Benedict Revelstoke reread the lines in White's infamous betting book. What the devil? His fingers constricted about the quill, just shy of crushing it. Right. He'd been about to lay a wager. Some idiocy, no doubt. Hardly worth the bother now.

The book's most recent inscription, scrawled in such a casual hand for all the world to see, had quite driven the notion from his mind. In gold ink, no less. How fitting. Gold ink for Battencliffe, the ton's golden boy.

Upperton, his oldest friend, nudged him. "What's the matter? Your feet coming over icy all the sudden?"

Lead blocks would be more accurate, but Benedict was not about to admit to that. He laid the quill aside and jabbed a finger at the heavy vellum page. "Have you seen this?"
The page darkened as Upperton peered over his shoulder. "Clivesden? Thought he was married. And what's Miss Julia got to do with any of this?"

"I've no idea, but I intend to find out." He released a breath between clenched teeth.

"Appalling how so-called gentlemen will lay bets on young ladies of good reputation."

"Young ladies in general or Miss Julia in particular?"

Ignoring his friend, Benedict turned on his heel and strode down the steps to the pavement. A glance at his pocket watch told him it was ten minutes past eleven, still early by the ton's standards. That was something. At least he knew where he'd find Julia at such an hour.

He sighed at the prospect of dodging a passel of marriage-minded misses. Even if he could never have Julia for himself, he'd be damned before he let some idiot besmirch her reputation.

Julia stiffened her arms, but her dance partner refused to take the hint. He held her too close for propriety's sake. Hang propriety—on that last turn, he'd actually tightened his grip so much her breasts grazed his evening jacket. Too close for her comfort. So she did what any self-respecting debutante would do and trod on his toes.

"I do beg your pardon, my lord." The lie slid easily from her lips.

Lord Chuddleigh's smile faded, and his arms slackened along with his jowls. "Not at all."

Thankfully, the final notes of the waltz rose to the high ceiling of Lady Posselthwaite's ballroom a moment later, and Julia backed out of her partner's greedy embrace, stopping short when her skirt brushed against a dancer to her rear. "If you'll excuse me."

He eyed her up and down, his gaze halting at a spot several inches below her chin. "Are you engaged for the next set then?"

What could he be thinking? He was forty if he was a day, and a strong hint of brandy surrounded him like a cloud.

Julia made a show of consulting her dance card. "No, I actually find I'm rather exhausted," she added before he could ask her for the next dance.

"It's the crowd. Dreadful crush as it is every year, of course. Perhaps a turn on the terrace then?"

Drat. The man was relentless. Julia cast a swift glance about the ballroom. Unfortunately, Lord Chuddleigh was right about the crush. So many members of the ton packed into one spot, the men in starched linen and intricate cravats, the ladies in jewel-colored ball gowns, it was a wonder anyone could move at all. Attendees wove past one another with polite smiles and quick pardons, intertwining like maypole dancers.
Convenient for Lord Chuddleigh, though, if he wanted an excuse to brush against her a bit more. Not that he had to expend much of an effort the way his paunch preceded him.
The crowd made it impossible to pick out a convenient means of escape. Her father was surely holding forth in the card room and thus unlikely to catch sight of her most recent partner. The ballroom—the marriage mart—that was her mother's exclusive domain. Papa was all too happy to leave Mama with the responsibility of landing wealthy, titled husbands for Julia and her sister, while he gambled away the family's earnings. Alas, for Mama aimed high in the hopes of giving her daughters what she had never had—social standing and influence.

In short, power.

"I think a lemonade would be quite sufficient," she finally replied with a weak smile.
Lord Chuddleigh pressed thick lips together but acquiesced with a nod. "Don't move from that spot. I shall return anon."

The moment he disappeared behind the bright orange turban of some dowager, Julia elbowed her way in the opposite direction. She'd left her sister amid a group of twittering hopefuls in their first season. With any luck, Julia could use them and their mamas as a shield against any further unwelcome advances.

