"No."

She pushed by him, stomped over, and gestured to the hall as if she could shoo him out like a bad dog, and he finally realized why he'd come. He was greatly humored by her. She was feisty and spirited, and they were traits he never would have envisioned a Marshall to possess.

"If you don't leave," she threatened, "I'll scream."

"So scream. How will it help you?"

"The footmen will rush to my aid. They'll send you packing."

"They tried once-at your command. Obviously it didn't work, but if you presume they can be more successful a second time, summon them. Feel free."

He waved her on, pretending to be magnanimous, as if he was giving her permission. He didn't think she'd scream, but to his surprise, she bellowed out so stridently that she instantly rubbed her throat as if she'd torn a tendon in her neck.

They froze, her expression murderous, but as he'd predicted, no one appeared to render assistance. Kirkwood Manor was a huge mansion, her suite was in a deserted area away from the rest of the family, and all the servants were down in the lower parlors setting out food and cards.

"Are you happy now?" he inquired.

"No, I am not happy. I asked you previously, and I ask you again: What will it take to make you go away?"

"You can't make me go, Miss Fogarty. I am here to stay."

"Well then, aren't I lucky?" she hissed.

He walked over to her, and for a moment he figured she'd run away, but she didn't. She glared, evidently assuming a fierce glower could dissuade him from mischief. He nearly rolled his eyes in exasperation. Women were strange creatures, and he never tried to understand them, but she seemed particularly asinine.

Still though, he was fascinated by her. Perhaps it was simply the fact that she wasn't afraid of him. Or if she was afraid, she refused to let it show.

He stepped in until they were toe to toe, and an unusual energy sparked. Earlier he'd noticed it when she'd stormed into the estate agent's office. Clearly their proximity charged the atmosphere, and he'd never felt anything like it. Was he attracted to her? A Marshall? Perish the thought!

"The servants won't come to your rescue. This is a house of idiots and cowards."

"They might come."

"They won't. Desist with your fantasies."

He grabbed her wrist and tugged her into the room, a rude act that had her sputtering with affront. Before she could respond or scold, he slammed the door and spun the key so she couldn't escape. No one would exit until he decided someone could. Most likely it would be himself after she'd aggravated him beyond his limit.

"Unlock that door," she said. "At once."

"No."

"Give me the key. I'll unlock it."

"No."

"Are you planning to ravish me? Is that your ploy?"

"I can't abide innocent women, Miss Fogarty, so your virtue is safe with me."

"Safe? With you? I think not."

He shrugged. "Think what you will."

"Apparently you want something from me. Tell me what it is so we can move beyond it and get you out of here."

"I told you I don't know why I've come."

"If you don't know why, how am I to make you depart?"

"I don't believe you can."

"I'm not dressed, Mr. Drummond."

"No, you're not."

"It's obvious you're not aware of manners and customs."

"I'm aware of a few."

"Let me remind you of one you've forgotten. It is not appropriate for you to visit a young lady's bedchamber, and it is most especially not appropriate when that young lady is not dressed."

"Why aren't you?"

"Why aren't I what?"

"Dressed."

"In case you haven't noticed, we have guests about to arrive."

"I noticed. I consented to your holding the party, remember?"

"Yes, you've been extremely benevolent, and I need to get ready so would you please go? You're making me late."

"You amuse me, Miss Fogarty. Have you any whiskey up here?"

"Whiskey? No. Why would I have?"

"How about wine?"

"I'm not a secret tippler."

"Too bad. I could use a drink."

"Then head downstairs. The butler will be happy to pour you a glass."

"Maybe he and I could sneak down to the cellar and imbibe together."

"Maybe you could."

She stopped her tirade, studied him, then threw up her hands. "I'm busy, and I don't have time to deal with you."

"Don't let me keep you from doing whatever it is you're doing."

"You can't barge in as you have."

"You're repeating yourself."

"You pretend to be deaf so I have to repeat myself. Go away."

"It's my house."

"So you say."

"Yes, so I say."

"Just so you know, we've written to the magistrate to have you arrested. We've sent letters to our neighbors and to friends in town too. You'll be taken into custody very soon."

