“Why not?”

Charlotte tried to be vague. “I haven’t had nearly enough time to prove myself to your parents. Much less your sister. Frances looks at me as if I’d lead you into ruin at the hands of the nearest roué.”

“Frances is protective, and she pays too much mind to gossip. At least I don’t have any older brothers to object. Only Edmund, and he’s easily persuaded.”

I wouldn’t be so certain about that, Charlotte thought.

“What’s holding you back? Is it Lord Granville?”

The question took her by surprise. “How did you know?”

Delia shrugged. “You left the ballroom as soon as he arrived, and I know how your mother thinks. But I wouldn’t worry about her angling for the marquess’s attention. He might as well reside on the moon, the man’s so far out of reach.”

That’s what Charlotte had thought, too. Until she’d found herself not only within reach of him, but clasped in his embrace. The memory sent a shiver down the back of her neck.

She sat down and took Delia’s hand. “There’s something I must tell you. I’m worried about how you’ll take it.”

“Charlotte, you’re my dearest friend. You can always confide in me.”

A lump formed in her throat. Would she still be Delia’s dearest friend once she told her the truth?

A small crash from down the corridor drew their attention.

Then a larger crash drew them to their feet.

She and Delia hurried out of the morning room and followed the sounds of broken pottery to the entrance hall, where a shamefaced Edmund stood next to the remnants of a vase.

Accompanied by none other than Piers.

Each of them clutched a billiard cue in his hand.

Lady Parkhurst rushed down the stairway to join them, her cap askew and slightly breathless—as though she’d woken from a nap with a jolt.

“What on earth . . . ?” She took in the scene with a quick sweep of her gaze. “Edmund. I should have known you’d—”

“Forgive me, Lady Parkhurst.” Piers bowed. “The fault is mine. I was giving Edmund here a few lessons in the art of fencing.”

“Fencing? With billiard cues?”

“Yes. We were too enthusiastic, I’m afraid. Edmund is a quick study. My parry knocked over the vase.” His gaze slanted to another pile of broken bits in the corner. “And the cupid.”

“And the pheasant in the billiard room,” Edmund piped up. “That was him, too.”

Piers cleared his throat. “Yes. All my doing. I hope you can forgive my clumsiness.”

Charlotte bit back a smile. Clumsiness? As she knew well from their encounter in the library, Piers possessed lightning reflexes and full command of his strength. He was merely taking the blame for the boy. Just as he’d taken the blame for her.

“I will, of course, replace all the broken items,” he told Lady Parkhurst.

“Oh, please don’t,” Delia said. “They were dreadfully ugly.”

“Delia,” her mother said.

“Well, they were.”

Lady Parkhurst gave her daughter a look of motherly warning. “I will fetch the downstairs maid to sweep. Kindly take your brother upstairs.”

Delia obeyed, taking Edmund by the shoulders and steering him toward the staircase. The boy dragged his feet in protest. Before he reached the top of the stairs, he looked over his shoulder and whispered at Piers, “This isn’t over. I have my eye on you.”

She looked at Piers. “What does that mean?”

“Don’t ask.”

Charlotte knelt in the corner and began gathering the pieces of the cupid statue. It wasn’t so thoroughly demolished as the vase. Perhaps it could be reassembled.

Piers joined her, crouching low and reaching for the cupid’s plaster base and replacing it on the pedestal.

“You shouldn’t help,” she said quietly.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a marquess. Marquesses don’t do this sort of thing.”

“Why not? If I make a shambles of something, I clear the mess away. That’s as it should be.”

She reached for a section of cupid feet and stacked it atop the base. “You don’t believe that. If you did, Edmund would be piecing this thing together. It was obviously his fault.”

“Not entirely.” He added the cupid’s plaster ankles. “Sparring requires two participants.”

Charlotte handed him the next piece of the statue—a pair of white knees and chubby cupid thighs. As he took it, his fingertips grazed the back of her hand. Just that mere brush of contact, skin on skin, electrified her.

She dropped her gaze, reaching for the rounded cupid bum and placing it atop their growing reconstruction. Her fingers must have been trembling. No matter how she swiveled it, the bit of plaster wouldn’t settle into place.

“Perhaps there’s another piece missing,” she said. “I can’t seem to make this one fit.”

“Allow me.” He took the piece from her hands and inverted it. “I believe it goes this way.”

Oh, Lord. She’d been holding the backside upside down, stubbornly trying to force it in place. All the while, the cupid’s stubby little penis pointed upward like a clock’s hand chiming midnight.

She ducked her head, mortified.

“And I believe the next bit is over there, behind your knee.”

She reached for it too hastily, then dropped it again when a sharp edge bit into her fingertip. A drop of blood welled at the site.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

“It’s nothing.”

But he’d already taken her hand in his. After a quick appraisal, he lifted her injured finger to his mouth and sucked the pain away. The action was efficient, not wicked—but it sent her wits scattering just the same.

Then he cupped her hand in his, holding his thumb pressed against her tiny wound. His eyes, however, never left her face. Her heart pounded as though it was determined to keep her finger bleeding; as though it never wanted this moment to end.

She could grow accustomed to being looked after.

“Really, my lord . . .”

“Piers,” he corrected her.

“Piers.” She looked to the corridor for salvation. “The maid will be coming. We’re huddled on the floor, holding hands, surrounded by naked plaster. It wouldn’t do for us to be seen together like this.”