She discovered Sophia next to a potted palm, deep in conversation with the dowager Countess of Epperley. Between the plant's fronds and the matron's ostrich plumes, Sophia was well camouflaged.

All the better to avoid any unwelcome attention of her own.

On Julia's approach, the dowager snapped a lorgnette to her face and eyed her from head to toe. A frown fit to curdle new milk indicated Julia had passed muster.

"Oh, Julia." A rosy glow suffused Sophia's normally pearl-white complexion.
Julia suppressed a sigh and pasted on a smile, knowing she was in for at least half an hour's worth of gushing, and that was in public. Depending on what time they made it home tonight, Sophia could easily chatter away the remaining hours before dawn in her ebullience.

At least, as long as she didn't end up sobbing herself to sleep, as had happened all too often in the past. So full of affection, Sophia. If only she hadn't bestowed her heart on a man who barely acknowledged her existence. On such evenings, the urge to pull her sister into a hug warred with the desire to give Sophia a stern talking-to.

Tonight, apparently, was one of those evenings.

"My lady," Sophia breathed, "you simply must repeat to my sister what you've just told me."

The dowager pursed her lips and subjected Julia to a second inspection, as if she might find evidence of Julia's unworthiness to hear the latest gossip. Defensively, Julia spread out her fan and held it in front of her bosom, before Lady Epperley concluded her gown revealed too much.

"There's no need to sound so pleased about it," the old woman huffed. "You young chits, you have no conception of the serious nature of events."

Julia cast a sidelong glance at her sister. Such high color in Sophia's cheeks was normally associated with only one person.

"Then I shall have to tell her myself," Sophia pronounced.

"You shall do no such thing." The dowager harrumphed, setting both her jowls and plumes a-shudder. "It's a perfect tragedy, I tell you. It must be announced with the appropriate solemnity. It isn't as if we were exchanging the latest on-dit."

"What's this about the latest on-dit?" growled a voice.

Julia let out a breath. Thank goodness. Better Benedict than Chuddleigh turning up with the lemonade.

"Revelstoke." Acknowledging Benedict with a nod, she suppressed a jolt of surprise. She'd become so used to seeing him in his scarlet uniform, his bearing in eveningwear and starched cravat unsettled her. By rights, he should have looked like any other man of the ton, but the black superfine of his coat, matched to his ebony hair, only served to set off his dark complexion and sparkling blue eyes.

Snap! The lorgnette put in a reappearance. The dowager's frown lines deepened as she inspected the new arrival. Her gaze lingered on his sharp cheekbones, square jaw and shaggy waves of hair that hung nearly to his shoulders, too long to be fashionable.
Or respectable, for that matter.

"In my day, a young lady would never dream of addressing a gentleman in such a familiar manner. Why, I never called my husband by anything other than his title in all the years of our marriage, even in the most intimate of settings."

Benedict's shoulder brushed against Julia's as he leaned close. "That was more than I needed to know about the state of their marriage."

She ducked behind her fan to hide both her smile and the blush that suddenly heated her cheeks. The warmth of his breath wafted just beneath her ear.

The dowager let out another harrumph, raised her considerable chin, and sailed off in a cloud of ostrich feathers and plum-colored silk.

"I believe she overheard you," Julia said.

"Without a doubt. The old dragon trod on my foot just now."

He turned his piercing blue gaze on Julia, and she caught her breath, while her heart thumped in her chest. Normally, when he sought her out at one of these functions, it was for one of two reasons—to save her from overzealous suitors or to escape from the pack of society mamas and their debutante daughters. They might pass an agreeable hour or two on the sidelines exchanging pithy observations on the ton's foibles, laughing together as she tried to match him in wit. The seriousness of his expression told Julia neither was the case.
Not tonight. No, tonight something was amiss.

She tapped his forearm with her fan. "What's happened?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but Sophia chose that moment to interrupt. "I suppose I'll have to tell the news myself then."

