“I wouldn’t make a joke of it,” he protested, even as he realized that that was, in fact, precisely what he had been doing. Miss Bourne did not even bother to dignify this obvious falsehood with a response.

“So no, Lord Willingham,” she concluded—and never had his title been pronounced more scathingly than it was in that moment—“I will not share anything about my matrimonial hopes with you, and I think it best that we end this line of discussion entirely.”

Jeremy was a bold man, but not recklessly so. And it would have been a reckless man indeed who forced Diana Bourne to continue a conversation she clearly wished to avoid. And, deep down, Jeremy thought it might be rather unsporting to do so—she had, of course, just rejected him, and many men in his shoes might have considered themselves to be the wounded party. But Jeremy knew better. He was, at the end of the day, a man, and she was a woman. He could end the evening with a woman of his choosing, engaging in behavior that would have ruined an unmarried woman had she attempted to follow his lead. And he might have pockets to let at the moment, but he was still a marquess, and with that came power and freedom the likes of which no woman—not even a princess—could ever hope to achieve. Miss Bourne was charting her own course in search of a mere scrap of the freedom he enjoyed every day, and he could not fault her for it.

But a small part of him wondered what he would have done if she had said yes.

And it was that thought that, at the conclusion of their waltz, sent him in search of something stronger than lemonade to dull the senses, to cast that warm, golden light upon the evening’s proceedings.

He did not see Miss Bourne again that night. One month later, her betrothal to Viscount Templeton was announced.

One

July 1817

There was no place like a ball for a good, old-fashioned wager, Diana always said.

Or, rather, she was going to begin saying now, effective this evening, in the wake of having made just such a wager.

It was July, and they were inching toward the end of the London Season, Diana’s sixth in total and her third since the death of her husband, Viscount Templeton. She was in a crowded ballroom at the home of Lord and Lady Rocheford, whose end-of-Season soiree was one of the most coveted invitations among the ton, for reasons that frankly escaped Diana at the moment, as she was sweltering in the heat of tightly pressed bodies and an incalculable number of candles burning above and around her.

Diana was, in truth, finding the entire evening rather tedious. She’d been experiencing this sensation more and more often of late, which was a bit unsettling in its novelty. She had been so eager to escape her aunt and uncle’s home when she had debuted, flinging herself into the social whirl of London the instant she had made her curtsey before the queen, not letting up in the slightest upon her marriage to Templeton. His death two and a half years later had slowed her considerably, of course, but she had been eager enough to rejoin society when her mourning period was over, once again immersing herself in the relentless cycle of balls and dinner parties, Venetian breakfasts and nights at the theater, musicales and outings to Vauxhall Gardens.

Lately, however, she had felt something… missing. She had, seemingly, everything she had once dreamed of acquiring: a wealthy, titled husband who had seen fit to conveniently expire, leaving her a wealthy, titled widow; a London town house filled with servants to attend to her every whim, and as many painting supplies as she could possibly dream of; dear friends to liven up her days; any number of handsome gentlemen to flirt with of an evening.

And yet, this evening, as she chatted idly with her friends, watching her friend Emily twirl about the dance floor in the arms of the slightly scandalous Lord Julian Belfry, she found herself feeling vaguely… dissatisfied.

Which was why it was so convenient that the Marquess of Willingham chose that moment to open his mouth—a decision that was for him, as it was for so many men, often a mistake—to offer her the following warning:

“You’re making a mistake if you think to match Belfry with Lady Emily. A less likely man to marry I’ve never seen. Have you heard nothing of his reputation?”

Diana turned slowly to face him, arching an eyebrow. “Mmm, yes,” she agreed, giving Willingham a sweet smile. “But I didn’t think it was any worse than yours, my lord.”

Willingham’s mouth quirked in that infuriating half smirk he favored; his was an exceptionally handsome face, all blue eyes and cheekbones and strong jaw, and that smirk somehow, unfairly, made it more attractive rather than less so. “Touché. And yet I’ve no intention of marrying either, so my point remains.”

“So you say,” Diana said with great skepticism. “But need I remind you that you are a marquess? At some point, you’ll have to produce an heir.”

Willingham shrugged. “I’ve a cousin who I’ve no doubt would be quite pleased to inherit. He has a very fertile wife, if I recall.”

Diana tossed her head impatiently. “Don’t be absurd. Of course you’ll marry.” She was dimly aware that their friends were beginning to take notice of this conversation; she could sense their attention focusing on her and Willingham, even as she did not look away from Willingham’s face. The friends in question were their closest ones—Diana’s friend Violet, along with her husband, Lord James Audley; Diana’s brother, Penvale; and Lady Fitzwilliam Bridewell, a new friend of Violet’s and, until very recently, Willingham’s lover.