But she was horrifyingly tempted. What was it like—dalliance? It must be different from simple flirtation, certainly. One could flirt in company with other people. One needed to be alone with another in order to dally. She had never wondered about it before. She had never been even faintly curious.

But tonight she was.

“The path grows crowded,” Viscount Ravensberg said, dipping his head closer to hers. “Perhaps you would like a quieter, more leisurely stroll along one of the side paths, Miss Edgeworth?” His eyes, dancing with merriment, mocked her. He knew, of course, that she knew. Did he know too that she was tempted?

She felt as if she had come to some crossroads in her life. She could and should say no and there would be an end of the matter. Or she could say yes. She could simply say yes and risk . . . what? Detection? Exposure? Scandal? They would be unchaperoned. Did he intend to steal a kiss from her? It was a shocking thought. She had only ever been kissed by Neville. She was six and twenty and had only ever been kissed—chastely—by a former betrothed. Perhaps he intended more than kisses. Perhaps . . .

“Thank you,” she heard herself say before she could talk herself into making an acceptance impossible. “That would be pleasant.”

He turned without further ado onto a narrow path to their left. The other two couples strolled onward, unaware that they had been abandoned.

The path was narrow—only just wide enough for two people to walk side by side if they were close together. Lord Ravensberg pressed her arm firmly against his side so that she had no choice but to rest her shoulder just below the level of his. It was the path that gave her no choice—the path and the tall, silent trees that grew to its very edge and met overhead, almost totally blocking out the moonlight. The only light came from the occasional lamp in a tree.

She ought not to have agreed to this, Lauren thought. There was a feeling of even greater aloneness and intimacy than she had expected. The sounds of voices and music seemed to grow instantly fainter. There was no one else on this particular path.

Why had she agreed? Curiosity? A desire to be kissed?

She wished he would say something. She thought of all sorts of things she might say—she was adept at making polite social conversation, after all, but any topic that came to mind would have sounded ridiculous under the present circumstances.

“I want to kiss you,” he said in a voice that was so calmly conversational that for a moment his meaning did not quite penetrate her mind. It was her heart that comprehended first as it thumped uncomfortably against her rib cage, half robbing her of breath.

What would it be like, being kissed by a man who was not Neville? Being kissed by a notorious rakehell? By Viscount Ravensberg? And why had she not spoken up instantly with a firm and frosty refusal?

“Why?” she asked instead.

He laughed softly. “Because you are a woman—a beautiful woman—and I am a red-blooded male,” he said. “Because I desire you.”

Lauren wondered if her legs would continue to support her. They seemed suddenly turned to jelly. This was dalliance?

. . . I am a red-blooded male.

Because I desire you.

His choice of words paralyzed her mind with shock. Yet they strolled onward as if they had just exchanged comments on the weather. He did not just wish to kiss her. He desired her. Could she possibly be desirable? Was she really beautiful? Was it possible after all that this was not simply dalliance? Or was she turning into the mindless dupe of an experienced rake?

They stopped walking as if by mutual consent, and somehow they were standing facing each other. The faint light of a distant lamp danced across his shadowed features. He lifted a hand and ran the backs of his knuckles feather-light down one side of her jawline to her chin.

“Let me kiss you,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes and nodded—as if being unable to see and giving no verbal answer somehow absolved her from responsibility for whatever would follow.

She felt his hands coming to rest on either side of her waist. They drew her forward so that, even though she did not move her feet, her bosom brushed against his chest and then pressed closer. For balance she lifted her hands to grasp his shoulders—and felt again the strange intimacy of being with a man who was no more than two or three inches taller than she. She opened her eyes and saw his face very close to her own, his eyes intent upon her mouth. And then his own covered it.

His lips were parted. She felt with shock the moist heat of the inside of his mouth and the warmth of his breath against her cheek. For a few moments she was lost in wondering contemplation of sensations more carnal than she had ever suspected possible. And then she became aware of two other things simultaneously. His tongue was tracing the seam of her lips, causing a terrifyingly raw sensation to rush aching into her throat and down into her bosom and down . . . And one of his hands was spread firmly behind her waist—no, below it—and had drawn her against him so that her thighs rested against his and . . .

She pushed away from him and fought the chaos of unfamiliar sensations and emotions that whirled through her brain. How much sense it made that unmarried ladies were never allowed to be alone with a man until they were betrothed. But she had felt none of these things with Neville. Neville had been . . . a gentleman.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, relieved at the calm coolness of her voice, quite at variance with the turmoil of her emotions. “That will be quite enough.”

“Miss Edgeworth.” He was regarding her closely, his head tipped a little to one side. He made no attempt to grab her again. He was not even touching her. His hands were clasped at his back. Even so she would have taken a step back to set more distance between them if the trees had allowed it. “Would you do me the great honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”

What? She stared at him, speechless. His question was so unexpected that her mind could not grapple with it for the moment. This was not dalliance, surely. He had asked her to marry him.

“Why?” The question was out before she could curb it.

“I saw you across Lady Mannering’s ballroom,” he said, “and knew that you were the woman I would marry—if you would have me.”

