"Surely you do not intend to keep me from returning to my bedchamber, my lord?"

Graystone's brows rose slightly. "I would not want you to go back upstairs without that which you came for."

Augusta 's mouth went dry. He could not possibly know about Rosalind Morrissey's journal. "As it happens, I feel quite sleepy now, my lord. I do not think I shall need anything to read, after all."

"Not even the item you hoped to find in Enfield's desk?"

Augusta took refuge in high dudgeon. "How dare you imply I was attempting to get into Lord Enfield's desk? I told you, my hairpin simply happened to land in the lock when it fell."

"Allow me, Miss Ballinger." Graystone removed a length of wire from his dressing gown pocket and slid it gently into the desk lock. There was a faint but quite distinct snick.

Augusta watched in astonishment as he eased open the top drawer and studied the contents. Then he waved a casual hand, inviting her to search for what she wanted.

Augusta eyed the earl warily, chewed on her lower lip for a few tense seconds, and then hastily leaned down and began pawing through the drawer. She found the small leather-bound volume beneath several sheets of foolscap. She snatched it up at once.

"My lord, I do not know what to say." Augusta clutched the journal and looked up to meet Graystone's eyes.

The earl's harsh features appeared even more grim than usual in the flickering candlelight. He was not a handsome man by any measure, but Augusta had found him strangely compelling since the moment her uncle had introduced her to him at the start of The Season.

There was something in those aloof gray eyes of his that made her want to reach out to him, even though she knew he probably would not thank her for it. Part of the attraction, she knew, must have been nothing more than sheer feminine curiosity. She sensed a closed door deep inside the man and she longed to open it. She did not know why.

He was really not her type at all. By rights she ought to have found Graystone extremely dull. Instead, she found him a dangerously disturbing enigma.

Graystone's thick, dark hair was flecked with silver. He was in his mid-thirties but he could easily have passed for forty, not because of any softness in his face or form; rather the opposite. There was a hard, somber quality about him that spoke of too much experience and too much knowledge. It was an odd mien for a classical scholar, she realized. Another part of the enigma.

Dressed as he was for his bedchamber, it was clear the breadth of Graystone's shoulders and the lean, solid lines of his body were natural and owed nothing to his tailor. There was a sleek, heavy, predatory grace about him that sent strange sensations down Augusta's spine. She had never met a man who had the effect on her that Graystone had.

She did not understand why she found herself attracted to him. They were complete opposites in temperament and manner. In any event, the effect was quite wasted, she was sure. The sensual thrill, the shiver of excitement that vibrated deep within her whenever the earl was close, the feelings of anxiety and wistful longing she experienced when she spoke to him, all meant nothing.

Her deep conviction that Graystone had known loss, just as she had, and the knowledge that he needed love and laughter to overcome the bleak, cold shadows in his eyes did not matter in the slightest. It was well known Graystone was hunting a bride, but Augusta knew he would not consider a woman who might overset his carefully regulated life. No, he would select another sort of female entirely.

She had heard the gossip and knew what the earl required in a wife. Rumor had it that, being the methodical type he was, Graystone had a list and that he had set his standards very high. Any woman who wished to get herself added to his list, it was said, must be a model of the female virtues. She must be a paragon: serious of mind and temperament, dignified of manner and bearing, and totally unsullied by even a hint of gossip. In short, Graystone's bride would be a pattern of propriety.

The sort of female who would never dream of rifling through her host's desk in the middle of the night.

"I would imagine," the earl murmured, eying the small volume in Augusta's hand, "that the less said, the better. The owner of that journal is a close friend of yours, I assume?"

Augusta sighed. There was little to lose now. Further protests of innocence were useless. Graystone obviously knew far more than he ought about this night's adventures.

"Yes, my lord, she is." Augusta lifted her chin. "My friend made the foolish mistake of writing down certain matters of the heart in her journal. She later came to regret those emotions when she discovered that the man involved was not equally sincere in his feelings."

"That man being Enfield?"

Augusta 's mouth tightened grimly. "The answer to that is obvious. The journal is here in his desk, is it not? Lord Enfield may be accepted in the most important drawing rooms because of his title and his heroic actions during the war, but I fear he is a despicable cad when it comes to dealing with women. My friend's journal was stolen immediately after she told him she was no longer in love with him. We believe a maid was bribed."

"We?" Graystone repeated softly.

Augusta ignored the veiled inquiry. She certainly was not going to tell him everything. Most especially she was not going to enlighten him on the matter of how she had arranged to be here at Enfield 's estate this weekend. "Enfield told my friend he intended to demand her hand in marriage and that he would use the contents of her journal to ensure that she accepted."

"Why would Enfield bother to blackmail your friend into marriage? He is exceedingly popular with the ladies these days. They all appear to be quite enthralled by his account of his own actions at Waterloo."

"My friend is the heiress to a great fortune, my lord." Augusta shrugged. "Gossip has it that Enfield has gambled away a great deal of his own inheritance since returning from the continent. He and his mother have apparently decided he must marry money."

"I see. I had not realized word of Enfield's recent losses had spread so quickly among the fair sex. He and his mother have both worked very hard to keep the matter quiet. This large house party is evidence of that."

Augusta smiled very pointedly. "Yes, well, you know how it is when a man begins hunting for a very particular sort of bride, my lord. The rumors of his intentions precede him and the more intelligent of the quarry take note."

"Are you implying something about my own intentions, by any chance, Miss Ballinger?"

Augusta felt the heat in her cheeks but refused to back down before his cool, disapproving gaze. After all, Graystone invariably looked disapproving when he was talking to her.

"Since you ask, my lord," Augusta said firmly, "I may as well tell you that it is well known you are looking for a very specific sort of female to marry. It is even said you have a list."

"Fascinating. And do they say who is on my list?"

She glowered at him. "No. One hears only that it is a very short list. But I suppose that is understandable when one considers your requirements, which are said to be extremely strict and exacting."

"This grows more intriguing by the moment. What, precisely, are my requirements in a wife, Miss Ballinger?"

Augusta wished she had kept her mouth shut. But prudence had never been one of the stronger suits of the Ballingers who descended from the Northumberland side of the family. She plunged on recklessly. "Rumor has it that, like Caesars wife, your bride must be above suspicion in every way. A serious-minded female of excessively refined sensibilities. A pattern of propriety. In short, my lord, you are looking for perfection. I wish you luck."