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Fiennes escorted Lady Regina and Fulvia to his phaeton and sat silently while they chattered about Thomas Woodward and his upcoming role in King Lear. In a triumph of self-control, he managed not to snort, thinking of that pretty coxcomb playing an ancient, raging king.

Eyes fixed sightlessly on his coachman, he took a deep breath.

Damn it. At this rate, he would be notorious for breaking engagements.

Except he wouldn’t break the next: the final one, to the woman he chose himself.

Ella was a nobleman’s daughter, so his father’s dying wish would be fulfilled, which was all to the good. Yet if Ella was a butcher’s daughter, he would marry her anyway.

But she wasn’t: she was the child of a viscount—living in an attic.

It was everything he could do not to rip into the viscountess when he heard that. Beside him, Regina was treating Fulvia to a detailed description of the theater at Carlton House, where the Prince Regent had made his home.

“Of course, you’re unlikely to be invited since your mother has not listed you for one of the Queen’s Drawing Rooms,” she said pityingly.

That was Regina: even her most casual observation was designed to wound.

Remarkably, Fulvia didn’t appear to notice. “We’ll have to do something about that. I must attend one of the Drawing Rooms,” she said serenely.

Fiennes’s life had changed when he walked through the door of the Emporium. It wasn’t because Miss Fenella St. Trevelyon was exquisite, though she was. He’d never seen her in the sunlight before, only in a shadowy theater. Her red hair and creamy skin had been etched into his memory, along with her stubborn chin and—God forgive him—magnificent breasts.

His fingers itched to touch her, caress her, tantalize her. He wanted to spend long afternoons rolling on a bed with her, kissing her whenever they started arguing. Or no, perhaps after arguing, since she would never allow herself to be silenced by a kiss.

But it wasn’t only desire that had changed Fiennes so much.

His life changed when their eyes met, and he could read the emotion in hers. Ella had felt anxious about the gown, about the bodice. He had answered too quickly, said the wrong thing, but he could learn. The important thing was that he knew what she was feeling.

He knew when she became furious too. He’d never been able to read a woman’s eyes before, though perhaps he’d never cared to.

Later, when she had silently told him to get bloody Regina out of the room, he caught the command. Without words.

His chest felt tight, as if the air he drew in was heated. He had never imagined something like this happening to him.

As they arrived at the St. Trevelyon townhouse, Regina bade goodbye to Fulvia, clearly assuming that Fiennes would escort her home. But he wanted to see Ella.

Besides, why remain in close quarters with a cobra if one needn’t?

He jumped out to assist Fulvia from the carriage, remarking, “Politeness demands that I inquire about the viscountess’s health.” He glanced up at his coachman. “Please bring Lady Regina to her home. You can return for me here.” He bowed. “Good afternoon, Lady Regina.”

Without looking at the undoubtedly enraged lady, he closed the carriage door and escorted Fulvia up the steps to the St. Trevelyon townhouse. In the back of his mind, he began running through scenarios that might drive to Fulvia to drop the betrothal.

It had been easy to infuriate Regina into throwing back his ring, but unfortunately, Fulvia was so disengaged that he couldn’t imagine her in a passion. Perhaps if he announced that he had taken a dislike to theater, or if he gave up his box at the Theater Royal. That might do it.

On the other hand, no betrothal papers had been signed. Only a gentleman’s promise stood between him and a proposal to Ella.

To hell with being a gentleman.

Once in the drawing room, Fulvia traipsed over to her mother and Ella, who were seated beside each other. “We must be presented to the Queen,” she announced, sitting down without a greeting.

The viscountess looked aghast.

“How are you feeling, Lady St. Trevelyon?” Fiennes asked, after bowing.

“Better,” she responded with a sigh. “It’s a shock, of course.”

“I wonder if I could prevail upon Miss Ella to introduce me to her squirrel?” Fiennes asked. “I am thinking of acquiring one for my nephew as a pet, and I should like to know more about their sleeping and feeding habits.”

Ella cast him a sideways glance. Hopefully, she didn’t know that he had no nephew.