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Jane studied the government’s protocol officer. There was nothing about him to suggest a mere…functionary. She guessed him to be thirty or so. He was taller and broader in the shoulders than she’d expected and carelessly handsome. His dark hair had deep fiery lights. He had straight brows, a strong blunt jaw, and a full mouth with a sensuous symmetry. There was far too much assurance in his laughing green eyes. She let her gaze drop. There was too much of him in general. She was unused to English dress. He wore no loose salvar pants, no robe or tunic. Instead the gray wool of his trousers clung to his legs, and his coat was cut in a way that concealed nothing of his maleness.

When she looked up again into his face and met his green gaze fixed on her, he returned her frank scrutiny in equal measure.

She took a moment to steady her hands in her lap and summon her wits. Her instinct said he was her adversary as much as any ruthless bandit bristling with weaponry, or any rapacious official whose palm must be pressed repeatedly with an astonishing amount of coin. She told herself that she had nothing to fear from him. He was not a devious khan who could snap his fingers and lock her up in a cave or order her limbs chopped off. Perhaps it had been unwise to faint in his arms, but she was on her guard now. Her muscles tensed, and her spine stiffened.

“Miss Fawkener,” he began again, a note of patience in his low voice. He took a step closer. It was not a big step. There was still a distance between them, but his nearness warmed her like drawing near to a fire in the hearth on a cold night. His glance shifted as he apparently weighed a strategy of sitting next to or across from her. He chose the confrontational strategy of sitting across from her, on the couch where she’d lain earlier, and she looked away from the spot. “As you’ve not been in England for some time, allow me to assist you in these early days. I will answer any questions you have about the investiture ceremony itself and about London society in general.”

“Thank you. I’m sure you mean well, Mr. Hazelwood—” She wasn’t sure at all, but her father would advise trying a bit of honey before vinegar.

“—just Hazelwood.”

She blinked at the correction, puzzled at the absence of the “mister.” He did not enlighten her. His name, plain and unadorned, invited intimacy. A slight shiver passed over her. “Advising me in this matter would be a waste of your time and mine, as I do not intend to participate in a ceremony that does no honor to my father.”

One of his brows arched upward. “The king might find it awkward to withdraw your father’s nomination.”

“The king will do whatever the king is inclined to do, I’m sure, but he will do so without my presence.”

He made no reply, gave no indication that her refusal to participate in the sham ceremony had any effect on him. If anything he appeared amused by her declaration. He leaned back, his arms extended along the curved edge of the upholstery. She had a feeling that he had taken possession of the couch.

“If you wish to thank me for my small service in catching you earlier as you fell toward the rather unforgiving London pavement, now would be the perfect opportunity.”

She straightened her shoulders. His change of topic was no less provoking than his earlier remarks. She could not recall fainting, ever. He pointed out her moment of weakness to gain the upper hand. She wanted to set him straight on that matter. He should not imagine her some sort of delicate bloom needing protection.

“I don’t faint, you know. As a rule.”

“But, as a rule, you don’t wear stays tighter than an Elizabethan thumbscrew.”

“How did you know… Oh…” Certain details of their previous encounter came back to her, and heat rose in her cheeks. She quelled the feeling. Blushing was another thing a woman of sense did not do. Clearly, he thought no more of taking charge of her clothing than he thought of taking over a couch. “My borrowed garments were lent me by some very godly women, so I’m sure they were no test of your virtue.”

Like him, she wore English dress and no veil. She could not look out at him from behind the mesh screen of a chadri, her feelings hidden. He was deliberately trying to provoke her, testing for weaknesses, as any bandit would.

“You may not faint again, Miss Fawkener, but London society can trip the unwary in unexpected ways.”

She lifted her chin. It was something her father might have said. One could dress almost any part, but a gesture, a turn of phrase, a missed conversational cue, or even the way she chose to take a seat could mark her as the outsider she was. She had not trained to be an English gentlewoman, yet she must look and act the part to prove that her father lived. “I will find trustworthy people to advise me.”

“You have already found one in Lady Violet. Let me be another. I am at your disposal at no expense through the investiture ceremony.”

There was just that note of sympathy in his voice that brought a lump to her throat as if he were intent on helping her. Then she shook her head. “As I told you…Hazelwood, I have no intention of participating in a ceremony that so wholly ignores the truth of my father’s situation.”

“It is your situation that concerns me. Do you wish me to take you to your family?”

Once again he came at her with the unexpected. Her father’s family had no intention of taking her in. Her gaze dropped to his lap, which was a mistake, the stretch of fabric against muscle, one more sign of immodest English dress. Her hands tightened on the book she held.

“I wish to thank you and send you on your way.”

“Ah, we are at an impasse, then. I’m afraid I’m not permitted to leave your side, Miss Fawkener, until the king himself drapes the bejeweled order of Saint Michael and Saint George around your fair neck and lets you back away from the royal presence, or until you pick a husband to take over in my stead. So, let us come to some agreement. Do you wish to become a husband hunter?”

He smiled that green-eyed smile at her. He seemed perfectly cordial. He carried no weapon that she could see. He had not come to their meeting with scimitar-wielding strongmen at his side, but she was not fooled. Though he asked her what she wished, he gave the orders.

She realized that clutching the little book in her lap signaled the importance she attached to it. That would never do. He had seen the book and no doubt read its title. The smart move would be to smile like a proper idiot, a swooning woman grasping a book, as if by magic the slim volume could produce a gentleman’s proposal. Maybe playing along was her best strategy. With a sudden insight, she saw the book as the perfect disguise of her intentions. Perhaps that was her father’s message. He was telling her to play a part, as he so often had on his journeys.

She met her adversary’s gaze. “Do women hunt husbands in England?”

A flash of amusement lit his eyes. “Oh, they do. In all the parks, theatres, and ballrooms of London.”

“Then, I shall, too.”