Julia turned to her sister. Sophia's usually composed features bloomed with excitement. Blue fire snapped in her gaze. Something else amiss there—Sophia was only this animated in William Battencliffe's presence, but Julia hadn't spotted him yet tonight.

"What news? What's going on?"

As if on cue, a collective sigh passed through the room, emanating from the females in attendance. A late arrival stood between the plaster columns of the entrance, his tall form easily visible over the heads of lesser men. Waves of golden blond hair flowed neatly back from an even-featured face that set feminine hearts to racing all across the room. The snowy linen of his artfully tied cravat stood in stark contrast to the austere black of his eveningwear.

Elegantly coiffed heads tilted toward each other, and the twitter of conversation increased pace, punctuated by giggles. Sophia's smile broadened, and her fan fluttered double time, while the rosy glow on her cheeks extended to her forehead. On Julia's other side, Benedict let out a groan.

An easy smile graced the newcomer's lips as he nodded to an acquaintance. His gaze glided over the room to alight almost immediately in Julia's corner. Sophia's fingers grasped her arm and tightened until Julia was sure she'd be sporting bruises tomorrow.

"Oh," Sophia sighed. "He's coming this way. How do I look?"

Julia didn't spare her sister a glance. With her neat golden hair swept off her lovely face and an ice-blue gown that, despite its age, displayed her figure to its best advantage, Sophia set a standard of beauty to which most of the haut ton could only aspire. If not for their mother's humble origins and the hints of scandal surrounding their parents' marriage, she might have been declared an Incomparable in her first season. Still, she'd turned down enough offers of marriage to cause their father to pull out what little remained of his hair.

"You look perfect as always."

The ragged edges of Sophia's fan flapped so fast, the breeze cooled Julia's own skin.
Benedict tugged at her other arm. "Might I have a word? In private?"

Sophia's eyes went round. "Not now. You can't just leave me here. What if I faint?"
Faint? She may have suffered a spell or two as a child, but in five seasons, Sophia had yet to succumb to that particular malady. "Don't be rid—"

"Then Battencliffe can catch you." Benedict's response was clipped. His fingers tightened on Julia's wrist. "I really must insist."

"What's got into you tonight?" Julia asked. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're foxed, you're behaving so strangely."

"Believe me, Julia, I'd like nothing better at the moment."

She stiffened at the use of her given name. They'd known each other so long, she overlooked the address in private, but it was unlike him to forget himself in the middle of a ballroom.

"Oh, M-mister Battencliffe," Sophia breathed.

Julia turned her attention to the man before her. His smile might have bedazzled the dowager Countess of Epperley into forgetting her lorgnette—or snapping it out for a better view—but it had little effect on Julia.

"Good evening, ladies. Revelstoke," he added with a nod in Benedict's direction. "My dear Miss Julia, I must say you look particularly enchanting this evening."

For a moment, she didn't react. She couldn't have heard right. But then he reached for her hand as if it were his due. Belatedly, she disentangled her arm from Sophia's death grip and allowed him to brush his lips against the back of her glove.

"Mr. Battencliffe." She deliberately flattened her tone to coolness, hardly what anyone would term friendly.

After another moment, he dropped her hand to turn his considerable charm on Sophia. His air of lazy sensuality hit her with the force of a gale off the Devon coast. Julia could feel its effect radiating off her sister in the form of heat. A dazzling smile threatened to split Sophia's face in two.

"A pleasure, as always, Miss St. Claire."

If Sophia noticed that he paid her beauty no compliment, she hid it well. Dipping her head, she dropped into a curtsey. "My lord."

Julia's mouth dropped open. The evening was growing stranger by the minute.
Battencliffe's laugh rumbled, low and sensual, over their corner. Even the potted palm perked up. "Now, now, Miss St. Claire, let's not be overly hasty. Nothing's settled as of yet."
Beside her, Benedict held himself rigid, the tension seething in the air around him.

"What isn't settled?" Julia's question floated free before she could stop herself. Her cheeks burned at her lack of courtesy.

