“A poetic soul,” he said. He could not seem to help repeating everything she said, since at the moment he lacked the ability to form any sort of rational response to this claim.

“Of course,” she said. “Her appreciation of a soulful picnic clearly indicates the presence of deep… er—”

“Poetry?” he suggested.

“Feeling,” she said firmly. “In her—”

“Soul?” he asked.

“Heart,” she said.

“I must confess,” Lady Helen said, a startling reminder that they were not, in fact, alone on this blanket, “I have never heard myself described in quite such terms.”

“That is why you are fortunate to be in the company of the famously charming Marquess of Willingham, Lady Helen,” Diana said. Jeremy felt rather like a slightly bruised apple being shined up and turned just so to attract a willing buyer.

“Of course,” Lady Helen said slowly. Jeremy did not think he was imagining the note of doubt in her voice. “Nevertheless, I am perfectly content here on my blanket, and if Lord Willingham is so desperate to accompany you on a walk, Lady Templeton, it would seem churlish of you to deny him.” She flashed Diana a venomous smile; Jeremy could practically see Diana’s blood boiling—not to mention her contrary instincts flaring to life—but he intervened before she could work herself into too much of a temper.

“There you have it,” he said, turning to Diana in triumph. “I have been cruelly rejected by Lady Helen, but when faced with rejection from one quarter, I have turned to a likelier one in hopes of rescue.”

“Please explain to me how anything I have said to you in the past quarter hour could possibly cause you to classify me as a ‘likelier quarter,’?” Diana said peevishly.

“Walk with me, and I will.” He gave her his best, cheekiest grin. He knew it was irresistible—no fewer than twelve different ladies had told him so.

Not that he’d been counting, of course.

With bad grace, Diana allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. She made a great show of brushing off her skirts and then shaking them out, then smoothing her hair, shading her eyes from the sunlight, et cetera. You would have thought he had proposed taking her on a jaunt across England rather than a stroll along the hilltop. Finally losing patience with her theatrics, he seized her by the elbow in a grip that was more domineering than gentlemanly and led her away from the cluster of blankets.

Once they were out of earshot, he murmured, “I hope you enjoyed that.”

“You manhandling me like I was a recalcitrant sheep?” she said waspishly. “I can’t say that I did.”

“No,” he said with exaggerated patience. “The sight of Lady Helen nearly deflowering me on the blanket for all the world to see.”

Diana huffed a laugh. “I believe your defloration is an event so long in the past that schoolboys will be studying it along with the Greeks and the Romans before too long. Although,” she added, pausing, mock-thoughtful, “if you think that your virtue was that endangered by a mere hand on your entirely clothed thigh, that implies a lack of understanding of the basic mechanics of the act that might indeed mean you are an innocent.”

“I promise you, I’m not that.” He gave her a dangerous smile.

She appeared unaffected. “Or,” she said, drawing out the word, “perhaps your recently rejected paramour is more justified in her criticism than you’d like to believe. Clothing does generally have to be removed, Willingham.”

“I cannot tell you how enticing I find that prospect when you discuss it,” he said to her in a low, seductive voice. She rolled her eyes but, he could not help noticing, her cheeks were slightly flushed as she did so. From embarrassment? Desire? He wished blushes would be a bit more damned specific. How was a man supposed to interpret them when they went about appearing on ladies’ faces under any number of circumstances?

“I suppose there is a reason you dragged me away from my perfectly acceptable lunchtime entertainment to traipse about the woods with you,” she said conversationally. Her elbow was still held in his grip, which had loosened with each step. To any outside observers, they might be courting lovers, taking a romantic late-summer stroll through the meadow’s tall grasses, surrounded by wildflowers and the gentle buzzing of unseen bees.

Which was not entirely untrue, if one removed all hints of romance or any sort of attempt at proper courtship.

Realizing belatedly that he had not answered her question, he said, “I thought we might discuss this evening.”

Diana tripped. He thought it was the clumsiest movement he had ever seen from her, and felt oddly proud to have been the cause of it.

“What about this evening?” she asked, her voice cool even as she allowed him to steady her with one arm about her waist. He dropped his arm as soon as she was on firm footing once more.

“I was hoping you might permit me to pay you another visit.”

“Oh,” she said faintly. Did she sound nervous? And what did it say about him that his chest swelled—metaphorically—at the prospect?

“We do have an agreement,” he reminded her. “I believe a handshake was involved. I thought we might as well get to it.”

“Get to it,” she repeated, narrowing her eyes at him. “How sentimental, Willingham. It’s a miracle you’re not yet married. Tell me, do you beat them off with a stick?”