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Dunlee would keep the story to herself, we might be able to get by.”
    He rolled his eyes. “Yes, and if I had wings, I might be able to fly across the Thames.”
    “But—”
    “But I am sure Lady Dunlee and Melinda Fallwell are setting out this very moment to share the tale—in strictest confidence of course—with ten or twenty of their closest friends. It will be all over London by nightfall.”
    “No.”
    “Yes. You don’t have to be familiar with London to know how gossips operate. There are plenty of those in the country.”
    “Oh, yes, I know.” Though somehow the story of her downfall had never spread, probably because only she and Brentwood knew about it. She was not about to say anything, and Brentwood likely had forgotten it the moment he’d pulled her dress back down. From what she’d heard later, she was only one of his many conquests.
    Damn. They had only arrived in London yesterday. How could she have made micefeet of everything so quickly?
    “Hey.” He touched her shoulder. “Don’t look so glum. We’ll muddle through.”
    She tried to smile.
    He cupped her cheek. “It would be easier to pass the story off if we seem to like each other, you know. Given the rather passionate display Lady Dunlee witnessed, we might even wish to appear somewhat ardent. Restrained, of course, but just barely—giving the impression that the moment society looks the other way, we’ll be in each other’s arms.”
    “How are we to do that?”
    He grinned. “Well, to begin with, I don’t think you should glare at me all the time. Do you suppose you might be able to manage that?”
    “I might.” Her eyes focused on his lips. Her brain told her that was a stupid thing to do, but her eyes refused to listen.
    His lips had felt so good.
    “That’s it. You are doing an excellent job of not glaring at me now.” His voice had dropped. His arms came around her. They felt good, too.
    “Hmm.” His lips were now so close and coming closer. He brushed them over her mouth, but it was not enough. She must have whimpered slightly, because he came back.
    He didn’t mash her lips against her teeth. He didn’t try to force his tongue down her throat. He didn’t haul her body up against his so tightly she couldn’t breathe. He didn’t do any of the things Brentwood had done.
    He held her firmly, yet gently, and slowly, leisurely, explored her mouth, filling her with a dark, liquid heat that pooled between her legs.
    She knew what happened between a man and a woman. It was embarrassing and painful . . . but that was not what many of the married women said. No, they smiled and giggled and blushed when they talked about their marital duties.
    Perhaps the act was different with different men like kissing appeared to be.
    Her body insisted everything would be different, better, with Mr. Parker-Roth.
    “Anne,” he said, his voice slightly breathless, “there’s no one here to fool. You’re supposed to be pushing me away and giving me that evil look of yours.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “You’re supposed to be lashing at me with your sharp tongue, telling me to stop.”
    He kissed her again, his hands bringing her closer, up against the hard ridge of his erection.
    Nerves fluttered through her. Brentwood had done a similar thing . . .
    But his hands had been rough. She’d felt trapped.
    She didn’t feel trapped now. She felt welcomed.
    The King of Hearts had earned his title; there was no question about that.
    He urged her toward one of the couches, but it was too low. She lost her balance and tumbled against him, ending in a tangle of skirts and legs as the carefully closed, but unfortunately unlocked, door flew open and Harry bounded in.

Chapter 3
    Of course the dog hadn’t opened the door himself. Stephen looked over to see who else was in the room. A boy about ten years old stood in the doorway frowning at them.
    “Anne, what are you doing with that gentleman?” he asked.
    Anne was making