Battencliffe turned back to her. His smile would have melted butter. "You haven't heard of my good fortune then?"

"No, I haven't."

His features relaxed into a more solemn expression. "It's quite boorish of me to refer to it as good fortune, actually. Do forgive me. My fortune is another family's tragedy, you see."

What on earth? She frowned, resting her fan against her bosom. "Oh dear."

"The Earl of Clivesden has met with an unfortunate accident. Horrific, really."
Foreboding settled over her. "Accident?"

"Poor man. He should never have ventured out on those roads. Entire carriage tumbled off a cliff into the Channel. His young son was with him."

She pressed suddenly icy fingers to her lips. "How dreadful."

Benedict's lip curled. "I fail to see how such a tragedy might turn to anybody's advantage."

Battencliffe had the grace to avert his eyes. "There's an appalling lack of male issue in that line. They had to trace the family back four generations to find an heir."

"You'll forgive me," Benedict said, his words clipped to the point of rudeness, "but what's that got to do with you?"

Battencliffe sketched them a bow. "My great-grandfather was the third Earl of Clivesden's younger brother."

Benedict surged forward with such force and suddenness that Julia laid a restraining hand on his forearm. "You?" he snarled. "You're now Clivesden?"

Battencliffe's smile did not falter for an instant. "Not yet, but my claim is solid. I daresay the Lord Chancellor ought to accept it without delay."

"As long as the former earl's widow isn't in a delicate condition, you mean." Benedict seemed to be forcing the words through gritted teeth.

Julia slanted her eyes in his direction. The back of his neck flushed red. Beneath her hand, the muscles in his arm turned to steel. Why was he so upset over the circumstances? While tragic, to be certain, none of them had actually known Clivesden well.

Battencliffe's smile remained fixed. "Of course."

He stepped closer to Julia, and the muscles beneath her fingertips jerked.

"I had hoped to keep the news quiet a bit longer. I might have known gossip would foil my plans. Ah well, c'est la vie." Battencliffe shrugged. "I hadn't come over with the intention of discussing this matter. I was wondering if Miss Julia would care for the next dance."

If he hadn't been looking her in the eye, Julia would never have credited the notion. When Battencliffe turned up at a ball, he remained decidedly ensconced in the card room or on the sidelines. He chatted with the ladies, he flirted outrageously, he might disappear into the gardens for long stretches, but he rarely danced.

The lilting strains of violins in three-quarter time met her ears. Goodness. Battencliffe certainly never waltzed.

An expectant silence fell over the group, while the music swelled around them. She couldn't possibly, not with her sister standing right there, deflating a bit further with each joyous note. "I'm terribly sorry—"

"She promised the next set to me," Benedict said over her reply.

"I'm sure Sophia would be delighted," Julia added quickly. "That way, no one is disappointed."

Battencliffe hesitated a second too long before nodding. "Your servant. I must insist you save another dance for me later."

He didn't wait for her reply. Offering his arm to a glowing Sophia, he led her to join the whirling couples already on the dance floor.

Julia rounded on Benedict, who immediately bent his left arm at the elbow. "I believe this is our waltz."

***

"Miss Julia, if I might have a word."

Julia turned on her heel. A glace in the direction of the drawing room showed her mother and Lady Wexford already seated, studiously ignoring one another. Thank goodness. Neither had overheard Battencliffe's whispered request.

The silence emanating from the room was so deafening, the prospect of conversation with Battencliffe was nearly tempting. Nearly.

"Aren't you going to drink port with the gentlemen?"

He grinned. "Highgate's already taken himself off somewhere and your friend Revelstoke doesn't seem to care for my company."

Julia sent him a pointed stare. If the man could discern Benedict's dislike, why couldn't he pick up on her lack of enthusiasm? For that matter, he ought to have noticed Sophia's affection long since. "Would you like to join us in the drawing room, then?"

"I was rather hoping I might speak with you alone."