"The letters were never sent. I have them all in my room."

"Why would you have them?"

"Your messengers asked if I minded their being delivered, and I minded very much. I confiscated them. How would you suppose?"

Her glare deepened, her vexation humorous to witness. Even if the authorities showed up to question him, he had all the correct legal documents. There could be no reversing what had occurred, and Damian was simply waiting for Miles to appear.

She studied him again, fumed, studied him some more. Finally she whirled away and walked into her bedchamber. "Fine then. Be an ass. See if I care."

"I don't care, Miss Fogarty. You should understand that about me. I don't care about anything."

"Bully for you, Mr. Drummond. I'm sure it's an enjoyable way to stagger through life."

She continued to the dressing room while he meandered around in her bedchamber, snooping in her wardrobe and peeking in drawers. He was trying to find any small tidbit that would tell him more about her. She had suitable clothes, but nothing fashionable or extravagant. And no personal items. Nary a one.

All the while, he could hear her moving about. She'd slammed the door, but the latch hadn't caught so it was slightly ajar. He was graced with glimpses of her strutting back and forth. If he'd been any sort of gentleman, he'd have told her what was happening. But he wasn't a gentleman and never had been.

She'd shed her robe and was attired in chemise and petticoat. He was wondering how she'd lace her corset, but when she grabbed it, it was the type of functional garment that laced in the front such as a servant would wear with no assistance required from a maid.

His curiosity soared.

"Why is your room so far from the rest of the family?"

"The reason is none of your business, Mr. Drummond."

There was a lengthy silence as she tugged on her gown, as she struggled with the buttons, then she yanked the door open.

"You're still here," she said. "Why are you?"

"You haven't explained why you're so far from everyone else. Did you choose these quarters or were you forced over to them like an ill-behaved child?"

"I am here, Mr. Drummond, because I like my privacy. That seems to be a difficult concept for you to grasp."

"No, it isn't. I'm simply not listening to you. In fact, I never listen to women. You should remember that about me."

"You can leave me alone whenever you're ready."

"I'm not ready. Not just yet."

She whipped away and went to the dressing room again, and he sidled over and loitered, observing as she stood at the mirror. She twisted her hair into an untidy chignon and haphazardly jabbed in combs that were poorly placed and made her resemble a harried shopkeeper.

"Why don't you call for your maid to help you?" he asked.

"I don't have a maid."

"Why not?"

"I'm an adult, and I can take care of myself. I don't need to pester the servants. They have more important tasks to perform."

"Well, you ought to pester them. Your hair is a mess. You can't appear down at the party like that."

She scowled over her shoulder and batted her lashes. "If you keep complimenting me, I'll get a big head."

"You're the strangest female I've ever met."

"Why? Because I tend myself without bothering others?"

"No. Because you're not concerned about how you look."

"I'm concerned," she testily said, "but I'm in too much of a hurry to fuss over my condition. And I especially won't fuss over it when you're standing there glowering at me."

"Do you always bluster forward in such a slapdash way?"

"Yes, always."

She was jabbing and jabbing with a comb, but it wouldn't catch. He couldn't bear to watch her, and while he wasn't the most romantic of men, he'd tarried in many women's bedchambers. He knew how to push in a comb and make it stay.

He marched over and grabbed it. "Give me that."

"Why?"

"I'm going to pin up your hair-as you're obviously incapable of accomplishing it on your own."

She turned toward him, but so quickly that she was off balance, and she staggered into him. Suddenly the front of her body was pressed to his, and he was delighted to report that she was curved in all the right feminine spots. She was slender and petite, and he could feel every delicious inch of her torso, her shapely breasts in particular capturing his attention.

For a thrilling instant, they were frozen, both of them shocked by sensation. His anatomy had an almost feral reaction to her, similar to what a hound must suffer when it scented the fox.

She broke away first, bristling with offense and leaping back, but she was next to the wall so she simply banged into it-and very hard too.

He couldn't figure out why he was harassing her, but he wasn't about to stop. He stepped in, crushing her to the plaster, his arms on either side to keep her trapped.