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company, so he was barely entranced by the fairer sex. On the odd occasion lust got the better of him, he had a right hand to sort out the necessary in the privacy of his bedchamber. But now, with this soft, fragrant creature rubbing her cheek against his waistcoat, catching her breath, he could not understand how he had survived this long.
    “Let me see you and check your hair,” he said. Harriet lifted her head and took a step back. He tilted his head and considered her coiffure before catching one stray curl that seemed to come from the middle of the part that was swept up. “I think this bit needs pinned up again,” he said. “But otherwise, your style seems undamaged.”
    Harriet took the lock of hair and, biting her lip, fidgeted with one section of her hair for a minute before triumphantly looking up at him.
    “Is it still falling down?”
    “Not that I can see.”
    “Fine. How do I look?”
    He adjusted the shoulders of her gown and swept his gaze over her. “Your lips are a little swollen. I guess people will think we have been kissing.”
    “Oh then we may make it into the scandal sheets.”
    “Perhaps. I thought you did not want to marry anyway.”
    “I am marrying you.”
    “Perhaps.”
    “There is no perhaps about it, Stephen. May I call you Stephen? I have had my hand on your posterior.”
    Stephen coughed to hide his bark of laughter. The chit was incorrigible.
    “I suppose you may as well. May I call you Harriet?
    “You may. If you are a gentleman, and you claim to be one, then you will marry me as a reward for saving Phoebe. You did say anything. So gossip in the scandal sheets is immaterial.”
    And with that, she turned around and swept back up the garden path, leaving Stephen with no other option but to hurry after her and catch her arm so he could accompany her back inside the ballroom where everyone could see them and draw their own conclusions.

Chapter Nine
     
    Harriet looked up as William barged into the breakfast room the next morning, loudly explaining to the butler that he did not need to be announced in his own house. He was followed by a skipping Phoebe and a disgruntled-looking second son of a duke.
    “Lord Oldbeck, Miss Charville, Lord Stephen, good morning,” said Harriet politely, pasting a polite smile on her face and indicating to the footman to bring up more tea and toast. “Please sit and join us. Have a cup of tea at least.”
    “Can I have breakfast, Harry? Charville is in a foul temper. Something to do with you in the scandal sheets and he dragged me here before I could get my ham and eggs.”
    She turned a bright smile to her brother.
    “Of course you can. This is your house, after all. Just because you are staying with Lord Stephen temporarily does not mean we would starve you.”
    “You are in the scandal sheet? Is that because you and Lord Stephen were kissing in the garden?” asked Mary.
    “You and Papa were kissing?” Phoebe looked from Harriet to her father, her little nose scrunched up and a look of sheer disgust on her face. “Why do grown-ups do that? It’s horrible.”
    “Good God, we did not kiss,” shouted Stephen throwing himself onto the dining room chair beside Harriet. “The scandal sheet is wrong as usual.”
    Harriet placed her cup on her saucer.
    “Phoebe, did your father ensure you had breakfast or are you hungry too?”
    Phoebe looked at her father and bit her lip, obviously unwilling to rat out her beloved papa. Harriet nodded and rose to collect a plate. She placed a couple of slices of toast, some ham and a poached egg on the child’s plate. She moved to turn back to the table but met with a wall of male chest.
    “I apologise.”
    “For what? Lying or blaspheming at my breakfast table, my lord?” she hissed.
    “Both?”
    “You did not seem particularly sorry when you were…” She drew in a deep breath, remembering where she was and that she had an audience who were all agog. Luckily, she was good at whispering. “Oh never