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to be of far more interest than trim ankles and pretty shoulders. Making love was like shooting grouse, an activity he indulged in when the occasion presented itself, not something he particularly sought.
    What, then, was wrong with him tonight?
    He wanted her. He wanted to stare at her, to smell her, to have his skin again crackle with electricity from her nearness. He wanted to devour her, to help her—and himself—find out exactly how much of a degenerate he could be when he put his mind to it.
    England could declare a new war tonight and he wouldn’t care.
    “Where to, sir?” someone called out to him.
    Another hansom cab had drawn up to the curb. The cabby looked at him expectantly. He forgot that he had not moved since she left, that he still stood at the edge of the street, as if he too were waiting for a carriage.
    Wasn’t he? Her voice had been quiet, but it had carried to him on a playful breeze. Sumner House Inn, Balham Hill. Balham Hill was in Clapham, a good three miles away. He’d need a carriage.
    He meant to shake his head, to take himself home and change for Lady Arlington’s ball. His life was Inner Temple, the Palace of Westminster, and the Season in full swing. There was no room for mysterious strangers and needless entanglements.
    Besides, what innkeeper worth his salt would let him in at this hour? And what assurance had he that even if he could lie, cheat, and steal his way past the innkeeper, she’d allow his presence in her room for more than three seconds?
    “Sumner House Inn, Balham Hill,” he told the cabbie.

 
    Chapter Six

     
    November 1892
     
Dear Madame,
     
I’d like to review your menus for the day.
    Your servant,
Stuart Somerset
     
Dear Sir,
     
For luncheon, a roast beef sandwich.
For dinner, four roast beef sandwiches.
    Yours humbly,
Verity Durant
     
Dear Madame,
     
A roast beef sandwich for luncheon is fine.
For dinner, with the future Mrs. Somerset in attendance, I need something more formal. I suggest one of your twelve-course dinners.
    Your servant,
Stuart Somerset
     
     
Dear Sir,
     
Certainly. I will make sure that the future Mrs. Somerset is suitably impressed.
Many congratulations on your upcoming marriage.
    Yours humbly,
Verity Durant
     
    In accordance with the decision to delay the announcement of his engagement, Stuart had said nothing to Marsden as he dispatched his secretary to escort Lizzy and her father from London to Fairleigh Park. Nor anything to Mrs. Boyce or Mr. Prior.
    He could have accomplished his objective with Madame Durant—a fancy dinner—without any mention of the future Mrs. Somerset either. And yet he’d wielded that name the way a Transylvanian caught abroad at night might brandish a braid of garlic.
    Perhaps, in the end, it had only been a reminder to himself—that he was a betrothed man. That inexplicable surges of lust and curiosity where the cook was concerned were quite beneath him, however notorious and sexually rapacious the cook.
    A reminder he shouldn’t have needed in the first place.
     

     
    Lizzy knitted. She would miss this week’s meeting of the Ladies’ Charitable Knitting Circle, but she still hoped to finish the muffler she’d started the previous week, before she was to leave for Bertram Somerset’s funeral. It wasn’t to be. The doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of Mr. Somerset’s secretary. She grimaced, rolled up the muffler and the needles, and shoved everything into her knitting bag.
    She’d turned on only the table lamp closest to her. In the drained light of a sunless November day, most of the drawing room was sunk in shadows. Before she could do something about it, the door opened, her butler announced Mr. William Marsden, and in came a man who could very well serve as the additional source of illumination the room needed.
    Mr. Marsden was quite possibly the most gorgeous man alive—certainly Lizzy had met no one more beautiful. He had a thick head of gleaming golden curls, perfect eyebrows,