It was every girl’s dream, surely, to be singled out across a crowded room, Cinderella one moment, the love of Prince Charming’s soul the next. There was no more romantic myth. And despite herself, Lauren was not immune to it. But she was no girl. There was all the difference in the world between myth and reality. Life had dealt her enough doses of reality that she felt no doubt of that. She did not believe in love at first sight. She did not even believe in romantic love.

“Since then,” he said, “my regard for you has deepened every day. Every hour.”

“Has it?” She almost wished for the foolish girlhood she had never known—for the gullible belief in fairy-tale romance. She almost wished she could believe. “Why?” It was a question she seemed to have asked a great deal lately.

“You are beautiful,” he said. “You are elegant and graceful and dignified. You are a perfect lady, in fact. I have fallen head over ears in love with you.”

Those were the words that released her from her mental torpor. Men simply did not fall head over ears in love. Young girls might, but if love happened at all for men, it did so far more slowly and pragmatically. Lord Ravensberg was not the type to fall violently in love with any woman. He loved himself far too much, she suspected. And Lauren Edgeworth was not the type of woman to inspire soaring flights of emotion in any man.

“My lord,” she asked him, looking him directly in the eye and wishing there were more light, “what is your game?”

“Game?” He leaned a little closer and she turned sharply away and took a few steps along the path. She stood with her back to him.

“Is it my fortune?” she asked him. “Do you need to marry money?”

“I have all the wealth I need,” he said after a short pause. “And I am heir to a great deal more.”

“Then why?” She gazed ahead along the path and absently noted the shifting patterns of bluish light and shade cast across it by the distant lamp. “Why did you attend Lady Mannering’s ball? I have been told that you had been to no other before it this Season. Why did you dance only with me? You went there with that specific intention, did you not? You intended to offer for me before you even saw me. Am I right?”

“I had seen you in the park before then,” he said. “Remember? You are hard to forget.”

London during the Season was the great marriage mart. Viscount Ravensberg must be in his late twenties, perhaps older. He was heir to an earldom. It was perfectly conceivable that he had decided it was time to take a bride. But why her? And why sight unseen? She did not believe for a moment that he had conceived a passion for her during that brief meeting of their eyes in the park while he was holding and kissing the milkmaid. She did not believe he had conceived a passion for her at all. She turned to look back at him. From this angle his face was more in the light. There seemed less laughter there than usual.

“Your pretense of passion is insulting, my lord,” she said. “Lies are surely unnecessary. Why not simply the truth?”

His features looked hard and chiseled without the customary expression of good humor. She could imagine him now, as she had never been able to before, as a military officer.

“Insulting,” he repeated softly. “I have insulted you. And indeed you are right. I have.”

She had the distinct impression that her heart plummeted all the way down from her chest to her feet. She was right, then. He felt nothing for her. Of course he did not. And she did not want him to, anyway. She did not want his love or any man’s. Especially not his. But she felt suddenly chilled. She was not beautiful. She was not desirable. She was simply Lauren Edgeworth, perfect lady and eligible bride for an earl’s heir—as she had been all her life, unless the man happened to find a more appealing bride before it was too late. She turned her head to confirm what her eyes had seen earlier without really noticing—a rustic seat. She walked toward it and seated herself, arranging her skirts carefully about her so that she would not have to look at him. He moved closer, but made no attempt to seat himself beside her.

“Honor has always been enormously important to me,” he said, his voice so devoid of laughter that she scarcely recognized it. “There was a time—while I was commissioned—when honor meant more to me than life itself, even the lives of those I loved. But—” There was a short silence before he continued. “In all my dealings with you I have acted completely without honor. I am deeply ashamed and I beg your pardon. Perhaps you will allow me to escort you back to Mrs. Merklinger?”

She gazed up at him. Without honor? Merely because he had pretended a love he did not feel? And why did that fact make her feel so very bleak? She had never believed him.

“I believe you owe me an explanation first,” she said though she was not sure she wanted to know.

For a long time it seemed to her that he would not answer. Footsteps approached along the path, accompanied by soft whispers and laughter. But whoever it was must have spotted them from a distance and turned to go back. The music of another waltz intruded from what seemed to be a long distance away.

“Suffice it to say,” Lord Ravensberg said at last after inhaling audibly, “that I have wagered against three other men that I will have wooed you and wed you by the end of this month.”

Lauren imposed control over herself by trying—and failing—to describe her feelings to herself with one word. Shock? Anger? Bewilderment? Hurt? Humiliation?

“A wager?” She was whispering.

“You were chosen,” he said, “because you have a reputation for unshakable dignity and gentility and respectability. For being the perfect lady, in fact. My . . . friends considered you to be the lady least likely to accept my proposal.”

“Because you are a rake? This was all a game, then?” Her tone, she realized, matched his own in flatness. “But a remarkably foolish one. What if you had won? You would have been stuck for life with a prim, respectable wife. A perfect lady. A perfectly dull lady. That is what I am, Lord Ravensberg.”