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“Cosway,” Isidore said impatiently, “I am twenty-three years old. I’ve been jaunting around Europe for years. Unless people actually checked their Debrett’s, they tended to think we were merely engaged, and I never corrected that impression. Even Jemma, one of my closest friends, thought that for a time. It was less humiliating to let people think such.”

“But—”

“But there are plenty who read their Debrett’s like a Bible, so they know of the proxy wedding. They would inquire when you were returning. Nonconsummation has been mentioned to me many times. I know Villiers brought it up. And now it seems that it isn’t an option.”

“I’m sorry,” Cosway said. “Even if it were legal, I would have to pass a test of my incapability. I can’t.”

Isidore made herself say the words, because she had to know: “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“Really sure?”

“No question. Is that what you’re worrying about?”

“I’m not worried.”

“Because I could show you.”

She felt her eyes grow round. “What?”

He had a wicked smile. He started pulling open his greatcoat. “I could show you—”

“Don’t!” she snapped.

“The truth is that I find it rather difficult to be around you,” he said, leaning back and leaving his greatcoat alone, to her relief.

She felt inexplicably hurt. Of course, he was eager to get an annulment, but there was no need to be so brutal about it. “According to that solicitor, there are other ways to dissolve our marriage,” she said a bit stiffly. “So you needn’t give up the dream of your docile little hen-wit.”

“Hen-wit? Not a kind word, Isidore…But I wasn’t referring to the question of annulment, but to the state of my cock.”

She gasped. “You—”

“Mayn’t I use that word in front of a lady?” he inquired, as mild as sweet butter and all the time his eyes laughing at her.

“No!” she managed. “It makes you sound like—like—”

“Tsk, tsk, Isidore. I have the strangest sense that you and my mother are actually quite alike. But how can that be? After all, I rescued you from Lord Strange’s notorious house party, did I not? Even I have heard tell of its brothel-like atmosphere. But here you are, quailing at a good, solid Anglo-Saxon word like—”

“Don’t!”

“Are you telling me that language like that wasn’t flying around Strange’s dining room?”

“I tried not to listen to that sort of conversation.”

“You did?” He leaned forward suddenly. “Then without inappropriate words, Isidore, may I assure you that when I’m in your presence that part of my body stands to attention?”

Isidore could feel herself growing pink. And she always thought she looked her worst with ruddy cheeks. “Must you say these things?”

“You impugned my manhood,” he said. “I couldn’t have you thinking that I was a limp lily.”

“How would—” she said, and broke off.

“How would I know?” His whole face was alight with amusement. “Really, I do have to show you, Isidore.”

“No!”

He barked with laughter. “I can’t imagine you at Strange’s house. Even in the half hour during which I managed to stay awake, I was told an entirely salacious story about a bishop. And his miter.”