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    Blast . Now he’d done it.
    Toby recognized the dazzled look in those eyes. He knew it all too well. Charming young ladies was his singular talent, and he’d developed it through years of practice. He knew the precise instant he had them. When they took all their youthful hopes and romantic dreams and shaped them into a tight little ball and tossed it into his hands. Here , they said. Take my heart and break it .
    Normally, Toby was happy to oblige. What was that line in the novel his sister Augusta loved so well? “A girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then.” Truer words were never penned. He took that ball of hopes and dreams, made a little show of juggling it, and handed it back—a bit dented, perhaps, but largely intact. Occasionally, he misjudged and the ball slipped from his grasp to shatter on the floor. But even then, the young ladies recovered quickly enough.
    Because they always held something back. This little plaything they tossed him—it held the affections of a girl. Their true womanly hearts, their deepest passion and love, this they guarded, saved for another man. Anyone who labeled Toby a heartbreaker underestimated the shrewdness of feminine intellect. He knew, from years of experience, that young women were a great deal wiser than general opinion would allow.
    There was something different about this woman, however—aside from her enchanting accent and strident politics. When he’d kissed her, she’d offered him nothing—but neither had she held anything in reserve. She didn’t know how to flirt. None of his compliments or teasing had warmed her a single degree, but in that moment when their lips met … she’d simply been his .
    With her, there could be no half-measures.
    That kiss had rocked him to his boots.
    His blood was still fizzing with her nearness, her scent, her taste. Her skin was so smooth; the edge of temptation, keen. And just when he’d nearly lost himself in those dark, serious eyes, she pursed her delicious lips and whispered …
    “Whittlesby.”
    Toby blinked. Had he truly just heard her say—
    “Lord Whittlesby.” She swallowed. “When we go back inside, will you introduce us?”
    “Wh—” The breath rushed out of him in an indefinable question. He released her, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Wh—”
    No use. He didn’t even know how to complete that syllable. Who? What? Why? When?
    Yes, that was it—when? When did my amatory prowess sink to this low, where I might kiss a young lady on a moonlit terrace and the first thought that springs to her mind is …
    “Whittlesby”?
    “Whittlesby?” he finally echoed, somehow hoping he’d misheard her. Twice.
    “Yes. You did promise to find me a husband. I’ve decided he will do.”
    A burst of shocked laughter escaped him. “No. No, you’ve misunderstood. Whittlesby will not do at all.”
    She frowned. “Then you won’t introduce me?”
    “I’d sooner die.” Indeed, some small part of his pride was withering to dust as he spoke. But this was nothing, compared to the agonies he would suffer, surrendering this vibrant, intelligent, beautiful woman to a lump like Whittlesby.
    Good God. Whittlesby?
    “But you promised to find me a husband.” She latched a hand over his wrist. “Tonight.”
    The pressure of her fingers did strange things to his pulse. He teetered on the verge of taking her into his arms and kissing her again—thoroughly, this time. All night long, if need be. Until he kissed away her memory of any man but him.
    Honor , he reminded himself sternly. And something about clinging to the few remaining shreds of it. The honorable course, sadly, did not involve kissing those perfect lips all night—
    but neither did it mean sending her into the arms of a perfect clod. He needed to set this girl straight. Only then, not before, he would let her go.
    The first strains of a waltz reached his ears. “Yes, I promised to find you a husband. And so I shall—inside.” Where