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husbands were not driving by in the park with painted women. She had seen those same ladies slip away from dances to meet their lovers in dark corners. She had pitied them all, and had sworn not to follow their examples.
    A marriage without a deep and abiding love appeared to be her fate, but Torrie would not enter into a union without mutual trust and respect, which meant honoring one’s marriage vows. Her mother was right: Torrie could not wed a womanizer.
    Yet she needed to marry more than ever, and quickly. She had vowed to do so, for one thing, and her father could join Mama in Yorkshire as soon as a betrothal was announced, for another. For a third reason, if she needed one, the talk of babies had made Torrie envious of her own mother. She wanted a tiny infant of her own to hold, not a baby sibling.
    She had, however, already asked Wynn Ingram, Lord Ingall, to marry her. The viscount would not hold her to the offer, Papa had said, made in extremis as it was. But he had saved her life....
    * * * *
    The agency the earl had recommended was very efficient. Wynn had a new valet bringing his morning chocolate. This one’s name was Clemson and he came with high recommendations, and a higher salary than any of the others. His hand was steady shaving Wynn, and he had a good eye for selecting an ensemble suitable for calling on an earl’s daughter. Unfortunately, and unforgivably, he threw a bottle of cologne at Homer. He swore it was an accident, that the dog’s barking had made him lose his grip on the bottle, but his aim seemed too good for a bit of carelessness. The dog had a cut above his eye, and Wynn had no valet, again.
    “Thunderation!” he cursed. “Now I have to tie the blasted neckcloth myself.” For half his years abroad, Wynn had not worn a neck piece at all. Starch and white linen were as rare, and as useless, in the wilderness as they were in the jungle or onboard a merchant vessel. A knotted kerchief had sufficed. For the other half, he’d had someone to wrap the wretched things. He could tie a double half hitch in the dark, he could weave snow-shoes out of vines and twigs, but he could fly to the moon before he tied a proper Waterfall or a trone d’amour. And he was calling on an earl’s daughter.
    “Here,” he said, handing a fresh length to his so-far unhelpful assistant, “you tie it.”
    “Me?” Barrogi answered. “I am no valletto.”
    “Well, I can’t and Homer won’t. That leaves you.”
    Barrogi held up swollen-jointed fingers that had ended his pickpocketing profession years ago. His own neck was bare except for a dirty cord that held a gem-studded cross, the provenance of which Wynn was always reluctant to ask. “Just make a knot and slip it over your head, padrone, like a noose,” the older man suggested now. “You look like you are going to face the hangman anyway, no?”
    Maybe he’d go visit Rosie first, Wynn considered. After all, her impending motherhood was one of the reasons he had returned to England at all. He’d sent a bank draft, but he had been putting off a personal visit, guessing it would turn entirely too personal. Rosie Peters was certain to know how to tie a man’s neckcloth, though, having untied so many in her illustrious career. Somehow he doubted that Rosie would be as eager to help if she knew his ultimate destination. She’d rather put a ring through his nose than a bow around his neck.
    Lady Lynbrook might or might not know how to fashion a gentleman’s cravat. Lord knew the baron’s widow did not know how to balance a bank account. Wynn had sent Bette another check, but he knew he would have to go visit her soon, too, once he’d girded himself against her tears and tantrums, say in another six years.
    Then there was always Marissa, his sister-in-law. Wynn doubted the haughty female could see a man’s neckcloth, she held her own nose so high in the air. Furthermore, if he appeared at her house—his house— in his undress, she’d thrust her