Free Rhyme and Reason by Jo Ann Ferguson

snapping like two blue-hot embers, and I fear your words shall bring me shame.” Taking her hand, he drew it into his arm.
    She wanted to argue with this glib viscount, but again failed words failed her. As his fingers settled over hers on his arm, she was suffused with warmth. Warnings careened through her head. This was the man who made mamas swoon with dismay when he spoke to their daughters. Now she understood why. His silver eyes were hooded with secrets she could not resist trying to expose, even at the risk of involving herself with a rakehell.
    As that slow, bewitching smile tilted his lips, she forced her gaze away. Was she all about in the head? Even if she were skimble-skamble enough to entangle her life with his, this was the very worst time. She had to deal with the vexing problem of Marquis de la Cour.
    Curious gazes followed them through the open doors. Tendrils of fog oozed in the early dusk. The damp aroma of dew was intoxicating, but Emily ignored it. She withdrew her hand from Lord Wentworth’s arm and faced him. She tried not to be disconcerted by the fact that her eyes were level with his lips.
    Raising them, she asked in her coolest tone, “Why did you lie to me? You told me Papa had won at the card table.”
    “So he did, on numerous occasions.” He smiled as he leaned against a large concrete planter. “I, on the other hand, won on many more. Lady Luck was his companion during the evening, but she turned her favor on me through the night.”
    “You intentionally misled me!”
    “I was honest with you.”
    “You said there was no need for me to even Papa’s accounts with you.”
    His lips straightened. “No matter what you have heard of me, Miss Talcott, I do not call on pretty brunettes to dun them for their fathers’ debts.”
    “I was offering to pay them.”
    “Do you do that often?”
    She tightened her fringed shawl around her shoulders. The night was not cold, but his voice was. “I manage my father’s household. All of its expenses are my concern.”
    “What a paragon you are!”
    “It’s a daughter’s place to do what I do.”
    “By the elevens, you are as dutiful as I have heard! Sponsoring your sister, although she can be only a few years your junior, during the Season and watching your father’s household as close as wax. What sort of life is that for a young woman?”
    “My life is mine to spend as I please.”
    “Or squander.”
    “Am I the one squandering my life, my lord?” she returned with heat. “I have my friends and my family and a reputation of which I am proud.”
    Lord Wentworth suddenly grinned. “Now I understand your loathing of my company. You fear I will taint your sister’s chances for a good match. I must assure you, Miss Talcott, that my reputation, as is the case with most reputations, I have discovered, is based more on fiction than fact.”
    “You wish me to believe that you despise playing cards?”
    He laughed. “Not in the least, but I enjoy other facets of life as much. I know it is said that I would as lief play cards than eat or—” His chuckle became softer. “Excuse me, Miss Talcott. My crude language proves I’ve been too long away from the gentle company of a winsome lady.”
    Emily looked at the fan tied to her wrist. She found it difficult to believe that “Demon Wentworth” was this man who was as gentle as the amusement twinkling in his eyes. Was either the real Lord Wentworth, or was he trying to baffle her with the sense of humor he had warned her of when he called at Hanover Square?
    “Then it would behoove you,” she said, “to recall yourself. Lady Fanning expects a certain propriety from her guests.”
    “Now you are wondering why Lady Fanning invited me to her home.”
    “My lord, I never—”
    “No, you would never say that,” he interrupted with another chuckle, “but your eyes betray your thoughts.”
    Emily decided the only way to salvage her faltering composure was to answer as boldly. “I would