amelia’s parents were in the far corner, chatting with a local squire, so he steered her across the floor, nodding at those who greeted them, but not choosing to pause in his journey.
    And then his future bride spoke. Softly, just for his ears. But something about the question was devastating.
    “Don’t you ever get tired of the world ceasing its rotation every time you enter a room?”
    He felt his feet grow still, and he looked at her. Her eyes, which he could now see were somewhat green, were open wide. But he did not see sarcasm in those depths. Her query was an honest one, fueled not by spite but by quiet curiosity.
    It wasn’t his practice to reveal his deeper thoughts to anyone, but in that moment he grew unbearably weary, and perhaps just a little bit tired of being himself. And so he shook his head slowly, and said, “Every minute of every day.”

    40 Julia
    Quinn

    * * *
Many hours later, Thomas was climbing the steps to his bedroom in Belgrave Castle. He was tired. And in a bad temper. Or if not bad, exactly, then certainly not good.
    He felt impatient, mostly with himself. He’d spent the better part of the evening ruminating on his conversation with Lady Amelia, which was annoying enough—he’d never wasted quite so much time on her before.
    But instead of coming straight home from the assembly, as had been his original intention, he’d driven to Stamford to visit Celeste. Except once he’d got there, he hadn’t particularly felt like knocking upon her door.
    All he could think was that he’d have to talk with her, because that was the sort of friendship they had; Celeste was not a high-stepping actress or opera singer.
    She was a proper widow, and he had to treat her as such, which meant conversation and other niceties, whether or not he was in the mood for words.
    Or other niceties.
    And so he’d sat in his curricle, parked in the street in front of her house, for at least ten minutes. Finally, feeling like a fool, he left. Drove