"But more than that, I think she would have wished to see us joined."

"Hmm? What!" Had he said "joined"?

"I am glad your friends are not here. Glad we have this opportunity to be alone so I may openly tell you of my feelings."

What feelings? Philip Pettigrew didn't have feelings, at least not the sort ordinary people expressed.

"I have never before spoken of this for fear of bruising your tender sensibilities, but you have always held a special place in my estimation. A partiality, if you will."

Her mouth dropped open.

"I have heard the rumors and know you are seeking a husband, a life partner as it were. You need look no more. I know you, Eliza, know the sort of man you require. A strong protector to help guide you, help steer you through the rocky shoals of life. A man of conviction who will keep you from harm, and who will assume the sound and equitable management of your affairs so your delicate feminine nature does not cause you to foolishly squander your resources."

Suddenly he was up and out of his seat, leaping from his chair faster than a bullfrog, to land on the sofa next to her. He grabbed for her hands.

"Eliza Hammond, will you marry me?"

She squirmed away. "No!"

"No?"

"Dear God, you are my cousin." She wrenched her hands from his, or at least tried to, since he immediately reached for them again.

"How does that signify? Cousins marry all the time."

Not first cousins!

Then again, she realized that some first cousins did wed. It was not illegal, after all, but probably should be as far as she was concerned. Marriage to him would be almost incestuous, not to mention abhorrently disgusting.

Ugh.

She gave a visible shudder and yanked her hands from his for a second time. "T-thank you for the honor of your proposal but again I must decline."

"You are simply being emotional and have not had time to think this through."

"I don't need time. I will not marry you." She leapt to her feet. "Now, I really must ask you to go."

Something hard settled over his face. "Not yet. You have not listened to all I have to say."

"But I have listened to all I care to hear. Leave, Philip. Now."

"Yes, Philip," ordered a firm, wonderfully familiar voice. "The lady has told you no. Accept her refusal and leave."

Eliza's gaze darted toward the doorway, to find Kit standing there like a guardian angel. Thank the stars.

"Lord Christopher, I did not realize you were here. Cousin Eliza and I were just having a bit of a private discussion. Family matters, you understand."

Kit strolled into the room. "Didn't sound like family matters to me, sounded more like a marriage proposal. A proposal the lady rejected."

Impotent fury turned Pettigrew's eyes dark and cold as a moonless night. "This is not your concern."

"Oh, but it is. Perhaps you didn't realize, but Eliza is a protege of mine. I'm instructing her in the finer points of social interaction, such as how to distinguish a gentleman from a cad. Your actions in the next half minute will determine which of those you are."

Pettigrew's hands clenched into fists at his sides as he glared at Kit. Suddenly he let out a snarl and stalked from the room.

Eliza felt her whole body sag after he had gone, only then realizing how tautly she had been holding herself, how rapidly her heart was racing.

Kit crossed to her and wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Unthinkingly, she leaned into him, resting a palm against the resolute strength of his chest. He'd been riding, she noticed, his clothes warm and fragrant with the scent of horses, clean perspiration and Kit.

She closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath, enjoying the sensation. "I am fine. Now."

"The second I arrived, March told me Pettigrew was here with you in the salon. Did you know he planned to call?"

She shook her head. "He took me completely by surprise, as did his loathsome proposal. I had no inkling Philip had such a purpose in mind. Why would I, since he is my cousin?"

"Well, I am proud of you for tossing him out. I'm only sorry I wasn't here sooner to hustle him through the door."

"He certainly did not want to take no for an answer." She considered the matter for a moment, releasing a sigh. "Hoping to reclaim his mother's fortune, no doubt."

"That and perhaps something more."

"More? What more could there be?"

"You, my little wren." He gave her arm a friendly squeeze. "You've grown so uncommonly fetching of late. I am sure once he beheld you in your pretty gown and saw your adorable curls, he wanted you as well."

A jolt arrowed through her. Did Kit really find her fetching? Her? Reserved, nondescript Eliza Hammond, who had spent most of her life being looked through instead of being looked at?

"But he can't have you," Kit pronounced in a silky tone, "because you'll soon be claimed by someone else." Peering down at her, he raised a hand and drew the tip of one finger across her cheek. "Someone better."

Her heart kicked, skin tingling in the wake of his tender, featherlight touch. Lips parting, she lost herself inside his mesmerizing gaze.

What was he saying? she wondered, half-dazed. Could he, by some impossible miracle, be speaking of himself? Was he the someone better?

"And once the Season officially begins," Kit continued, "we'll find that man. The perfect husband for you. But we'll need to continue your lessons first. You have made definite progress, but there is much work yet to be done."

As if he had plucked her up and dropped her off a cliff, she fell, crashing hard, the rosy glow around her bursting like a handful of soap bubbles.

Slowly she came back to her senses.

What a clothhead she was. What a ninnyhammer.

Using the hand still resting against his chest, she pushed herself away, moving out from under the circle of his arm.

He seemed not to notice her withdrawal. "Is your headache gone? We could have a lesson yet this afternoon if you feel well enough."

She fixed her gaze on the carpet as she strained to compose herself. Abruptly, she looked up. "Yes, let's have a lesson. As you say, the Season shall soon be here and I have much to learn. We had best not waste an instant."

Chapter Seven.

"More wine, Winter?" Edwin Lloyd invited, holding a freshly opened bottle of Malaga.

