“Come now,” he said. “Can you honestly tell me you have not enjoyed yourself at all this evening?”

She wilted in silence. They both knew she could not.

He inched closer on the bench. “I know I’m finding the night more enjoyable by the minute.”

Not good, not good at all. Bel shot to her feet. “I have but one purpose in attending this ball,”

she insisted as much to herself as to him, “and that is to find a husband. I must marry a lord.”

“You must marry a lord?” he echoed from the bench. “Don’t tell me. Your brother’s bartering you for connections? I would believe it of him.”

“No, no.” She briefly wondered how Sir Toby had formed such an ill opinion of her brother, when Sir Benedict Grayson was London’s current cause célèbre. Evidently he did pay little heed to rumor. “Dolly has given me an obscenely large dowry, expressly so I might select a husband without regard to title or fortune.”

“Dolly?” Sir Toby chuckled.

Bel cringed at her mistake. She knew her brother hated the pet name, but how could she erase her habit from girlhood? “Shortened from Adolphus, his middle name. I know everyone calls him Gray. At any rate, Gray wishes me to marry for love, as he did.”

“I see. As he did.”

Did she detect bitterness in his tone?

“Marrying a lord is my own wish,” she rushed on. “Not just any lord, mind, but a worthy one. A man of honor and principle.” She gestured toward the ballroom full of elegant guests. “But how can I discern a gentleman’s moral character in this setting? Dancing, cards, gossip, and drink—a ball is all vice, and no virtue.”

She turned back to Sir Toby, who was wearing his becoming expression of puzzlement once again. “I’ve only recently arrived in England, but you have lived among these people all your life. You know their titles, their characters, their spheres of influence. So long as you’ve spirited me out onto the terrace, you can assist me in identifying a suitable match.”

He stared at her intently. It seemed an age before he finally spoke. “You have the most intriguing accent. I can’t place it at all.”

“My … my accent? My mother was Spanish. She was our father’s second wife.”

“Ah. That explains it, then.”

Still he stared at her. Bel grew self-conscious. “Is it so hideous to the ear?”

“No, not at all. I find it enchanting. I could listen to you all night.”

“Oh.” Now “self-conscious” did not begin to describe her state. Heat built low in her belly, melting her center of gravity. She felt unsteady on her feet. “So, will you help me?”

He rose from the bench. She had not remembered him being so tall.

“Why don’t you wish to marry for love?” he said.

Bel swallowed hard as he approached.

“Everything about you—your voice, your gestures, your opinions … even the way you dance. So passionate.” He reached out, brushing the backs of his knuckles against the bare flesh of her arm. “So warm. And yet, you would choose a husband in this cold, calculated manner? For a title and status? It hardly seems in your nature.”

“You would presume to know my nature? I am not—” She stiffened. She could not claim to be without passion. That would be a lie.

She continued, “If I have passion, it is for God. If I marry for love, it is for love of His children in their hour of need. From my father and brother, I am burdened with this ill-gotten dowry, gold tainted with blood. From my mother, I inherit this.” She swept an impatient gesture down her curvaceous form. “How can I live with myself, if I barter those advantages for my own pleasure, or for something so transitory as romantic love? No, I will redeem them instead—by trading them for a title and status, as you say. For the opportunity to do good.”

She shut her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. Sir Toby didn’t deserve her anger. After all, he was right. Her mother’s unpredictable passions did simmer in her blood, and something about this man brought them to a boil.

Perhaps she had been born with a fiery nature, but she also had the choice to control it. As her mother’s example proved, wild, emotional outbursts did not earn a woman respect or influence. They earned her a padlocked room, and years of derision and neglect.

“Please forgive me,” she said, once she’d banked her inner fire. “It’s just… What can you know of my nature?”

“I know it is human.” He gave her a little smile that only stoked the flames. “And I know it will be some undeserving man’s great fortune to explore.”

Without giving her time to respond—not that Bel had any coherent response to make—he linked his arm with hers and steered her toward the windows. “Well, then. Let us begin our search for Lord Honorable.” After a moment, he said, “Ah. I’ve spotted an earl who is, by all accounts, a very excellent man and a respected landlord, if a bit stern in his demeanor. Impeccable aristocratic lineage, pots of money, and a burgeoning political career.”

“Why, he sounds ideal.”

“Yes. There’s just one snag, you see.”

“What’s that?”

Sir Toby smiled down at her. “Lord Kendall is already married, to Lucy.”

With a cry of reproach, Bel attempted to withdraw her arm from his. He had already tightened his grip, in anticipation of just such a retreat.

She asked, “Why must you insist on teasing me?”

“Because you are in dire need of it, my dear. Don’t worry, you’ll learn to enjoy it.”

“I shall not.” She was, however, learning to enjoy the warm press of his arm against hers, the solid support it afforded her. Charming devil of a man. “Surely there are other honorable lords in the assembly, apart from our host. Other gentlemen with burgeoning political careers.”

