She rolled her eyes before casting a skeptical look at his own clothing. “At least I’m wearing attire that could be decently worn in a drawing room,” she said, stepping back to allow him entrée to the room.

Deciding that perhaps a bit of flattery was in order, given his aims for the evening, he attempted: “You look beautiful.”

This was similarly unsuccessful. “Please don’t start mooning, Willingham, or I shall never have the slightest temptation to allow you to remove my clothing.” With that, she turned and walked deeper into the room, leaving Jeremy standing there, slightly nonplussed, watching her go. One had to admire her way with words, he supposed. He shook his head once to clear it, then followed her.

The guest room Diana had been given was one of the larger ones in the house. The walls were papered in a blue and white floral pattern that was feminine, but not overwhelmingly so. A fire burned in the grate—though it was August, the evening had turned chilly—and Diana sank down onto the settee before it, beckoning him to her side with a single, imperious wave of her hand.

Jeremy was tempted to follow without hesitation—she presented such an enticing picture, her lovely face bathed in firelight, her smooth skin glowing white where it rose above the modest neckline of her gown—but he resisted, feeling that to allow her to summon him now would set a tone for the entire endeavor that he would find difficult to change.

Instead, just to irk her, he took a slow turn about the room, examining one of the sketches by his late mother on the wall and testing the plushness of the cushion atop the window seat. Behind him, he could sense Diana’s attention, but he would not turn and acknowledge it. Not yet, at least.

At last she broke the stalemate: “Are you quite finished?”

Mentally, Jeremy grinned in satisfaction, awarding himself a point in their never-ending war. Externally, however, he was all innocence as he turned to face her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Willingham,” she said through gritted teeth, “you are the one who suggested this meeting. I propose you sit down and speak to me before I eject you from this room and never open a bedchamber door to you ever again.”

This prospect was more alarming than Jeremy cared to admit, and he conceded this battle and strode toward her. Ignoring entirely the armchairs situated to either side of the settee on which she reclined, he sat down next to her, so close that her skirts brushed his breeches and that had he wished to take her hand, only a matter of inches of movement would have been required to do so.

“Now,” she said, her tone all business, entirely incongruous with the languid, seductive picture she presented at the moment, “we need to discuss the conditions of our arrangement.” Hearing her discuss said arrangement in such businesslike terms should have had a rather dampening effect on his lust for her; instead, somehow, it provoked the opposite reaction. There was something to be said for a woman with a face and a bosom like Diana’s, sitting there coolly discussing an affair as though it were a business matter rather than a carnal one. It should not have been remotely enticing; instead, it was absurdly so. In that moment, he wished for nothing more than to reduce this calm, collected woman to a state in which she could not muster any words at all.

“The first term,” she said, holding up an index finger, “is that we should be discreet.”

“Of course,” Jeremy said, wounded. He did not pride himself on many things, but his discretion was one of them. He had something of a reputation, it was true, but he was fully aware that as a wealthy, titled man he had little to lose from these liaisons, while the ladies often risked a fair amount more. He therefore did his best to keep his associations a secret. Was he to blame if some ladies, smug over having caught, even temporarily, the infamous Marquess of Willingham, allowed their tongues to loosen more than was wise?

“I don’t mind if word gets out to a select few gentlemen,” she added. “After all, I do want it known in some circles that I am open to similar liaisons. You might even be of some help to me here, mentioning it to a few well-placed people who might be of interest to me.”

“You make me sound like a brothel owner,” Jeremy said, nettled.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t come over missish on me now, Willingham.”

He nearly howled. “Missish?”

“The second term,” she said, ignoring him entirely and raising another finger, “is that this liaison will last only the duration of this house party.”

“Done,” he agreed readily. He really, of course, only needed to bed her once, just to receive reassurance that his skills were all that they should be, but he had a sneaking suspicion that one time in bed with Diana wasn’t going to be enough. In fact, he suspected that a fortnight wouldn’t be enough, either, but he’d worry about that when the time came.

“The third and final term is that you are not to ask me any questions regarding matters of the bedchamber.”

Jeremy frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“No questions,” Diana repeated, quite firmly.

“Don’t you think that might present some difficulties?”

She frowned, too, her own expression matching his own. “I can’t see why it should.” He thought he detected the faintest hint of uncertainty in her voice.

“How am I to be assured of your consent?” He might be a rake, but he’d never bedded an unwilling woman, nor done anything within the confines of the bedchamber that had not been entirely consensual, and he did not intend to start now. Particularly not with her.