Annabelle grinned ruefully at his reply. “Yes, that’s it. Forgive me if I am behaving a bit oddly, my lord. I fear I may have had a bit too much wine.”

Marcus laughed quietly. “Perhaps some night air will clear your head.”

Coming beside them, Simon Hunt caught the last remark, and he settled his hand at his wife’s waist. Smiling, he touched his lips to Annabelle’s temple. “Shall I take you out to the back terrace?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Hunt went still, his dark head inclined toward hers. Although Annabelle couldn’t see the arrested expression on her husband’s face, Marcus noticed it, and wondered why Hunt suddenly looked so uncomfortable and distracted. “Excuse us, Westcliff,” Hunt muttered, and pulled his wife away with unwarranted haste, forcing her to hurry to keep up with his ground-eating strides.

Shaking his head with a touch of bafflement, Marcus watched the pair’s precipitate exit from the entrance hall.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Daisy said glumly, wandering from the dining hall with Lillian and Evie. “I was seated between two gentlemen who couldn’t have taken less interest in me. Either the perfume is a sham, or both of them are anosmic.”

Evie gave her a blank look. “I…I’m afraid I’m not f-familiar with that word…”

“You would be if your father owned a soap company,” Lillian said dryly. “It means that one has no sense of smell.”

“Oh. Then my dinner p-partners must also have been anosmic. Because neither of them noticed me either. What about you, Lillian?”

“The same,” Lillian replied, feeling both confounded and frustrated. “I suppose the perfume doesn’t work after all. But I was so certain that it had an effect on Lord Westcliff…”

“Had you ever stood so close to him before?” Daisy asked.

“Of course not!”

“Then my guess is that simple proximity to you made him lose his head.”

“Oh, well, obviously,” Lillian said with self-deprecating sarcasm. “I’m a world-renowned temptress.”

Daisy laughed. “I wouldn’t discount your charms, dear. In my opinion, Lord Westcliff has always—”

But that particular opinion would forever go unheard, for as they reached the entrance hall, the three girls caught sight of Lord Westcliff himself. Leaning one shoulder against a column in a relaxed pose, he cut a commanding figure. Everything about him, from the arrogant tilt of his head to the physical confidence of his posture, bespoke the result of generations of aristocratic breeding. Lillian experienced an overpowering urge to sneak up to him and poke him in some ticklish place. She would have loved to make him roar with annoyance.

His head turned, and his gaze swept the three girls with polite interest before settling on Lillian. Then the look in his eyes became far less polite, and the interest took on a vaguely predatory quality that caused Lillian’s breath to catch. She couldn’t help remembering the feel of the hard-muscled body that was concealed beneath the impeccably tailored black broadcloth suit.

“He’s t-terrifying,” she heard Evie breathe, and Lillian glanced at her with sudden amusement.

“He’s just a man, dear. I’m sure he orders his servants to help him put his trousers on one leg at a time, like everyone else.”

Daisy laughed at her irreverence, while Evie looked scandalized.

To Lillian’s surprise, Westcliff pushed away from the column and approached them. “Good evening, ladies. I hope you enjoyed the supper.”

Tongue-tied, Evie could only nod, while Daisy responded animatedly, “It was splendid, my lord.”

“Good.” Although he spoke to Evie and Daisy, his gaze locked on to Lillian’s face. “Miss Bowman, Miss Jenner…forgive me, but I had hoped to take your companion aside for a word in private. With your permission…”

“By all means,” Daisy replied, giving Lillian a sly smile. “Take her away, my lord. We have no use for her at the moment.”

“Thank you.” Gravely he extended his arm to Lillian. “Miss Bowman, if you would be so kind?”

Lillian took his arm, feeling oddly fragile as he led her across the hall. The silence between them was awkward and question-fraught. Westcliff had always provoked her, but now he seemed to have acquired the knack of making her feel vulnerable—and she didn’t like it at all. Stopping in the lee of a massive column, he turned to face her, and her hand dropped away from his arm.

His mouth and eyes were just two or three inches above her own, their bodies perfectly matched as they stood toe to toe. Her pulse became a soft, rapid tapping inside her veins, and her skin was suddenly covered in heat that presaged a burn, as if she were standing much too close to a fire. Westcliff’s thick lashes lowered slightly over midnight-dark eyes as he noticed her heightened color.

“Miss Bowman,” he murmured, “I assure you that in spite of what happened this afternoon, you have nothing to fear from me. If you have no objection, I would like to discuss it with you in a place where we won’t be disturbed.”

“Certainly,” Lillian said calmly. Meeting him somewhere alone had the uncomfortable overtones of a lovers’ tryst—which this would certainly not be. And yet she couldn’t seem to control the nervous thrills that ran up and down her spine. “Where shall we meet?”

“The morning room opens onto an orangery.”

“Yes, I know where that is.”