“I promise you, sir, that I shall ensure to never do anything that would find me in your debt. I cannot think of a less trustworthy gentleman to hold such power over me.”

“Come now, I’m not so bad,” Willingham said lightly—but something about his voice made her glance up sharply into his eyes. Had she wounded him? Surely not. In her entire acquaintance with Lord Willingham—dating back to the years that her brother had brought him home with him from Eton to their aunt and uncle’s house during school holidays—she had not once seen him so much as wince from one of her hits. Surely this one hadn’t landed?

“Aren’t you?” she asked, watching him closely. His hand was firm on her waist, his motions smooth and effortless. The man was an exemplary dancer—no doubt because he had honed his skill in his pursuit of every ineligible woman in London, but impressive nonetheless.

He seemed to realize that she was baiting him—the slight tightness around his mouth that she had noticed a few moments prior had vanished, to be replaced by one of his more usual facial expressions: the alluring, slightly cheeky smile of a devil-may-care rogue, intent on charming the skirts off of every lady with the misfortune to cross his path.

“I’m not,” he said easily. “In fact, I think you should set your sights on me as your next target.”

Diana stumbled, missing a step; Lord Willingham steered her back into the rhythm of the waltz, hiding her error, while she continued to stare at him, mouth agape.

“You cannot be serious,” she managed after a few moments’ silence.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” His tone was casual, unconcerned; if he hadn’t been waltzing, she was certain he would have shrugged. “You seem to be quite eager for a husband. I am, in fact, excellent husband material.”

“By what qualifications, precisely, are you excellent husband material?” Diana didn’t allow him a chance to respond before continuing. “You drink too much, and you seem intent on weaseling your way into the bed of every widow you encounter.”

“I do say,” Willingham sputtered, and Diana awarded herself a mental point for managing to embarrass him before she’d even completed her thought.

“You don’t take anything seriously, and, worst of all, you’ve no fortune.” She pronounced the latter as though it were a death sentence—which, as far as marriage prospects went, it was. She had spent a childhood acutely aware that she was a burden on her aunt and uncle, understanding the expense her presence incurred. She was determined that once she married, she would never have to obsess over something so vulgar, so endlessly tiresome as money ever again.

Willingham watched her with a steady gaze as she spoke, his face never changing expression on the surface, and yet she could somehow sense the feeling building beneath his calm demeanor. “I see,” he said, and there was a clipped tone to his voice that was somehow gratifying—if she was going to verbally wound a man, she’d like evidence of the effort. “And I suppose that you have received so many offers this Season that you are in a position to be so choosy?”

Diana didn’t flinch, but it was a near thing. “I have indeed received quite a few offers,” she hedged, which wasn’t untrue.

Willingham’s gaze sharpened, and a furrow appeared between his eyebrows. “Have men been propositioning you?” His grip on her waist tightened, and some primitive part of her thrilled at the touch. “If they have, I will call them out.”

Diana rolled her eyes. “I think, given the number of married ladies’ beds you frequent, you’re in enough danger of winding up in a duel without deciding you need to challenge any man who is a threat to my virtue,” she informed him. “I can take care of myself, and I certainly don’t need you barging in like a knight in shining armor, no doubt mucking it all up.”

“So you have been propositioned,” he said darkly.

“What do I have to tell you that will convince you that your concern is entirely unwanted?” she asked through gritted teeth, managing with great effort to keep a ballroom-appropriate smile upon her face. Judging by the skeptical look Willingham gave her, it likely made her appear slightly deranged.

“Let me be sure I have this correctly,” he said, ignoring her question entirely, as most men tended to do. It was astonishing that nearly all of them considered themselves to be the more intelligent sex, considering that they seemed to lack rudimentary listening skills, but one had to manage with the poor fools as best one could.

Willingham continued. “You are possibly being subjected to indecent proposals on the part of lecherous gentlemen, you’ve no marriage prospects in sight, but you still refuse to consider me a candidate for the position of your husband?”

Up until this moment, Diana had been certain that he’d been jesting. She could not think of a single gentleman of her acquaintance less likely to wish to settle into matrimony than the Marquess of Willingham. Had he not been rumored, just last week, to have been discovered in the Countess of Covendale’s bedchamber? Discovered by the earl himself, no less? This hardly seemed like the behavior of a man desperate to settle down to a life of quiet domesticity.

And, furthermore, he wasn’t the sort of man she wanted to marry. She wanted someone dull, someone safe. Someone wealthy.

Lord Willingham was not at all dull, nor did he feel particularly safe—especially not when he was gazing at her as though he could see right through her, as he was at this precise moment. When he looked at her this way, neither of those qualities—dullness or safety—seemed terribly desirable, while everything about Lord Willingham did.