"You promise?"

He grinned. "Must I?"

"Yes."

"Very well. My promise, solemn and most sincere, is yours until you take pity on me and give it back."

The sound of her husky laugh was like music to his ears. "You can have it back, Sir Anthony, when you're too old to want it, and not a day sooner."

She came forward then, stopping just in front of him, her parasol tucked under her arm, her bonnet swinging from the cord held in her hand. She was a vision, by God, with her full lips turned up in a generous smile, her firm little chin that had proved so stubborn, and those lovely gold-flecked eyes sparkling with humor now.

He had been wise to leave Silverley last night, he reflected now, wise indeed. If he had stayed, he would have been drawn to Roslynn again when she needed time to cool her temper. So he had taken himself off to the village to celebrate, for which there was ample cause. She might have slapped him, but by God, he had aroused her, and that was reason enough for his high spirits, and cause for wenching, since she had definitely aroused him as well.

Anthony could have laughed, remembering how his plans had gone awry. The problem was, by the time he had found a willing lass, a comely one too, in the little tavern where he ended up, he no longer needed one or wanted one, other than the one he had left behind at Silverley. So when James unexpectedly showed up at the same tavern not long behind him, he very happily turned the little doxy over to his brother and settled for getting pleasantly drunk while he plotted his next move.

He had decided, quite shrewdly if her present smile was any indication, to change his approach for the time being. And after a lengthy talk with his favorite niece this morning, he had come upon the perfect contrivance. He would offer the lady what she couldn't refuse—help to achieve her goals. Of course, if the advice he gave hindered more than helped, he wouldn't lose any sleep over it. Her goals simply weren't his.

She was waiting, patiently, to hear why he had put himself in her path. Ah, the power of a few words.

She was at ease, her guard down, putting full trust in his promise. She had no way of knowing his passions far outweighed his whimsical honor, at least in dealing with those of the female gender.

He came away from the rail, his manner smooth, his voice impersonal. "It would be to your advantage, Lady Roslynn, to come along with me where we might talk privately."

Wariness returned. "I fail to see—"

His smile disarmed her. "My dear, I said talk, nothing more. If you can't bring yourself to trust me, how am I going to help you?"

Nonplussed. "Help me?"

"Of course," he replied. "That is what I had in mind. Now come along."

It was sheer curiosity that prompted Roslynn to hold her tongue and let him lead her downstairs and into the library. She simply couldn't fathom what he thought he was going to help her with. The only difficulties she was having at the moment were her attraction to him and her inability to scratch below the facade that her gentlemen presented to the public. Her gentlemen? No, he couldn't know about them, could he?

Whether he did or didn't, Roslynn found herself aghast to be blushing at the mere possibility. Fortunately, Anthony didn't notice, leading her directly to a sofa, then walking to the end of the long room and stopping before a liquor cart.

"Brandy?" he asked over his shoulder.

"At this hour?"

Her incredulous tone made him smile to himself. "No, of course not. How silly of me."

But he definitely needed one, for the thought flashed through his mind that he had her alone at last and only need lock the doors. But that wasn't what he had brought her here for, and he would have to keep thatthought uppermost in his mind.

He tossed down the brandy and strolled back to stand before the sofa on which she sat so decorously, legs pressed together, parasol and bonnet in her lap. She was huddled in one corner, leaving him a good five feet of space to occupy himself. He would be a bore to sit next to her when it was perfectly clear she didn't want him to. He did anyway, though he conceded enough to allow a six-inch space to keep her from panicking.

She panicked just the same. "Sir Anthony—"

"D'you think you could start calling me Anthony, or better yet, Tony? After all, if I'm to be your confidant—"

"Mywhat?"

He cocked a brow at her. "Too strong a word? Will friend and adviser do? After a long talk with my niece this morning, I realized you're sorely in need of both."

"She told you!" Roslynn's voice gasped accusingly. "Hell's teeth, she had no right!"

"Oh, it was done with the best of intentions, my dear. She wanted to impress on me how serious you are about getting married. Seems to think I have dishonorable intentions toward you. Can't imagine where she got that idea."

She glared at him, but it was impossible to keep her outrage alive after that bit of nonsense. Her laughter broke through, rich and delightful.

"You're a rogue, laddie. Doyounever take anything seriously?"

"Not if I can help it." He grinned.

"Well, try long enough to tell me why you of all people would want to aid me on my way to matrimony."

"It simply occurred to me that the sooner you're married and bored with it, the sooner I'll have you in my bed," he answered caddishly.

Anything else Roslynn wouldn't have believed.Thatshe believed completely.

"A rather long shot you're taking, wouldn't you say?" she bantered. "I could fall passionately in love with my husband, you know."

"Bite your tongue," he said with mock horror. "No one falls passionately in love these days, my dear, except young romantics and doddering old fools.And you're going about this thing much too sensibly for that possibility to occur."

"I'll concede that point for now. So what exactly are you offering to do for me?"

The loaded question brought a twinkle of amusement to his eyes. "Your situation is not unlike Reggie's was when she was looking for a husband. Her pressure came from having got through one season, as well as a tour of the Continent, with no luck whatsoever. Through no fault of her own, of course. She had to attend to finding a man my brothers and I could all agree was suitable for her."

"Yes, I recall her mentioning something like that."

"Did she tell you how she solved her problem?"

"She was compromised."

Roslynn was surprised to see him scowl at that answer. "She had nothing to do withthat. It was Montieth's cheeky idea of a jest on his current mistress that went awry. And we won't mention that again, if you please. But before then, Reggie had hired an old lord who knew absolutely everyone, and dragged him along with her to every function, as well as on her tour, so with a signal they had worked out together, he could tell her which men she met were worth considering or not."

