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within its walls, Hannah listened intently. The man had apparently asked to see her father. A sense of disappointment settled over her, and she wondered at her reaction. The Season had only just begun. There had only been two balls and a musicale. Why would she expect a gentleman caller already?
    Perhaps it was Elizabeth’s visit, she decided. Lady Bostwick was so happy in her marriage to George Bennett-Jones. She’d spent most of her visit espousing the virtues of having an attentive husband – a man she had thought was a cit until Elizabeth’s father, the Marquess of Morganfield, set her straight and informed her he was a viscount . That was the day back in October when Elizabeth became engaged to George. They were married so quickly, the ton had gossiped for nearly a week. And Elizabeth was already with child. In another three months, she would give birth!
    A stab of jealousy caught Hannah by surprise. Oh, to be with child ! She thought it rather unfair that one had to have a husband before one could have a baby. At least, in the legitimate sense. As much as she could imagine herself with a babe, she could do so knowing she would have the help and resources required to rear a child. She couldn’t imagine being a poor, unmarried woman with a child.
    Sighing, Hannah moved back to a chair near the fireplace. Her abandoned needlework lay on the chair cushion, and her dog, Harold MacDuff, lay napping on the floor directly in front of the chair. Rather than insist he lift his huge body and move it so that she could retake her seat, Hannah directed her attention to the piano-forté. Music would do her spirits some good, she decided. Rifling through the sheets of music she’d picked out at Birchall’s the week before, she pulled out a few and began to play.
    So engrossed was she in studying the music she played, Hannah was unaware of the visitor who stood on the threshold of the parlor. It wasn’t until she completed a selection by Bach and was moving a new sheet of music into place that she noticed her father’s caller. “Oh!” she managed as a hand went to the top of her bosom.
    “Brava, my lady.” Henry bowed deeply, not wanting to take his eyes off the beauty at the piano-forté. He did so to complete the courtesy. Then he had to force himself to breathe. Lady Hannah was far more beautiful up close than she had appeared in the garden the night before. The pink muslin gown she wore complemented her skin as well as her figure, the bodice fitted enough to display the fullness of her breasts. With her slender arms and long fingers uncovered, it was apparent to Henry she had long since left the schoolroom. Twenty, perhaps , he thought as he allowed his gaze to rest on her face. Had Devonville mentioned her age? If so, he couldn’t remember. His brain was suddenly a bit addled.
    Hannah stood up from the piano bench and curtsied. Where is Harold? And why hadn’t he warned her there was a man awaiting her attention? She dared a quick glance at the fireplace and saw that the hairy beast still napped in front of her chair. Some guard dog you are, she thought with a bit of annoyance. As if reading her thoughts, Harold opened one eye for a moment before yawning and closing it again. “Thank you, my lord. I’m afraid it’s the first time I’ve played that piece ...”
    “And yet you played it perfectly. Bach himself would have to agree, I’m sure,” Henry stated with a nod as he moved toward her. He stopped directly in front of her and reached for her hand. Lifting it, he brushed his lips over the back of the knuckles. Even her hands are beautiful , he thought as he held the one a bit longer than propriety would allow. “Henry Forster, Earl of Gisborn,” he said by way of introduction.
    Hannah blushed, the pink spreading over her cheeks in an instant. “You are too kind,” she answered, daring to return the man’s gaze. Gisborn? That made no sense. The Earl of Gisborn was an old fart of an earl. A wrinkled,