Shona smoothed her hands down the front of her gown—a champagne gauze trimmed in lavender, made for Katrina’s wedding and not worn since. Eager to look her finest tonight, Shona had asked Alexa’s abigail to dress her hair. Toward that end, she’d even donned new stays containing a flattering busk, and at Katrina’s encouragement, permitted the slightest application of cosmetics.

They’d fussed over Shona, helping her choose the perfect jewels to complement her attire. And when her toilette was complete, they’d clapped in delight, their faces wreathed in smiles.

She felt quite the loveliest she ever had.

However, she hadn’t been able to summon the nerve to ask them how she might go about enticing a gentleman to kiss her, and she hadn’t many days left to win her wager.

Surely such things came naturally if the couple were mutually attracted to each other.

For the fourth time, Shona checked to make sure the amethyst earrings still dangled from her ears and the necklace resting just above her breasts remained centered. She patted the elegant Grecian knot at her nape before brushing her fingers over the parure’s matching combs, which swept her hair up on the sides, except for a fringe of soft curls framing her face.

Those new additions were the result of the abigail’s considerable skill with scissors and a hot iron.

Fingering one of the playful curls, Shona conceded that the new hair arrangement quite became her. She was womanly enough to admit she wanted to impress Morgan, else why bother with all the falderal?

Whilst getting dressed this evening, she’d made a meaningful decision.

These were the last days before she stepped into her new roles and assumed the responsibilities that went with them. No man had ever stirred her the way Morgan did. She mightn’t—probably wouldn’t ever have an occasion to—enjoy the attention of such a man again.

So, she intended to seize this chance, come what may. And by Jove, she still planned to seek an opportunity to kiss him. As much to prove Penelope Rossington wrong as to prove to herself that she could.

Though short of tackling the captain and holding him down for a peck on the mouth—fine, something considerably more than a prim peck—she hadn’t a clue how she’d accomplish the task.

Nae, not a task.

That sounded far too chore-like, and she didn’t believe for a second that kissing Morgan would be anything akin to mucking stalls, polishing the silver, or scouring chamber pots.

Indeed, she imagined the experience would be something much more ethereal and magical. And deliciously carnal too.

Lord, listen to her wanton thoughts. A flush sluiced through her, a wave of chagrined pleasure originating somewhere in her middle and billowing upward to her artfully arranged hair.

Who’d have believed she’d be so easily influenced into risqué behavior?

Certainly not she.

Not before she’d met Captain Morgan-oh-so-wonderfully-fascinating-Le Draco.

What happened to the modest, reserved woman who’d absconded to the hothouse her first day here? If Shona hadn’t known better, she’d have believed she’d knocked her noggin when she plunged into the lake, so altered was she.

As she approached the drawing room where she’d agreed to meet the others before dinner, laughter and chatter carried into the corridor. The floral salon farther down the passageway also rang with amusement and animated conversation. Her stomach constricted in apprehension.

You can do this. Remember what you decided. To make these remaining days the most pleasant, the most memorable of your life.

Well, at least the most pleasurably unforgettable so far. Some of her darker memories she’d never be able to completely dispel.

Dredging up a cordial smile, she entered the drawing room, and standing at the threshold, searched for anyone she might know.

Alexa and Katrina hadn’t come down yet. Likely because they’d assisted Shona.

Clutching her fan to still her frolicking nerves, she searched the room again.

Where was Morgan?

Maybe he’d gone to the salon instead.

Harcourt and Pendergast were present, though. Each with a glass in hand, they chatted with several gentlemen, including Mr. Olson. He kept veering her reproachful glances, his chin elevated and expression offended.

What a perfectly horrid misalliance that would’ve been.

Rather than regard her dip in the lake as calamitous, she thought it rather fortunate now. It spared her further pursuit by that presumptuous, feckless toad. Besides, her rescuer had turned out to be a most fascinating man.

Unfurling her fan, she sought other familiar faces.

Lord Sterling angled his auburn head in greeting, a smile playing round the edges of his mouth as he listened to something elderly Miss Sweeting said.

Shona returned his smile.

Though taciturn and aloof, when she’d encountered him in London, he’d always been unfailingly kind to her, treating her much the way a person would a stray, frightened mongrel.

She continued her search of the crowded room.

Engaged in lively conversation, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Needham had noticed her arrival.

Nodding at something an imposing dame said, Lady Wimpleton offered a welcoming smile from across the room.

What to do?

Stay here or prowl the salon in search of Morgan?

It couldn’t hurt to take a peek there.

Waving her fan, more for something to do rather than loiter self-consciously in the entrance, she’d swiveled to leave when a movement caught her attention.

A tall form separated from the shadows in the room’s far corner.

Her lungs emptied on a happy sigh.

