“I admit it might not have been my best decision-making,” Willingham said, leaning forward to brace his elbows upon his knees. “I’d had a few drinks too many that evening, I should add—liquid courage and all that, eh?”

“So let me be certain I understand this,” Diana said, provoked to the unthinkable—standing!—as she spoke. “You appeared at the home of your paramour, foxed. You took the lady to bed. Then, whilst lying in her warm embrace, you ended your liaison.” She had begun to pace as she listed his offenses. “And then you fled whilst she gave you the set-down you so richly deserved?”

Willingham considered. “That is about the shape of it, yes.” His eyes tracked her movements back and forth across the drawing room. “Are you quite well?” he asked, genuine concern evident in his voice. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you pace before.”

“It’s been a very trying month,” Diana snapped, her footsteps continuing unabated. “First Violet spends weeks wheezing into a handkerchief, all to lure back a man who was already in love with her, and now you appear in my drawing room, panting all over my hand and describing your bad behavior in such detail that I feel compelled to slap you just on principle.”

“Please don’t,” Willingham said, raising his hands defensively. “Last night’s brandy is still sloshing about in there and I don’t think my poor head can take much more abuse.”

“Well, I cannot take much more of this!” Diana waved a hand expansively about the room. “Why must all my friends insist on behaving like utter fools? Next thing will be Emily eloping with that odious Mr. Cartham of hers, and I don’t know what I shall do then!” Her friend Lady Emily Turner had been persistently courted by the owner of a gaming hell to whom her father owed a rather large debt. Thus far, Emily had succeeded in keeping a proposal at bay—and had, with Diana’s encouragement, been escorted by Lord Julian Belfry to a handful of recent ton events. Belfry was handsome, wealthy, and had enough seedy connections that Diana suspected he would be more than a match for Cartham, should Belfry decide to court Emily in earnest. But with the way things were going lately, Diana had no doubt that disaster among their set lurked just around the corner.

“If we can return to the matter at hand,” Willingham said, rising and placing himself directly in her path, forcing her to halt abruptly. “I’ve not told you the worst bit.”

Diana threw her hands up. “What else could you possibly have done to make this worse? Shot the poor lady’s husband in a duel?”

“That I am innocent of,” Willingham said, sounding rather proud of himself. “I managed to escape the home before that admirable gentleman returned, sparing the lady in question that bother, at least.”

Diana, who knew well the way that servants gossiped, wasn’t certain that Willingham should breathe a sigh of relief just yet, but she held her tongue, curious to hear what his true complaint was.

“The lady… well…” Willingham looked, Diana thought, truly uncomfortable, for possibly the first time in her lengthy acquaintance with him. She leaned forward eagerly, curious in spite of herself. “She critiqued my performance in the bedroom,” Willingham said all at once, the words emerging in such a rush that it took Diana’s brain several long moments to piece together the meaning of what he had said. While she was puzzling this out, Willingham himself began to pace, and after a moment he continued to speak, her lack of a reply clearly making him all the more uncomfortable.

“I mean to say, it is of course nonsense, just spoken in anger, but it… well, it’s lodged itself in my mind and I can’t stop thinking about it. I shall never bed a woman again at this rate if I can’t get myself into an amorous situation without the blasted woman’s words echoing around in my head the second things get interesting.”

“Has that happened to you, then?” Diana asked, finding her tongue, torn between glee and an unexpected rush of indignation. She had always rather prided herself on having cornered the market when it came to crushing set-downs delivered to Willingham, but this unnamed lady had clearly usurped the crown.

“Well, no,” Willingham admitted, still pacing, “but it’s only a matter of time. I need to just, er, get back in the saddle, as it were, but I’m finding the task a bit daunting.” Diana, watching him closely, thought she detected a telltale flush rising in his cheeks. Was Willingham blushing? She had not thought such a thing possible—when roughly a third of the widows in London had seen one in the nude, she would have thought that one would be above (or below?) blushing.

“Why are you sharing this with me, of all people?” Diana asked belatedly. This should, truly, have been her very first question, but she had been somewhat taken aback by the unexpected nature of his revelation, and her mind was not moving at its usual rapid pace. “Wouldn’t Audley or Penvale be a more likely confidant?”

“Good God, woman!” Willingham stopped in his tracks and turned to face her, looking truly appalled. “This isn’t the sort of thing I can tell another man. I’d be a laughingstock! I’d never be able to look your brother in the eye again.” He paused, a shrewd look coming into his own eyes. “Which means that you aren’t to tell him, either. I should have gotten your agreement on that count before I began. I’ve gone about this all the wrong way.” He shook his head. “See? I’m addled! Not thinking clearly! Lack of bedsport isn’t good for any man—look at Audley’s behavior recently, if you need proof of that. It dilutes the power of the brain. Makes us soft.”