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She glared at him. “I don’t see why that seems such an impossibility.”
“Good God,” he said, raking his hand through his hair. “When did you develop these termagant tendencies?”
“When you forced me into your cottage!”
“I certainly wouldn’t have done so if you hadn’t started lying about your brother.”
Her mouth fell open, and she let out a little huff of outrage. “How dare you accuse me of lying!”
“Aren’t you?”
“Well, yes,” she admitted testily, “but that is only because you are a rude, arrogant boor who refuses to accept no for an answer.”
“Refusing to accept the negative usually guarantees a positive result,” he replied, his voice so condescending that Elizabeth had to grab on to her skirt just to keep from smacking him.
Her voice and her eyes pure ice, she said, “It appears my only escape is allowing you to speak your piece. What was it you desired to say?”
He shook a piece of paper in front of her. “I obtained this from Lady Danbury.”
“Your notice of termination, I hope,” she muttered.
He let that one pass. “It’s Lady Danbury’s guest list. And I regret to inform you that none of these gentlemen is acceptable.”
“Oh, and I suppose you know them all personally,” she scoffed.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
She yanked the paper out of his hand, ripping a small corner off in the process. “Oh, please,” she said derisively. “There are two lords and a sir. How could you know all of them?”
“Your brother is a sir,” he reminded her.
“Yes, well, your brother is not,” she shot back.
“You don’t know that.”
Her head jerked up. “Who are you?”
“My brother isn’t a sir,” he said in an annoyed voice. “I don’t even have a brother. I was merely pointing out that you have the unfortunate habit of leaping to assumptions without sorting through your facts.”
“What,” she said, so slowly that he knew her temper was hanging by a frayed thread, “is wrong with these men?”
“Three of them are married.”
Her jaw shook, probably from grinding her teeth together. “What is wrong with the unmarried guests?”
“Well, for one thing, this one”—he pointed to Sir Bertram Fellport—“is a drunk.”
“Are you certain?”
“I could not in all conscience allow you to marry a man who abuses spirits.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Damn, but she was tenacious. “Yes, I’m certain he’s a drunk. And a mean one, at that.”
She looked back down at the torn paper in her hand. “What about Lord Binsby?”
“He gambles.”