Morgan.

He drained his tumbler, then set it on a nearby table. Mouth sweeping into a closed-lipped smile, he gave her a devilish wink, seemingly as delighted to see her as she was to see him.

Goodness. She pressed a hand to her cavorting stomach.

What that man did to her with one roguish blink of his eye. Her heart, the ridiculous, flighty thing, flopped about like a brown trout on a river bank.

And her breathing?

Why, it became all breathy and gaspy, too.

Was gaspy a word?

It certainly was a feeling.

Did his heart and lungs do weird things when he saw her as well?

What a lovely, farfetched notion.

Given his declaration this morning, mayhap not as farfetched as she’d once believed.

From across the distance, his hot, enticing gaze devoured her.

Her thrumming body answered the call with an abandon she hadn’t known she possessed.

Wending his way to her side, his focus never strayed as he agilely maneuvered around the guests.

“Lady Atterberry. You look utterly entrancing this evening. A vision for this beleaguered one-eyed soldier to behold.” Wearing unadorned black evening togs, his hair pulled into a queue and tied with a narrow black satin ribbon, he emanated pure, virile power.

A pleased blush stole up her cheeks, as he eyed her approvingly, a rakish gleam in his vivid blue eye. She’d never felt more feminine or attractive. “Thank you.”

He bowed over her hand, casting a swift, covert glance around. “I have a confession to make,” he said playfully, straightening to his full, impressive height.

Peering up at him, she arched a skeptical brow. “Oh dear. Do I dare ask what?”

Who is this poised, flirtatious woman? Where’d the dowdy, timid bird go?

As naturally as if they were old friends—no, no. Friends didn’t go all quivery in their middles when they touched—Morgan cupped her elbow and drew her slightly to the side.

Not that he’d much space to do so, the room being packed with guests.

He bent his neck, and she couldn’t haul her gaze from his.

“I might’ve, ah, altered the seating arrangements for dinner. And been caught in the act by our hosts’ son. Allen kept watch at the dining room door until I finished.” Up to his neckcloth in devilry, he grinned. Unrepentant, wholly boyish, and absolutely charming.

“And shall I approve of your presumptuousness, Captain?” Speaking of forwardness. From where had she summoned hers?

“You shall if you would enjoy sitting beside me.” He cut an amused glance across the room. “Sterling might be miffed, however. You were to sit at his left.”

Just as Alexa and Katrina glided into the room, absolutely ravishing in jeweled-toned gowns, Alexa’s ruby and Katrina’s sapphire, the dinner gong sounded. They gave her a little apologetic, fluttering finger wave as the guests sorted themselves into couples according to position and rank.

Lord Sterling gave her a lengthy, considering look before his attention shifted to Morgan That same peculiar half-smile poised on his mouth, he extended his elbow to an elegant dame, dripping in jewels and layers of jonquil silk, and they led the dinner procession.

Shona let her fan slip from her hand then oh-so-casually toed it beneath an oval table nestled against the silk-papered wall.

“I’ve dropped my fan, Morgan.”

Oh, well done you, Shona.

You slipped in the use of his name as naturally as if you are on the most intimate of terms.

And this, your very first attempt at feminine wiles.

A rousing success, I dare say.

She smiled up at him, and his sable brows climbed his forehead, his melodious chuckle pouring over her.

“So I see.” He bent and, after retrieving the abused accessory, passed it to her. “We’ll be the last in.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I wasn’t walking in on Lord Glasscock’s arm. He tries to look down my bosom and reeks of camphor. I’m afraid he intends to ask for my hand. Again.”

“Again?”

“Uh hum. He’s been most persistent since I came to London.”

Morgan scratched his jaw. “Can’t say I blame the aged codger.”

Though his tone remained light, a steely undercurrent she couldn’t identify seeped into his words.

Minutes later, he held her chair, and as she slipped onto the seat, Shona took quick inventory. The chair to her right hadn’t been claimed, and she hadn’t been introduced to the people directly across from her. The Harcourts and Pendergasts sat several places away to her left. Other than Lord Sterling across the table, and three chairs down, she’d never uttered a word to anyone near her.

Morgan gave the empty chair a perplexed, considering look before he sank into his chair.

Someone bumped into her as they took their seat on her other side, and she automatically glanced over.

Her mouth went dry as pavement in August.

Mr. Le Draco snapped his serviette open, and as he placed it in his lap, gave her a frigid smile.

Her nape hairs froze in place at his glacial regard.

The lines of his face stony, his cool gaze cut to Morgan.

Tension radiated, hostile and intense, between the men.

Why, for all the saints in heaven, had Morgan seated her beside his father? The instinct to retreat into her diffident shell, to shyness’s safety and familiarity, nearly suffocated her.

