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you.”
    â€œI could have drowned.”
    â€œOnly if you sat down. It was so shallow it was more a puddle than anything else.”
    James sighed. “Father hoped that Andrew would tame that sense of humor of yours.”
    â€œWell he didn’t. He merely added to it.” She placed the check on the mantel and smiled. “I wonder if St. John will call on me once the story of his infamous visit gets back to him? I do hope so.”
    James looked at her quizzically. “Now you sound as if you rather liked him.”
    Liked? She didn’t like Brandon St. John at all. Especially not after he had kissed her in such a…thorough manner.
    Well, perhaps that one part was enjoyable. But she hadn’t liked the way he’d treated her beforehand. “He’s arrogant and overbearing. However, his concern for his brother is beyond reproach.” There. That sounded fair. She was rather proud of herself.
    â€œPerhaps. I’m not one to imagine all sorts of ill happenings, but it would still behoove you to tread carefully. Of all the St. Johns, Brandon is considered a force indeed. He goes through women the way most men go through cravats.”
    â€œI shall make sure he doesn’t attempt to tie me about his throat.”
    â€œVer, I’m not joking. He’s far more dangerous than you believe.”
    â€œI’m quite capable of handling him.” Verena tilted her chin to a very impertinent angle. “Besides, Brandon St. John had better hold himself at a respectable distance in this little battle.”
    â€œAnd if he doesn’t?”
    She picked up the bank draft and waved it in the air, smiling sweetly. “Then I will indeed cash this draft and the unfortunate man will find himself five thousand pounds poorer. At which point I win not just the battle, but the entire war.”

Chapter 5
    The only thing worse than a woman who cries is one who laughs.
    The Duke of Wexford to Viscount Hunterston, while standing in the library taking port at the Dashwood Fete
    T he rain came and went in the space of a day, leaving London damp and noticeably cooler. Brandon told himself that he was glad he’d sent the promised bank draft to Lady Westforth so quickly. All he had to do now was write a quick note to Marcus to confirm that all was well.
    For now, Brand returned to his usual occupations. Or tried to. He found Devon at Jackson’s Salon, his supposed trip miraculously cancelled. There they whiled away the rest of the afternoon, sparring in a friendly fashion that left Devon with a split lip and Brandon with a bruised cheekbone.
    It would be an exaggeration to say that he thought constantly of Lady Westforth as he went through the evening. Indeed, there were long stretches of time when he didn’t think of her at all—a whole hour at one point. But the meeting had colored his expectations. He found himselfnoticing how banal the supposed beauties of the day seemed to be—how utterly devoid of humor, how bland, how very unlike Lady Westforth they all were.
    Not a one had enough wit to make him smile, even a little. And none challenged him or even threatened him, which he found insipid. Brandon found himself wondering what Lady Westforth would say if he surprised her with a visit. The idea took hold and it was with great difficulty that he reminded himself of the type of woman she was—the exact type of woman who could be bought off for a mere five thousand pounds.
    Not, of course, that five thousand pounds was a small amount. Perhaps she was facing some dire circumstances that had forced her to accept the funds. He thought about this for some time, considering all the possibilities, each more dire than the first.
    Most of his imaginings had to do with orphans and paying physician bills for a variety of worthy but poor individuals. As soon as he realized what he was doing, he took his unruly imagination firmly in hand and refused to allow it any more