Thinking of her sister's predicament, she narrowed her eyes. If Battencliffe sought to win her by placing her in a compromising situation, he'd best make other plans. "We are barely acquainted, sir. What could you possibly have to say to me that you cannot say in front of my mother and Lady Wexford?"

He reached out and placed a hand on her forearm. "It would only take a moment of your time."

Arching a brow, she pulled back. "Then, whatever it is, you may state it here."

"Please, I realize this is highly unusual, but it is a most urgent matter."

"Most urgent?" She waved a dismissive hand, the gesture bordering on rudeness. Not that she cared, as long as he cottoned onto the idea she was not interested in his attentions. "Before the Posselthwaite ball, you barely addressed two words to me in your entire life. I cannot imagine what has changed in the days since, as you keep cropping up."

"My station, if I may speak plainly. That is what has changed."

"Ah, yes, the earldom. Have you received word from the Lord Chancellor then?"
He shook his head. "It's far too soon. As your friend Revelstoke was so eager to point out the other evening, there's still the matter of the widow."

Julia studied him carefully. While his mild expression barely flinched, his voice had taken on an edge at the mention of Benedict. "Still, I fail to see what that has to do with me."

"My dear, it has everything to do with you. As Clivesden, I shall have a responsibility to assure the future of the line. I shall require a countess."

Even though she had known this was coming, the contents of her stomach churned. The second helping of syllabub threatened to put in a reappearance all over Battencliffe's impeccable dinner jacket and embroidered waistcoat. That would be taking things a bit too far.

While she didn't care much for Battencliffe, she took pity on his valet, and swallowed hard. "Surely any number of young ladies out this season might fulfill your requirements. Why, my own sister—"

"Is already betrothed. In any case, I have already made up my mind."

"And the young lady in question?" Julia couldn't help goading. "Is she to have any say in the matter?"

"That is what I wish to determine."

She clutched at her bodice. "You cannot possibly—"

He cocked his head. "Why can't I? You're of good family."

"Not that good," she broke in.

He gave a small cough. "Good enough. Your reputation is spotless. Come now, it is a splendid match."

For her, yes, and she must consider the family's finances. If her mother insisted on pushing her in his direction, he must have the blunt to go along with the title. But was she to be responsible for her father's gambling debts? She was not the one at the card tables night after night, wagering money she didn't have.

And Battencliffe's presumption that she should simply fall into his arms! She pulled in a breath and prayed he would attribute the heat rising in her cheeks to a virginal blush. "I'm afraid I must decline. My sentiments are not engaged."

He laughed, actually laughed, and she stole a glance in the direction of the drawing room. The last thing she needed was her mother's interference. Fortunately for Julia, but perhaps unfortunately for Mama, conversation had renewed between the two ladies. From the looks of things, they had returned to their dinner discussion. Lady Wexford was quite red in the face, and her chins quivered as she drove a point home.

"You, Miss Julia?" Battencliffe's reply brought her attention back to the matter at hand. "You worry about your sentiments being engaged?"

"It has always been my hope to make a love match," she lied.

His eyes glittered, and he raised a skeptical brow. "A love match? Surely you've had ample opportunity to make one by now. That baronet who offered for you two years ago. What was his name?"

"Brocklehurst," she supplied mechanically.

"Yes, that Brocklehurst fellow. He was utterly taken with you."

Precisely the reason she'd refused his suit. "I had no idea you paid such close attention to my doings."

"Oh, not at the time, certainly, but one hears things."

She dropped her hand from her throat and hid it in her skirts to mask its shaking. Keeping her voice steady became a concerted effort. "What sort of things?"

"Only that certain women have a tendency to guard their hearts and not open them to any man. And you, my dear, you trump them all."

"And men accuse ladies of gossiping," she said faintly. Well-bred young ladies didn't shout, after all. "I suppose you believe yourself to be the man to win such a vaunted prize."
He let out another bark of laughter. "Your heart doesn't interest me in the slightest."

She recoiled from his words. They repulsed her even more than his touch. "You may rest assured you are quite safe from its sentiment." She drew herself up and took a step in the direction of the drawing room.