Roslynn's eyes flared. "I hope you're not suggesting I take you along withmeeverywhere I go, Sir Anthony, because—"

He was quick to forestall her. "Not at all, and unnecessary besides. According to Reggie, you already have several chaps under consideration. As it happens, I know them a damn sight better than Montieth does, since they're all closer to my age than his. Three of them belong to my club; the fourth frequents the same sporting hall I do. I just have one question for you, my dear. Why have you discounted someone closer to your own age?"

Roslynn averted her eyes before murmuring, "An older man is likely to have more patience with my faults than a younger man."

"You have faults? Never say so."

"Everyone has faults!" she snapped.

"A quick temper wouldn't be one of yours, would it?"

Her narrowed gaze brought a laugh, but she went on testily. "An older man will be more settled, having sowed his wild oats already. If I am going to be faithful in this marriage, I must insist upon the same from my husband."

"But you're not going to be faithful, sweetheart," he reminded her.

"If I'm not, then I won't expect him to be. But if I am, I will. Let's leave it at that. The fact is, it was my grandfather who suggested I find a man with a good deal of experience behind him, and truth to tell, the younger men I've met so far haven't impressed me—well, except one, and him I decided to add to my list."

"Who?"

"Justin Warton."

"Warton!" Anthony sat up abruptly, exclaiming, "He's a mama's boy!"

"You needn't be disparaging," she replied curtly.

"My dear girl, if all you want are pristine reports from me on your lucky chaps, then I don't see what help I can be to you. They all present an outward showing that is beyond reproach, which is to be expected of gentlemen of their stature. I had assumed it was the dirt swept under the carpet that you would be interested in."

She felt warm under his censure. "You're right, of course. I'm sorry. Very well, in your opinion, which fellow would make the best husband?"

"You have no particular preference?"

"Not really. I find them all attractive, personable, and quite suitable from what I have been able to learn so far. That has been my difficulty. I don't know which one I should concentrate on to get this matter settled."

Anthony relaxed again, sitting back and casually placing his arm along the back of the sofa, just behind her head. She didn't seem to notice. She was impatiently waiting for him to answer her question, while he was going to carefully avoid doing so.

"It might help if you tell me what attributes you favor," he suggested.

"An easy temperament, a gentle hand, sensitivity, intelligence, patience, as I've said—"

"Delightful." His grin was wickedly maddening. "You'll be bored to tears, my dear, which will have us more intimately acquainted much sooner than I expected." Her pursed lips and scathing gaze elicited a chuckle, not in the least contrite. "You were saying?"

"There is also a marriage contract that must be signed," she said tightly. "It will prohibit my husband from having complete control over me or my holdings."

"Your idea?"

"My grandfather's. He was a stubborn old man with set ways. Since he was leaving his fortune to me, he wanted to make certain it stayed with me and wasn't put in the hands of some stranger he might or might not have approved of. He had the contract drawn up before he died."

"If he was so particular, why didn't he arrange you a marriage?"

Her look was wistful. "We had a special bond, Anthony. I didn't want to leave him while he still lived, and he would never have forced me to."

He smiled at her use of his name, slipping out without thought. It proved she was more comfortable with his company. She had even bent one knee to turn toward him while she spoke, more or less facing him now. It would be so easy to let his arm drop to her shoulders and draw her near…

Anthony shook himself mentally. "It's a moot point really. The only one I can think might object to this contract is Savage. Not that he'll be coveting your fortune. He's well enough off, I believe, for wealth not to be a criterion when he weds. But he's not a man who likes to have limitations placed on him. Still, if he wants you, it shouldn't matter."

"Then you recommend him?"

"My dear, I can safely say intelligence is the only criterion of yours that he meets. In fact, none of these chaps will meet every one of the qualities you're looking for. Warton, I suppose, comes closest to the mark, but if you marry him, you'll also be marrying his mother—that is, if she'll even allow him to marry.

I've never seen a woman hold the strings so tightly as that formidable lady."

Roslynn was frowning long before he had finished speaking. "Very well, don't recommend one. Just tell me what you know of the others."

"Easy enough. Let's see, shall we start with Fleming? Affectionately known as the bungling viscount, since he must be doing something wrong that no woman will ever be seen with him twice, but perhaps you'll be the exception. He's soft. Some have even called him a coward. Seems he was challenged once by a young man to a duel but wouldn't accept. Never did learn the reason for it. Has he shown a definite interest?"

Actually, he hadn't, but that was not the issue here. "Next?"

Anthony chuckled at her avoidance in answering his query. No need to tell her yet that young Fleming's fancy leaned toward those who wore boots, rather than satin slippers. If she could get the fellow to marry her, which he doubted, she would very quickly be looking outside the marriage bed for a lover.

"The Earl of Dunstanton is a likable enough chap; he just has a way with words that can cut a man to shreds. He seems to be beset with tragedy, however, what with three dead wives in the space of the past five years. It's not common knowledge, but with the death of each wife his estate has doubled."

"You're not suggesting—"

"Not at all," he assured her, taking advantage of her distracted alarm to bring his knee up to where it just touched hers. "It's no more than mere speculation bandied about by envious chaps not so well off."

The seed had been planted, even if it wasn't accurate. Two of the wives had died in childbirth, which truly was a tragedy, occurring one after the other. The third had fallen off a cliff, messy business, but the

earl certainly wasn't culpable unless he had it within his power to produce the freak storm that had spooked the lady's horse and led to her fall.

"What about Sir Artemus?"

"Loves to gamble, but don't we all." This said with a wink. "And you'd have a ready-made family if you go with him. He has dozens of little tykes—"