She looked as if she’d just experienced an epiphany of biblical proportions, but as the whole thing was at his expense, all he could do was scowl.

Then she laughed, which made it even worse. “Oh, my,” she said, actually holding her hand to her belly in mirth. “You feel like a fox at a hunt, and you don’t like it one bit. Oh, this is simply too much. After all the women you’ve chased…”

She had it all wrong, of course. He didn’t much care one way or another that the society matrons had labeled him the season’s biggest catch and were pursuing him accordingly. That was just the sort of thing it was easy to maintain a sense of humor over.

He didn’t care if they called him the Merry Rake. He. didn’t care if they thought him a worthless seducer.

But when Francesca said the same thing…

It was like acid.

And the worst of it was, he had no one to blame but himself. He had cultivated this reputation for years, spent countless hours teasing and flirting, and then making sure Francesca saw, so she would never guess the truth.

And maybe he had done it for himself, too, because if he was the Merry Rake, at least he was something. The alternative was to be nothing but a pathetic fool, hopelessly in love with another man’s wife. And hell, he was good at being the man who could seduce with a smile. He might as well have something in life he could succeed at.

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Francesca said, sounding very pleased with herself.

“It’s not so bad surrounding oneself with beautiful women,” he said, mostly to irritate her. “Even better when it comes about so effortlessly.”

It worked, because her face pinched just a bit around the mouth. “I’m sure it’s more than delightful, but you must be careful not to forget yourself,” she said sharply. “These are not your usual women.”

“I wasn’t aware I had usual women.”

“You know exactly what I mean, Michael. Others may have called you a complete rogue, but I know you better than that.”

“Oh, really?” And he almost laughed. She thought she knew him so well, but she knew nothing. She’d never know the full truth.

“You had standards four years ago,” she continued. “You never seduced anyone who would be irreparably hurt by your actions.”

“And what makes you think I’m about to start now?”

“Oh, I don’t think you’d do anything like that on purpose,” she said, “but before, you never even associated with young women looking for marriage. There wasn’t even the possibility that you might make a misstep and accidentally ruin one of them.”

The vague, prickling sense of irritation that had been simmering within him began to grow and boil. “Who do you think I am, Francesca?” he asked, his entire body stiff with something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He hated that she thought this of him, hated it.

“Michael-”

“Do you really think me so dim that I might accidentally ruin a young lady’s reputation?”

Her lips parted, then quivered slightly before she replied. “Not dim, Michael, of course not. But-”

“Careless, then,” he bit off.

“No, not that, either. I just think-”

“What, Francesca?” he asked ruthlessly. “What do you think of me?”

“I think you are one of the finest men I know,” she said softly.

Damn. Trust her to unman him with a single sentence. He stared at her, just stared at her, trying to figure out what the hell she’d meant by that.

“I do,” she said with a shrug. “But I also think you’re foolish, and I think you can be fickle, and I think you’re going to break more hearts this spring than I’ll be able to count.”

“It isn’t your job to count them,” he said, his voice quiet and hard.

“No, it isn’t, is it?” She looked over at him and smiled wryly. “But I’m going to end up doing it all the same, won’t I?”

“And why is that?”

She didn’t seem to have an answer to that, and then, just when he was sure she would say no more, she whispered, “Because I won’t be able to stop myself.”

Several seconds passed. They just stood there, their backs to the wall, looking for all the world as if they were just watching the party. Finally, Francesca broke the silence and said, “You should dance.”

He turned to her. “With you?”

“Yes. Once, at least. But you should also dance with someone eligible, someone you might marry.”

Someone he might marry. Anyone but her.

“It will signal to society that you are at least open to the possibility of matrimony,” Francesca added. When he made no comment, she asked, “Aren’t you?”

“Open to matrimony?”

“Yes.”

“If you say so,” he said, somewhat flippantly. He had to be cavalier. It was the only way he could mask the bitterness sweeping over him.

“Felicity Featherington,” Francesca said, motioning toward a very pretty young lady about ten yards away. “She’d be an excellent choice. Very sensible. She won’t fall in love with you.”

He looked down at her sardonically. “Heaven forbid I find love.”

Francesca’s lips parted and her eyes grew very wide. “Is that what you want?” she asked. ‘To find love?“

She looked delighted by the prospect. Delighted that he might find the perfect woman.

And there it was. His faith in a higher power reaffirmed. Truly, moments of this ironic perfection could not come about by accident.