His hand snaked out and latched onto her wrist. "Don't you see? That's exactly what makes you the ideal bride for a man like me."

She fixed him with a glare. "Unhand me, sir. I no more invite your touch than I do your suit."

"But—"

"You heard the lady. Remove your hand from her person."

Julia let out a breath, as, shoulders set, Benedict stepped between them. He'd adopted the officious tone he'd perfected in the cavalry.

Battencliffe took the hint immediately. "I hope you'll give due thought to what I've said tonight."

She inclined her head. "Rest assured. I've already given your proposal all the consideration it merits. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm feeling quite unwell."

She backed away. Battencliffe lurched in her direction, but remained on the spot, as, jaw set hard as granite, Benedict advanced. She headed for the staircase, intending to take herself off for the evening. Halfway up, the thud of booted feet met her ears. Battencliffe grumbled for a footman to call his carriage, and her heart lifted immediately.

"Miss Julia, wait."

At the sound of Benedict's voice, she turned. He stood at the foot of the staircase, one hand on the newel post, his expression inscrutable.

"Of course," she breathed. "I didn't mean to be so rude, but Battencliffe is completely insufferable. I owe you my thanks."

"Nonsense." He didn't move a muscle—he simply held her gaze captive—but she felt as if he were commanding her without words. Commanding her to come back down the stairs and stand before him.

She clutched at the polished mahogany railing, wanting nothing more than to retreat to her bedchamber and forget every vile word Battencliffe had said. He'd just offered her the sort of match she'd always wanted, but stated in the terms Battencliffe had used—it turned her stomach.

Yet Benedict compelled her to stay.

After another moment's hesitation, he mounted two steps. Julia slanted a glance toward the drawing room. If her mother were to see…

"What is it?" she asked, low.

He climbed a few more stairs, bringing his face on a level with hers. "I heard part of what he said."

Her grip on the railing became painful. "I prefer not to discuss it."

He ascended to her riser, forcing her to look up at him. "I want to know everything."
He'd never addressed her in that tone, the one he'd most recently used to get rid of Battencliffe. His captain's tone, brimming with authority.

She swallowed to relieve the dryness in her throat. "I can't bear to repeat it. It was vile enough having to listen to it the first time."

He reached out, his hand pausing for a moment in mid-air before settling over hers. Her breath hitched at the warmth that seeped into her skin. "That's exactly why I want to know what he said. If he dishonors you, by God, I shall call him out."

Her heart tripped over itself. "Oh, please don't."

He opened his mouth to reply, but shrill voices ringing from the drawing room cut him off.

"I shall be quite pleased when this entire mess is over." Lady Wexford's stentorian tones echoed through the hall. Heavy footfalls announced her imminent appearance.
Mama burst out a reply that Julia didn't catch. Benedict chose that moment to take her hand and pull her noiselessly the rest of the way up the stairs. Reaching the upper corridor, he led her into the first door on the left.

Papa's study lay shrouded in darkness. Benedict pushed the door closed until no illumination remained but a tiny wedge of light from the hallway.

"What are you doing?" Julia whispered.

"Making sure we have a chance at a little uninterrupted conversation." The direction of his voice told her he'd come to stand before her. The thick Axminster carpeting muffled the thud of his Hessians. She could not see him, but his presence hovered inches away, a tangible force.

"Do you know what my mother will make of this if she finds us here?"
"One can only hope."

She stiffened. The words had floated from his lips on a light enough tone, but their long-term friendship had familiarized her with every nuance of his speech.

"Come," he added, when she didn't respond. "You'd be happier with me than Battencliffe."

"Mama will find a way to let you off the hook. She favors Battencliffe's suit."
"The devil you say!"

She didn't even flinch at his language. Long acquaintance had inured her to it. At times like this, she envied him the freedom to express himself in such terms. "He's going to be an earl, you see."

"Whereas, I'm a mere second son of little enough means." The level of bitterness in his tone shook her far more than his earlier profanity.

