“How much of your reputation is deserved?” she dared to ask him.

“Only about half…which makes me utterly reprehensible.”

Lillian stared at him with quizzical amusement. “How could a man like you be friends with Lord Westcliff? You’re so very different.”

“We’ve known each other since the age of eight. And, stubborn soul that he is, Westcliff refuses to accept that I’m a lost cause.”

“Why should you be a lost cause?”

“You don’t want to know the answer to that.” He interrupted the beginnings of her next question by murmuring, “The waltz is ending. And there is a woman near the gilded frieze who is watching us rather closely. Your mother, isn’t she? Let me take you to her.”

Lillian shook her head. “You had better part company with me now. Trust me—you don’t want to meet my mother.”

“Of course I do. If she is anything like you, I will find her captivating.”

“If she is anything like me, I pray you will have the decency to keep your opinion to yourself.”

“Have no fear,” he advised lazily, easing her away from the dancing area. “I’ve never met a woman I didn’t like.”

“This is the last time you will ever make such a statement,” she predicted dourly.

As St. Vincent escorted Lillian toward the group of gossiping women that included her mother, he said, “I’ll invite her to accompany us on the carriage drive tomorrow, as you are in dire need of a chaperone.”

“I don’t have to have one,” Lillian protested. “Men and women may go for an unchaperoned drive as long as it’s not a closed carriage and they’re not gone for longer than—”

“You need a chaperone,” he repeated with a gentle insistence that made her feel suddenly flustered and shy.

Thinking that his gaze couldn’t possibly mean what she thought it meant, she laughed shakily. “Or else…” She tried to think of something daring to say. “Or else you’ll compromise me?”

His smile, like everything else about him, was subtle and unhurried. “Something like that.”

There was an odd but pleasant tickle at the back of her throat, as if she had swallowed a spoonful of treacle. St. Vincent wasn’t behaving at all like the seducers that populated the silver-fork novels Daisy was so fond of. Those villainous characters, with their heavy mustaches and lecherous gazes, were prone to lie about their evil intentions until the revealing moment when they assaulted the virginal heroine and forced themselves upon her. St. Vincent, by contrast, seemed positively determined to warn her away from himself, and she could not quite picture him bestirring himself enough to force a girl to do anything against her will.

When Lillian made the introductions between her mother and St. Vincent, she saw the instant calculation in Mercedes’s eyes. Mercedes viewed all eligible men of the peerage, regardless of age, appearance, or reputation, as potential prey. She would stop at nothing to ensure that each of her daughters married a title, and it mattered little to her if the man behind it was young and handsome, or old and senile. Having commissioned a private report on nearly every peer of note in England, Mercedes had memorized hundreds of pages of financial figures about the British aristocracy. As she stared at the elegant viscount who stood before her, one could almost see her riffle through the wealth of information in her brain.

Remarkably, however, in the course of the next few minutes Mercedes relaxed in St. Vincent’s charming presence. He coaxed her into agreeing to the carriage drive, teased and flattered her, and listened to her opinions with such attentiveness that soon Mercedes began to blush and giggle like a girl in her teens. Lillian had never seen her mother behave that way with any other man. It quickly became obvious that whereas Westcliff made Mercedes nervous, St. Vincent had the opposite effect. He had a unique ability to make a woman—any woman, it seemed—feel attractive. He was far more polished than most American men, yet warmer and more accessible than English men. His allure was so compelling, in fact, that for a while Lillian forgot to glance around the room in search of Westcliff.

Taking Mercedes’s hand in his, St. Vincent bent over her wrist and murmured, “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Until tomorrow,” Mercedes repeated, looking dazzled, and suddenly Lillian had a glimpse of what her mother must have looked like in her youth before disappointment had hardened her. A few women leaned toward Mercedes, and she turned to confer with them.

Bending his dark golden head, St. Vincent murmured close to Lillian’s ear, “Would you care for that second glass of champagne now?”

Lillian nodded slightly, absorbing the pleasant mixture of fragrances that clung to him, the touch of expensive cologne, the hint of shaving soap, and the clean, clovelike essence of his skin.

“Here?” he asked softly. “Or in the garden?”

Realizing that he wanted her to steal away with him for a few minutes, Lillian felt a stirring of caution. Alone with St. Vincent in the garden…no doubt many an unwary girl’s downfall had begun that way. Considering the proposition, she let her gaze wander until she caught sight of Westcliff taking a woman into his arms. Waltzing with her, just as he had with Lillian. The forever unattainable Westcliff, she thought, and anger filled her. She wanted distraction. And comfort. And the large, handsome male in front of her seemed willing to provide it.

“The garden,” she said.