She could feel Mayne eyeing her corset again, but thankfully he didn’t say anything.

“As it happened, the Queen was receiving that afternoon. So I went to the Drawing Room. There was the usual flock of debutantes waiting to be received, and there, just in the middle, was an exquisite woman. I knew immediately that she was French, of course. It wasn’t her voice, but the way she carried herself. There’s nothing common about a Frenchwoman, do you know what I mean, Josie?”

Josie had probably read a few too many French romances for her own good. “Do you mean that Frenchwomen aren’t loose?” she asked dubiously.

“Oh, they misbehave with true joie de vivre. But they never look at a man with an invitation in their eyes,” he said, stretching his feet out. His legs went so far across the small floor that his feet almost touched her slippers. “They wait for a man to approach them, or they shrug them off. Do you see the difference?”

Josie thought about the eager way that Lady Lorkin’s eyes had skated over Mayne’s face. She took another swallow of champagne. It was a vastly improper thing to say, but: “Lady Lorkin, one must assume, is not of Gallic origin.”

She was rewarded by a snort of laughter. “Not a bit of it.”

“Are you carrying on an affaire with her?”

The laughter died in his eyes immediately. “I am affianced to Sylvie.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

But he wasn’t angry anymore. “I did have a tryst with her, some three years ago now. I’m afraid that she may have built it into a treasured memory.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

He looked faintly embarrassed. “I feel like an ass even saying such a thing in front of a young lady.”

“I may be young, but I’m not stupid. And if you remember, one of my sisters was engaged to you, so I’m fully aware of your scandalous background.”

His eyes fell and he was studying his boots again. “I should never have stood up Tess at the altar—”

“Not only that but you almost had an affaire with my other sister,” Josie interrupted. She was feeling blissful, for the first time since the season began. She grinned at him. “You spell nothing but trouble for the Essex sisters. We shall all be very glad when Sylvie ties you up nice and tight at the altar.”

“Unfair!” he protested. “All the Essexes have married without a protest from me. And I did not have an affaire with Imogen.”

“I know that,” Josie said smugly. “Though not for lack of trying on her part.”

He looked startled at this but said nothing.

“Why didn’t you allow her to seduce you?” Josie asked, holding out her glass so he could fill it again. “Imogen is very beautiful. She was widowed, so there wasn’t a husband to worry about. What on earth stopped you?”

“Do you think that I just gallivant around London, sleeping with any woman who throws me a lure?”

Josie thought about it for a moment. “Yes.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“If you’d had world enough and time…” she said mischievously.

“No, you little devil, that scrap of poetry won’t work. Marvell says his lady might remain coy if they had world enough and time—”

“The coy Mayne,” Josie said, interrupting him again. “Ah Mayne, how the ton has misjudged you! Why, you’ll hardly credit it—” she opened her eyes wide—“but they seem to think you are the greatest seducer of women ever to grace the ton.”

“Well, I’m not,” Mayne said sharply, draining his glass and filling it again.

He seemed a bit peevish, so Josie dropped the subject. There was nothing worse than being nagged about one’s bad traits. It was so much more pleasant to pretend they didn’t exist. Like overeating. She was going to eat one of those delicious sandwich squares, even given that she had sworn that very morning never to eat again.

She leaned forward from the waist, carefully, reached out for a sandwich and bumped Mayne’s hand. He was smiling at her, and suddenly Josie knew to the bottom of her toes why all those London ladies made fools of themselves over him. He must be well over thirty years old, but his eyes had a devilish smile in them that made her feel—

She dropped the sandwich as if it stung her.

Mayne was already sprawled back in his chair, but he bent forward and picked it up for her. “I’m afraid of what would happen if you tried to lean farther forward,” he remarked.

She scowled at him and edged back in her chair.

“So are you going to tell me what you’re wearing?” he asked, eating half the small sandwich in one bite.

It was all so easy for him. Women falling at his feet, and not a bit of guilt no matter what he ate. It just wasn’t fair. “No, I am not going to talk about my undergarments.”

“You look absurdly uncomfortable,” Mayne cheerfully observed.

Josie ate a bite of her sandwich. It was wonderful, a burst of salmon flavor with a touch of cucumber. “Your chef is marvelous,” she said when she finished.

Mayne leaned forward, grabbed two more for himself and one for her. “Don’t forget your champagne,” he said. “Champagne was designed by God to go with smoked salmon.”

There was a moment’s reverent silence while they both ate. Then Mayne emptied the last of the champagne bottle into Josie’s glass. “Have we drunk all that?” she asked, slightly alarmed.

“No, it was half empty when opened,” he said sarcastically. “If you won’t talk to me about your undergarments, will you talk to Sylvie about them?”

“Certainly not!” Josie squeaked, picturing his slender fiancée.

“One of your sisters, then?”

“Naturally, Imogen took me to her very own modiste, a Frenchwoman,” she added pointedly. “Madame Badeau. I have entirely new clothing for the season, and while you may not approve, I assure you that Madame Badeau is the very best modiste in London.”

Mayne’s eyes narrowed and he was staring at her again. Josie would have straightened, except she couldn’t be any straighter than she was. She drank her champagne and then broke the silence. “I might as well say what I’m sure you’re thinking,” she said, putting her glass down on the table with a little click. “The only thing that gets me into this gown at all is my corset. It works miracles. I love it.” She finished the last sentence bravely.

Mayne wasn’t looking at her anymore; he was cutting the string around the cork of a bottle of champagne that Josie hadn’t seen before.

“Are we going to drink more?” she asked, with a little gasp.

He shrugged. “Why not? At this point, we’ve missed most of the party. I shouldn’t like to return you to Rafe’s until we are quite certain the crowds are gone and no one will see us. I don’t suppose you’ve drunk much champagne in the past?”

“I had a glass once before,” Josie said, looking lovingly at the bubbles in the bottle. “It’s much more interesting than I thought.”

“Don’t develop a passion for it,” he advised her. “Look at Rafe and how long it took him to become sober.”

“Oh, I won’t.”