"There's no need to sacrifice yourself for my sake. I'm perfectly capable of refusing Battencliffe until he gives up. I've had plenty of practice. Although…" She chewed her lip for a moment. "Perhaps if I'd had less practice…"

He drew breath in an audible hiss. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing, really. Just a remark Battencliffe made."

That was the wrong thing to say, apparently. Strong fingers wrapped about her elbow. "What remark?"

His tone brooked no argument. Drat it all. She wanted to forget the things Battencliffe had said to her, not open them up to Benedict's scrutiny. "Apparently I have a bit of a reputation."

His fingers tightened their grip. "How dare he impugn you when your reputation is impeccable?"

"Except when you drag me to a darkened room for a tête à tête."

He dropped his hand. Cool air wafted over her as he strode away. His boots thumped toward the far end of the room. "That is a different matter. By God, I shall call him out."

"You shall do no such thing."

He came to a halt. When he spoke, his voice drifted from somewhere in the vicinity of her father's desk. "If I do, you cannot stop me."

"Then I beg you not to. I care nothing for Battencliffe, but this simply isn't important enough for you to risk your life over the truth."

The merest whisper of dull thuds told her he'd marched back. His presence loomed over her. "What exactly did he say to you?"

"He only noted that I've turned down every man who's offered for me. You can't call him out over such a thing."

"Then what did he say to make you so upset?"

"It seems I've refused so many suitors I'm considered a bit of a cold fish."

"He said that to you?" Fabric rustled. She imagined his dinner jacket shifting as he dragged a hand through his hair. No, more thuds. He was marching away—toward the door.

"I must contact Upperton. He'll agree to be my second."

"Benedict!"

At the sound of his given name, his footfalls came to an abrupt halt. She felt it in the change of his energy, from movement to complete stillness. Apparently, she also possessed a captain's tone.

"He did not say such a thing to me, not in so many words. I took his meaning well enough. At any rate, it seems he's decided this makes me his ideal bride."

"Ideal bride?" Distaste echoed through his words. "Who would want such a marriage?"

Julia took a deep breath. She'd never made this admission before, not even to Sophia. "I do."

A second or two of silenced ensued. "You cannot be serious."

"I'm perfectly serious. I've watched my sister languish for years over a sentiment that is supposed to render a person happy. It's brought her nothing but pain. Why should I open my heart to something like that?"

An image, long suppressed, surfaced in her brain, and she shuddered. No. She squeezed her eyes shut and thrust it aside. She would not think about that day, even if it had more to do with her refusal of love than anything Sophia ever did.

"Don't you believe the risk might be worth something?" Stealthily, he'd worked his way closer. His voice rumbled within inches of her ear, the captain's tone completely gone, replaced by something low and velvet and enticing, something that turned her insides to liquid heat. "If your sentiments were returned—"

"I have none to return." She let out a little twitter of laughter. "You see the irony, of course. Battencliffe is offering me exactly what I want in a marriage—no sentiments engaged. And I must refuse him because I could never betray my sister, knowing how she feels."

For a moment, his breathing, shallow, harsh and agitated broke the room's silence. "How can you stand before me and say such a thing?"

"You'd have me betray my own sister?"

"Of course not. It's the other." Anger, hot and tangible, rolled off him in waves. It clipped each syllable to terseness. "That you'd be willing to enter a marriage with no tender feelings at all."

She reached out, hoping to placate him, but her hand grasped at air. "I would not be the first to do so." Mama, for one, had entered into just such an arrangement. "Nor would I be the last."

"Then you'd be missing the best life has to offer."

"And I'd save myself a great deal of pain when it all came crashing down."

"Some things are worth the pain. They're most definitely worth the risk."

In the dark, she missed the movement, but the emotion pulsing from him had heightened the rest of her senses. The only warning she received was the whisper of fabric. Before her brain had a chance to process the meaning of that sound, he took her roughly by the shoulders and crushed his lips to hers.