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involved. Little flashes of pictures came to her anyway, of his handsome face rising above shoulders and chest that wore no clothes, and of that hand that rested on the table instead resting on her.
    A new panic flushed through her, leaving her warm and confused and too aware of their current isolation. She felt terribly vulnerable to the masculinity he all but beamed like a lighthouse in her direction. She kept noticing peculiar things, like that hand, and his mouth, and the tiny golden lights in his eyes, and the scandalous way he managed to observe her. That gaze appeared discreet enough, but she almost squirmed from how his attention communicated the implications of what would happen.
    “. . . I will arrange the rest,” he continued. “I expect it might be an inn, but I promise it will be a good one, and the proprietors very discreet. Although letting a house might be better. I will have to see what is available.”
    “Surely there is no rush.” She wanted to sound sophisticated. Instead her voice rang with desperation to her own ears.
    He cocked his head. The slightest smile formed, and it hardly reassured her. “I am not accustomed to taking markers.”
    “I am not suggesting a marker as such, only—”
    “Did you wager that which you do not have in your possession? Is that the problem?”
    It took a moment to puzzle through what he meant. When she did, it only shocked her anew. “I am completely in possession of that which I wagered. However, a week—there is something else I must be doing this week.”
    That vague smile again. “Ah. You only wish a delay. A small one, I trust.”
    She nodded, dumbly.
    “A fortnight hence, then, but I expect consideration for my patience.” He stood, and offered his hand to help her to rise.
    She gathered her gloves and bonnet. She accepted his hand, too alert to the warm, dry sensation of his skin on hers. She turned to leave at once.
    He did not release her hand. Even when she gave a little yank, he held firm. She looked back at him with curiosity. His eyes narrowed and he yanked in response. She spun back until she bumped right into him.
    His other hand pressed the back of her waist. “You forgot the consideration. I meant it in the legal sense. I do something for you, and you do something for me.”
    His voice, low and soft, sent a chill up her spine. She stared up at him, feeling even more a fool than before, trying to swallow her astonishment at being pressed against him in a most improper way.
    “Something . . . ?”
    “A small something. A gesture of goodwill, to promise you will not welsh on your debt.”
    “You have my word that—” The rest caught in her throat as she realized what he meant.
    His head lowered. Her eyes widened. Surely he could not think to—
    He could. He did. The Duke of Penthurst had decided that a kiss was the consideration he wanted for delaying her deflowering by a week.
    She saw it as if she sat in one of the paintings on the wall. She saw her own amazement even as she experienced it. Saw his dark head angling to claim her mouth. Watched while she helplessly allowed it, too shocked to move. A new shock claimed her, one of deep stirring within the confusion. More surprise then. The kiss moved her, when it was the last kiss that ever should.
    It horrified her. Some presence of mind returned. She pressed back against his hand while she turned her head away.
    He permitted it. She snuck one look at him while she walked away. That was a mistake. He watched her like a hawk might watch a scurrying mouse, with the same confidence that there would be no contest should he determine the mouse would make a good meal.
    She almost stumbled in her hasty retreat. He did not laugh at her. At least not before she had left the room.
     • • • 
    F or a woman of the world, Lydia had not acquitted herself well. Penthurst recalled just how poorly while he drank some brandy. On the table beside him the queen and king of spades still lay face