“Well, if it’s political acumen you seek, look no further. Here we have Lord Markham, the renowned orator.” He directed her attention toward a lean, silver-haired gentleman. A great deal older than she, Bel thought, but perhaps his maturity boded well for her purpose.

“Is he very influential?” she asked.

“Oh, very. Legislation passes and fails on the wave of feeling generated by his speeches.”

“Truly?” Bel perked. This Lord Markham sounded promising.

“Yes, I understand he was instrumental in turning the majority against the abolition bill a few years back.”

She gasped. “Then he will not do at all.”

“But I thought you sought political clout.”

“I do, but it must be in aid of justice, not oppression. That is my entire design in marrying a lord—to further charitable causes as a lady of influence.”

“A lady of influence.” He gave her an amused look. “Over society? Or over a well-connected husband?”

“Ideally, both.” Bel rued the blush warming her cheeks. It had nothing to do with shame over her motives, and everything to do with the way he brushed aside a strand of hair that had fallen over her brow. So casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do. Her brow tingled where his skin had grazed hers.

“I see. So all this time we have been searching for Lord Honorable, when the man you truly seek is Lord Malleable.” She attempted to protest, but he interrupted. “Lord Whittlesby would be an excellent candidate. He’s a marquess, recently widowed. Rather stolid sort of man. A member of my club, though I never see him in his cups or sitting down to cards. His opinions are rarely solicited when conversation turns to matters of politics. He mostly speaks of puddings.”

“Puddings?”

“Hm. Great connoisseur of puddings, Whittlesby. Goes on and on about them.” He drew her close and turned her toward the window. “He’s just there. By the potted palm.”

Bel followed the line of his arm. There, by the aforementioned palm, stood a squat, balding man spooning custard from a flute. She watched as he withdrew a linen square from his breast pocket and proceeded to wipe first his mouth, then his glistening pate.

“An influential title, and possessed of opinions easily influenced,” Sir Toby said. “Surely you can find no cause to reject him.”

“He’s … why, he’s shorter than I.”

“I did not realize your definition of ‘upstanding’ encompassed actual physical stature. Must I add ‘tall’ to the list of qualifications, then? And handsome, as well? This task you’ve set me becomes more and more difficult.”

“Fine looks are of little importance,” she replied, irritated with herself for her petty remark. “As is stature. Beauty of character is often at odds with physical appearance. A tall, handsome man may very well make the least desirable husband.”

“Yes, yes. You ruled me out some minutes ago, remember? I’ve everything against me. Tall. Handsome.” He pulled a face and made a dramatic shiver. “Not a lord,” he repeated, mimicking her accent, “but a lowly sir. This is a disaster.”

This time Bel succeeded in wrenching her arm away. “I did apologize. And I never used the word ‘lowly.’ My own brother is a sir, and I know him to be the equal of any duke.”

He smiled. “How very loyal of you. But if that be the case, then why are you so set on marrying a lord?”

“For his influence in Parliament, of course. Knights and baronets have no seats in the House of Lords.”

“Parliament has two houses, darling. Don’t neglect the House of Commons. That’s where all social debate and progressive bills originate, before Markham and his followers shout them down. Perhaps it’s an MP you ought to marry.”

“Are MPs more honorable, as a rule?”

“Of course not. This is government, my dear.” He shook his head, chuckling. “You are like Diogenes with his lantern, roaming the earth in search of an honest man. Admittance to the House of Commons is only marginally more selective than that of the penny theater. Anyone with a few thousand pounds to spare might buy himself a rotten borough, and the fairly elected members are largely chosen out of habit or by default.”

At his description, Bel suffered a pang of disappointment. She had hoped to marry an honorable, principled man with a seat in Parliament. A man for whom she could feel… not passion or love, but perhaps friendship, and a temperate sort of esteem. But what if that man simply didn’t exist? She’d have to settle for one like Whittlesby, she supposed. She caught sight of the cream-puffed, balding lord through the window and stared at him long and hard, taking careful assessment of her emotions.

Nothing. He stirred nothing within her, save a mild flutter that resembled indigestion. Sir Toby continued, “Why, even I could secure a seat in Commons whenever I wished. Lowly,

disastrous, unsuitable sir that I am.”

“I never said those things,” she argued. “I would never say such things, and it pains me to be accused of them. Kindly stop twisting my words.”

He inched closer to her. “Which words am I twisting? I clearly remember hearing ‘disaster,’

and a pursuant discussion of my unsuitability.” He chucked her under the chin, and his thumb lingered on the edge of her jaw. “Don’t worry, I’m not one to hold a grudge.”

“Then why do you tease me so?”

“Because, as I said, you need teasing. You’re taking yourself so seriously. Too seriously. It’s a grave condition, solemnity. Causes ill humor, indigestion. And it’s bad for the complexion. Teasing’s one of two proven remedies.”

“One of two?” Bel sighed. “If you’re so concerned for my complexion, may I implore you to switch to the other?”