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open. “ Oui, an excellent suggestion,” said the girl who stalked toward the comte. In the gloom beyond the table, she made a sweeping gesture toward the guests. “Just what are you up to this time, Valigny? Lining your pockets, I am sure.”
    The comte replied in rapid, staccato French. Rothewell could not make out the words, but Valigny’s expression had suddenly soured. Her back half-turned to them, the girl let fly another torrent of French, shaking her finger in the comte’s face. Her voice was deep and faintly dusky—a sultry bedchamber voice that made a man’s skin heat.
    The footman stood in the rear of the room, his face growing paler as the argument rose to a crescendo. He was worried about the girl, Rothewell realized.
    â€œ Sace bleu!” the girl finally spit. “Do as you wish. What do I care?” Then she made an angry gesture with her hand, spun round on one heel, and swished toward the table. At once, Enders sucked a sharp breath between his teeth.
    It was understandable. Once again, Valigny did not lie. A strange mix of lust and longing stabbed through Rothewell, an almost visceral desire. The girl—the woman —was exquisite beyond words. Her dark eyes flashed with fire, and her chin was up a notch. Her nose was thin, her eyes wide-set, and her lush hair formed a sharp widow’s peak above a high forehead.
    In the dim light her complexion appeared surprisingly rich, her hair almost black. She was tall, too. As tall as Valigny, whom she seemed in that moment to tower over. But it was an illusion. She was simply furious.
    Rothewell pushed away his brandy. He did not like his reaction to the woman. “Kindly explain yourself, Valigny.”
    The comte gave a theatrical bow. “I meet your wagers, mes amis, ” he announced, “with one very beautiful, very rich bride. I trust I need not sit her upon the table?”
    â€œYou must be mad,” Rothewell snapped. “Get her out of here. We are none of us fit company for a lady, drunk and disreputable as we are—even I know that much.”
    The comte opened his hands. “But my dear Lord Rothewell, I have a plan.”
    â€œ Oui, a plan of great brilliance!” the girl interjected, lifting her skirts just a fraction so that she might execute a deep, mocking curtsy. “Allow me to begin anew. Bonsoir, messieurs. Welcome to the home of my most gracious and devoted papa. I comprehend that I am now to go—how do you say it?—upon the auction block, oui ? Alas, I am une mégère —a frightful shrew, you would say—and my English is thick with the French. But I am very rich”—she pronounced it reesh —“and passable to look at, no? Alors, who will make my loving papa the first bid? I am but a horse on the hoof, messieurs, awaiting your pleasure.”
    â€œCome now, mon chou !” her father chided. “That’s doing it too brown, even for you!”
    â€œJe ne pense pas!” snapped the girl.
    Rothewell scrubbed his hand round the black stubble of his beard, which was ample given the lateness of the hour. He was not accustomed to being the only sane person in a room.
    Valigny was still looking remarkably pleased with himself. The woman had gone to the sideboard and was pouring herself a dram of brandy as if it were nothing out of the ordinary, but her hand, Rothewell saw, was shaking when she replaced the stopper in the crystal decanter.
    Rothewell turned to glance at Enders, but he was ogling the girl, his mouth still slack. A lecher without shame. But was he any better? No, for he’d scarce taken his eyes off the woman from the moment she’d entered the room. Her mouth could easily obsess him, and that raspy voice of hers sent heat into places it had no business.
    Why, then, did Enders trouble him so? Why did he wish to reach over and shove that lolling tongue back in his thick-lipped mouth? Rothewell cut a swift glance down,