Kit inclined his head, barely glancing up from his cards. His friend poured, replenishing Kit's glass with the fortified reddish-brown wine that was both strong and sweet. Lloyd topped off the glasses of the other men at the table, then did the same for himself before setting the now empty bottle aside.

The play continued, each of the five men taking his turn, hoping to capture the requisite trick so he would not be looed. Kit drank a single swallow of wine and waited, infinitely patient since he already held the one card guaranteed to beat everything else in the deck.

The other four groaned when he played that card at precisely the right time, tossing down what remained of their hands in defeated disgust.

With a mild grin, Kit scraped his winnings forward.

"You've the devil's own luck tonight, Winter," Selway said. "Should keep you flush for some while. Unless the angel of mercy finally flies off your shoulder and you start to lose."

"Deal another round and we'll see." Kit broke off a lump of the Cheshire cheese that lay on a small plate near his elbow.

Selway was right, Kit acknowledged, as he enjoyed the slightly salty flavor of the food melting against his tongue. He was having a fine night at the tables. Making merry with his friends, drinking and talking and playing cards. So far he'd won nearly double the quarterly allowance Adrian provided, an allowance he would have need of for only six months longer. With his pockets filled and his independence within reach, Kit knew he ought to be ecstatic.

Instead what he felt was dissatisfaction. A kind of underlying boredom with his current way of life and the prospect of all the years that stretched out before him.

What in the hell was he going to do with all of them and with himself?

Seated opposite, Jeremy Brentholden-his old pal from university days-dealt the next round. Kit perused his cards and calculated whether or not his hand was good enough to play.

"Deuced fine mill in the offing tomorrow over near Charing Cross. Who's up for it, eh?" Vickery raised his sandy eyebrows and scanned the group.

The others nodded their agreement.

Kit shook his head. "Sorry, gentlemen, but I'll have to pass."

"Have to pass!" Lloyd clicked his tongue in obvious exasperation. "This is the second mill you've passed on in recent memory. What's amiss, Winter? Not going squeamish on us, are you? Sickened by the sight of all that blood."

Kit tossed him a look. "No, I'm not going squeamish. In fact, I'd be more than happy to spill some of your blood if you'd ever risk that pretty face and step into the Gentleman's ring." He slid his cards together inside his palm and tapped them against the table. "If you must know, I have a prior engagement."

"What sort of engagement?" Selway questioned. "Can't be the duke again, surely."

Kit kept his features impassive.

"If not your brother, then what?" Selway pressed. "Come to consider it, you seem to be having a lot of engagements of late."

"Yes, Winter, he's right," Lloyd agreed. "You have been rather cagey about your schedule over the past couple weeks. What's going on? We insist that you share."

Kit fanned out the cards in his hand again and studied them. "Insist all you like. It's a private matter and none of your business."

"Don't have something to do with that chit, does it?" Vickery said. "The one living in your brother's house?"

"What chit is that?" Brentholden asked.

"Bluestocking friend of the duchess." Vickery paused, then snapped his fingers. "What's her name? Haywood? Hampton? No, no, Hammond. That's it, Eliza Hammond."

"Hammond?" Lloyd tossed a silver coin-a crown-into the center of the table as his opening bid. "Which gel is that?"

"You know the one," Vickery said, wagging a finger. "Whey-faced chit who doesn't have a word to say for herself, permanent member of the wallflower club. She dresses dowdier than a governess and is all but on the shelf. You've seen her over the years, I'm sure. By God, you must have done, she's had so many Seasons by now they must be stacking into the double digits."

The men laughed, all except Kit.

Lloyd shook his head in continued puzzlement. "Is she redheaded?"

"No, mousy brown. Always sits along the wall with the dowagers and matrons. Stares at her shoes."

"Well, Vickery, can't say I spend much time looking at the dowagers and matrons." Lloyd shot them all a youthful grin. "I much prefer the young, pretty girls."

Kit drank a long swallow of wine, hoping the liquor would ease the irritation brewing in his belly.

"She's the one who inherited that huge fortune a couple months ago," Vickery said.

A chorus of ohs resounded.

"Now I know," Lloyd declared. "Had the harpy aunt."

"Exactly." Vickery tossed in his ante. "The fortune hunters are already salivating."

"For blunt like that, how can you blame them?" Selway placed his money into the pool. "There's many a man would marry for that, even if she were as ugly as the ass end of a dog."

Kit smacked a hand against the table. "That is quite enough. I will remind you that you are speaking of a lady. I'll not tolerate such blatant disrespect."

Selway's dark eyes bulged. "Sorry, Winter. Didn't mean to give offense."

Kit's jaw tightened. "Well, you did. Miss Hammond is neither whey-faced nor is she ugly as a dog's backside."

"Didn't say she was," Selway defended in a weak voice. "Just said if she were."

"Well, she isn't," Kit bit out. "She is a lovely lady and my sister-in-law's friend. I'll thank you not to speak of her again unless it is to proffer a compliment."

The other man bobbed his head. "Of course, Winter. Sorry, old chap. Won't happen again."

Kit lifted his glass, tossed back the last of his wine.

Vickery looked across the table. "So, it's true, then, is it? What I've heard?"

"And what have you heard?" Kit asked, one hand curling tight against his thigh.

"That you're coaching her. Miss Hammond, that is."