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She frowned at his laugh, but then she giggled, and finally a clear peal of laughter sounded in the room.

“So, you dampened her petticoats,” Jonah said, his voice rough. Want, pure want, was going through him like lightning or fire—a phenomenon that laid waste to the landscape and left space for new growth.

It seemed he was getting married.

She was his, and he was hers, even if she didn’t know (or care, he thought uneasily).

It occurred to him that Lady Paget had informed him that Beatrice was in the library, knowing she was in dishabille. Knowing that if they were found together, especially if they were kissing, they would both be compromised. Knowing that the scandal would delight society for weeks to come.

Knowing that, as a gentleman, he would have no recourse but to offer his hand.

Interesting. It seemed he had an unexpected champion.

“My friend Devin insisted I give my sister a lecture on skirt-dampening,” Jonah said.

“I merely sprinkled her gown with water.” When Beatrice smiled, her eyes crinkled at the corners. When she was older, she would have thick white hair and laughter lines. She would be round and juicy and always desirable.

He smiled back, not bothering to hide his feelings.

“Stop that!”

“What?”

“Looking at me in an indecorous fashion,” she ordered.

Jonah was having one of the best evenings of his life. The knowledge settled into his bones lazily, like the warmth of a bonfire after a day spent tramping through snowy woods. The corners of his mouth tipped up into a rare smile. “I can’t help it. Tell me more about you. What you like to do.”

“Do? Do? Your Grace, would you please return to the ballroom? I will send your coat back to you once I have a cloak to wear.”

“Not until at least nine-thirty.”

She glanced at the wall. “That clock just chimed the half hour.”

It was to his left, so he hadn’t heard a damned thing. “I couldn’t possibly return to the ball without a coat, and I can’t leave you here to be gaped at by whomever enters the room. What do you do when you’re not in your father’s barn?”

“Nothing that could possibly interest you. Won’t you please leave?”

“No. I’m trying to court you, but I seem to be making you irritable instead. You do realize that I’m considered a catch on the marriage market, don’t you?”

“I’m so pleased for you,” she said, unenthusiastically.

He’d never asked anyone to marry him, but it seemed he was being turned down before he even proposed. Luckily, he was the sort of man who thrived when offered a challenge.

He was a born competitor; it was the basis of his relationship with Devin. The world that had dictated their birth had also dictated that they would face no friction. Everything handed to them on a silver platter: power, money, position. Women.

It was time to regroup and come up with a strategy, something better than a posy and a morning call.

“Go greet all your admirers, Your Grace,” Beatrice said. “Why, I predict—”

“What?” He picked up where Beatrice stopped. “What do you predict?”

She fidgeted. “I think that there is a reasonable chance that you will marry one of your sister’s friends.”

“Do you count as one of her friends?”

Color surged back into her face. “That is not a kind question,” she said, her hands curling into fists.

Damn it.