Morgan reached beneath the tablecloth and touched the back of her hand.

Despite her upset, a pleasurable jolt raced up her arm.

Taking a calming breath, she faced him, and he bent near her ear.

“He told me he was leaving after our quarrel, and I haven’t seen him since. I think he’s only just come for dinner tonight. I swear, I wouldn’t ever seat him beside you.” The wrathful glance he fired his father would’ve sunk a schooner. “As much as I’m loath to admit it, his mind must’ve marched along the same path as mine, and he moved name cards.”

“It’s fine,” she murmured.

Not really. Sitting beside the arctic man, disdain pulsing off him, she’d be fortunate if she didn’t choke on her food.

“I’m quite accustomed to dealing with unpleasant parents,” she said.

Truth there.

Och, crackers. She’d just called Morgan’s father difficult. And what if Mr. Le Draco had heard her?

“We’re much alike, it seems.” The way Morgan said those five little words, his voice deep and husky, made her long to grab his hand, haul him into a dark nook, and beg him to kiss her.

What a wanton she’d become in mere days.

If anyone had told her a man she was newly acquainted with would have her throwing off a lifetime of restraints, taking risks she would’ve been petrified even to imagine before, she’d have called them daft or accused them of being foxed.

At this rate, with all the sensual yearnings Morgan had stirred, she’d be quite ruined before the week ended. Maybe that ought to have been her wager.

A wallflower’s wonderfully wicked wager.

Despite the gravity of the situation, she quirked her mouth the teensiest bit.

An immaculately-attired footman served the soup, and Shona turned her attention to the meal. She lifted the spoon with her left hand, and a little thrill tiptoed from shoulder to waist when Morgan did as well.

Such an insignificant thing, perhaps, but one more they had in common.

Absorbed in her musings, trying to sort through her tumultuous feelings and determine what she should do about them, she ate in silence for several minutes.

Morgan seemed as disinclined to converse, though he did answer the questions put to him by the elderly dame seated on his other side.

Mr. Le Draco spoke not at all, but attended to his food with gusto, accompanied by noisy slurping, chomping, and an occasional belch.

She peeked at him from beneath her lashes once and nearly dropped her fork to find him staring at her, his steely countenance all peeved angles and irritated planes.

Whyever was he vexed with her?

Over the course of the meal, she met Morgan’s gaze several times. They also shared an equal number of polite smiles.

Something weary and haunting lingered in his.

By the time the final course was served, she and Morgan had exchanged short, mundane comments on every superficial topic from the stifling heat to the flower arrangements atop the table.

His father’s presence cast a sobering ambiance—more like a wet, smelly horse blanket—on what she’d anticipated being an enjoyable affair.

She couldn’t wait to escape his company.

The first slight bump to her arm Shona assumed accidental. After all, the table was crowded. However, the second, firmer nudge had been deliberate.

No doubt about it.

Nonetheless, she pretended absorption in her trifle.

She most definitely didn’t want to talk to Mr. Le Draco, the odious man.

That day on the terrace, he’d looked at her like she was pond scum, and tonight, as if she were so far beneath his touch, he wanted to tread upon her as one would a bothersome insect.

A harder prod to her forearm couldn’t be ignored.

Lips meshed into a thin hard line, she quickly scanned the guests to see if anyone had noticed.

A slight frown pulled Lord Sterling’s dark brows together as he regarded Mr. Le Draco. He raised his unusual gray-green eyes to her, a question in their depths.

An astute man was Lord Sterling.

She managed a benign smile, despite fuming inwardly.

How dare Mr. Le Draco poke her like he was selecting ripe fruit from the market, the overbearing oaf? A gentleman would’ve addressed her, rather than treat her like a pin-cushion or ripe plum.

Summoning an indifferent expression, Shona peaked a brow and dispassionately met his gaze.

What?

“My son hasn’t been able to find employment since his accident.” He picked a piece of food from his teeth then studied the chunk of meat.

Barely refraining from skewing her mouth in distaste, she crumpled her napkin in a stranglehold instead.

Maybe she’d offer Morgan the stewardship position at Wedderford Abbey.

The delicious, oh-so-brilliant notion took hold, curling around her inside like a contented cat, lazing in the sun.

A perfect solution.

He required a position.

She required a bailiff.

And it was sure to infuriate his father.

All the more appealing.

“Morgan was supposed to take over my plantation for me. But it seems he’s turned his sights on you instead.” Hostile condescension riddled every brusque syllable.

She arched her brow higher.

Indeed?

How could this stony, calculating creature be Morgan’s sire?

Mr. Le Draco raked his disapproving regard over her, lingering far too long on the swell of her breasts above her bodice. He scratched his hawkish nose, then yawned rudely.

“S’pose it’s easier to marry money than earn it yourself.”