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she managed, and held up a hand to halt him, although he had made no new moves toward her. “I am not one of the…the women of this establishment. I see now that it is not what I thought but a…” She took a breath and calmed herself. “I have come to speak with you, that is all. I attempted to see you at your house in Berkeley Square but your butler refused me entry. I have traveled all the way from Yorkshire to ask you, no, to implore you to reconsider your decision to demolish the Shelter for Poor Orphans.”
    The warmth left his eyes. There was a glitter in them, like, Vivianna thought wistfully, distant lightning—the storm was receding. Oddly, he did not seem very surprised.
    “The Shelter for Poor Orphans. I see. How disappointing.”
    She straightened, pushing away from the safety of the table. The seriousness of her situation was sobering, but Vivianna was not a woman to be intimidated. “My name is Miss Vivianna Greentree. I am one of the founders of the Shelter for Poor Orphans. It is administered by Miss Susan and Miss Greta Beatty, and they wrote to me, informing me of your plans. I have come to London to add my pleas to theirs.”
    Silence. It seemed, to Vivianna, to last for a painfully long time.
    He was watching her, and his expression was quite closed to her, whereas before she had believed she could read him rather well. She had no doubt that behind that handsome mask his brain was assimilating her words with ease. There was nothing foolish about Lord Montegomery—well, apart from the buttons on his waistcoat.
    “Miss Vivianna Greentree.”
    “That is my name, my lord.”
    All warmth and desire had vanished from his eyes. He was cool now, and perhaps more than a little irritated by her spoiling his evening. “You followed me from Berkeley Square, Miss Greentree. How did you get into this place? I very much doubt Dobson would have let you through the front door.”
    Under his speculative look her face colored. “I entered through the back door,” she replied, refusing to admit she had done anything wrong. The end justifies the means, she reminded herself.
    “I see.” He said it slowly. “You crept into the back of this house like a thief, and now we are locked in this room together, you and I. What did you mean to do with the riding crop? Beat me into submission?”
    Vivianna found it difficult to keep her gaze on his. “I brought it for protection. I have never been to London before, and I did not know what sort of people I might encounter.”
    “Well, that explains it.” His voice was very dry.
    “I believed this place to be a gentlemen’s club. I did not realize it was a house of ill repute,” she went on, her face even redder than before.
    “A house of very fine repute, I would say. Gentlemen such as myself come here to enjoy themselves andhave their senses titillated by ladies such as yourself. Well, not quite such as yourself, Miss Greentree.” His mouth quirked up, but his eyes remained cool. “It is not my practice to seduce reformers. I find that unless I keep their mouths constantly occupied they bore me with their lecturing.”
    Vivianna’s face burned, but it was anger that made her voice tremble as she replied, “Then I count myself fortunate, my lord, that I am not to your taste.”
    “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he murmured, and gave her another of those long, assessing, and blatantly lecherous glances from beneath half-closed lids.
    “You are insufferable,” she began, clutching the crop with shaking hands. Perhaps she would use it on him after all.
    And perhaps he realized it, for he smiled. And then all trace of humor left his face and he said, rather coldly, “Do you always behave so rashly, Miss Greentree? No doubt where you live everyone knows you and you are safe. This is London. You cannot do as you wish here, and if you venture into some of the more lawless districts, a riding crop will not save you. Do you understand me?”
    Vivianna did not lower her