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donned his stockings and breeches. “But it’s not that simple.” He buttoned his breeches and put on his shirt. “We have to negotiate with Bird.”
    “About what?” She dragged her shift over her head, but it didn’t stop the shivering. She pulled on her stockings, but that didn’t help, either.
    “Your reputation.” He disappeared into the next room, shouted, “Get him some ale and put him in my office. We’ll be there in a jiffy,” and returned with her clothing.
    The chill within her spread and grew. She stepped into her stays and turned for him to lace them. The light touch of his hands no longer felt right. She had to force herself to stay still and wait.
    “The degree of scandal depends on what he implies about you and me,” Matt said.
    The chill congealed like a horrid, slithery lump of aspic about her heart. She should have considered the inevitable outcome of another tryst with Matt, but she’d been so caught up that she hadn’t cared about anything but the here and now.
    Matt didn’t love her; he just wanted to bed her. He was a man, after all. Men tended to lack discrimination when it came to sexual matters. They took what a woman offered and then walked away.
    He’d done that once before. He intended to do it again.
    To do him justice, he’d tried to warn her this time. The instant he finished with her stays, she stepped away and pulled her gown over her head. When he would have refastened the ties, she shook her head. From here on, she would manage by herself.
    As she had, in every way that mattered, for years and years. She tugged her boots on, thankful the meagre candlelight didn’t show the shaking of her hands. She put on her cloak and fastened it. Her hands were steadier now. She armed herself with the hauteur that had protected her so well.
    “It doesn’t matter what he implies,” she said coolly. “At best, you will figure as the son of a woman who knew me as a child.”
    He too was ready to leave, but he hesitated at the last button of his coat, frowning.
    “And at the worst you will figure as another of my scorned suitors.” She put her nose in the air and moved languidly toward the other room. Thank God there was enough light to see her way.
    “Is that so?” he asked.
    “Obviously,” she said. “So you needn’t worry, Matt. No one will imagine, even for an instant, that I ran away to be with you.” She paused for effect. “Well, then. Shall we go?”
    * * *
    Bitter fury roiled inside Matt. “Not until we’ve finished our talk.”
    “What more is there to say?”
    “There is plenty,” Matt said. “I am and always will be your friend, but I am not a toy like one of your suitors, to play with and then spurn.”
    He couldn’t say for certain, but he thought she paled. Damned if he would relent and apologise, though. She deserved to know just what he thought of her and her kind.
    “Matt, I didn’t…” she began again. “I never, ever thought of you as one of them.”
    Too low for that, was he? “Nor am I some lackey, content to be your dirty little secret,” he said.
    Now her face flamed. “How dare you! You’re the one who started this, not I.”
    “And you’re the one who insisted on continuing when I said we should stop.”
    From outside came a muffled snicker. A board creaked, then another.
    Matt strode to the door and wrenched it open, to see his sneaky, eavesdropping, so-called friend tiptoeing down. “Bird, you bastard, I’ll make you pay for this.”
    “Aw, c’mon, Worcester,” Bird said. “I need my story.”
    Matt bounded down the stairs, seized the fleeing Bird by the collar and pushed him up against the wall. Sam Fitch and the tavern wench hovered at the entrance to the taproom, gawking.
    “If you insinuate anything about Miss Wilbanks to which I don’t consent, you had best make your peace with your Maker,” Matt said, and stomped back up the stairs. Bird wheezed, dragging himself to his feet. Sam Fitch and the tavern wench appeared