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None of those things had transpired. She had not been happily married, at least not in the way she’d hoped. Rowden had never truly settled down, instead racketing about the Continent like some dissolute roué, making a fortune at the gaming tables and then losing it in a night.

And he had never come to call, not when she was residing in London, and not when he was home in Hungerford, either.

The candlelight flickered, and the dim light carved deep shadows in the room and along his face, highlighting his cheekbones and the thrust of his jaw. He held up the slim booklet that lay on the table near the fire.

Sophronia had to step forward to peer at the title. A Report to Shareholders from the Kennet and Avon Canal Company on the Recent Act of Parliament dated May 1798.

“Soporific reading, to be sure,” he said.

“Indubitably.”

She pulled the edges of her cashmere shawl around her. She’d changed from her traveling dress into a gown more suitable for dinner, white muslin with red trim around the high waist and the scoop of the bodice, full sleeves running down to her wrists. A prickle of awareness raised gooseflesh along her skin.

“I—I suppose you are wondering why I am here.”

He raised both brows. He’d always had a devilish arch to his brows, and they’d been too heavy for his young face, giving him the look of a satyr. Now the rest of his features had assumed their mature lines, filling in the strong nose, the high brow, the long slash of his mouth, all in even and appealing symmetry. Still the same were those brilliant dark brown eyes that had always read her so easily.

“You were about to climb into my bed, I presume, to wait for me.”

Air rushed out of her in that squeak she’d tried to contain earlier. “I intended no such thing.”

“That is the customary aim of women in my bedchamber. They wind up in my bed.”

With deliberation, he pulled the length of his neckcloth from his throat. Sophronia watched, fascinated, as the slide of white fabric revealed a length of smooth skin.

Her mouth went dry again.

“Giles said a woman had come to the club to see you. Your mistress.”

She nearly clapped a hand over her mouth. She had not meant to blurt out that intelligence. What concern was it of hers?

He inclined his head, indicating the broad expanse of the bed. “Fanny has surrendered the position. It’s available.”

“I am not here to—to seduce you!”

“Oh?” He gave her a wry half smile, a devilish twist to his mouth. “Then I can only assume you mean for me to seduce you.”

“I intend no such thing,” she said again, stepping far away from the bed. Good heavens, she must look like a peahen, hopping about the room, but her mind conjured an image of him stretched upon the coverlet, shirt falling open to show his chest, the muscles of his arm bunched as he reclined with those long legs filling out his pantaloons in the most sinful fashion. A flush of heat over her skin made her consider loosening the shawl. Those few sips of sherry had separated her from her wits.

“Not even one kiss?” he asked, his voice that familiar husky slide.

Saints and angels. She couldn’t breathe. Had she imagined Rowden kissing her, or her kissing him? When Henry came to her bed with his hot breath and heavy hands, she felt it was a betrayal to think of anyone else. But after that afternoon where he had watched her being painted, and stared at her breasts, she had realized, with an aching and brutal clarity, that she wanted to marry Rowden and no one else.

And then he’d left.

“I’m here to marry Giles,” she blurted.

His brows snapped into a scowl. “You what?”

By all that was holy, why was she turning into such a peagoose around him? When she was alone with him in his bedchamber, it was darkest night, and his waistcoat was half unbuttoned?

She closed her eyes and tried valiantly to retrieve her scattering wits. “Giles. I am here to see Giles married.”

“To you?” He sounded as though he were strangling.

Her eyes flew open. “Of course not. To Lily.”

“Who is Lily?”