And then the look was broken. It was just a glance, really, nothing more, yet she had read all that in the short moment it took for a brief meeting of their eyes.

She had read something of his heart in that glance.

The list could be burned. Montwyn was her choice. The only thing left to do was let him know of his good fortune.

Their after-dinner entertainment was supplied by Lady Elena of the sweet smile. She played the pianoforte and she played it very well. She would make someone a very pretty wife. But not Montwyn. Montwyn was to be hers.

She could not see him from her position on the couch, but she knew that he was somewhere behind her. Where behind her? Looking fondly at Lady Elena, imagining her playing the pianoforte in Montwyn Hall?

Clarissa turned her head as casually as she could manage in order to look into the dim corners of the capacious room. She did not have to look so far as that, for Beau stood just behind her and met her eyes as she turned. Green eyes sparkled into deepest brown; she did not look away, but took in the sight of him, knowing that he had been looking at her and not at Elena.

The glance, growing into a stare of awareness, did not break. She could feel the power of him through his eyes. She could see him smile in self-satisfaction.

Oh, yes, that was what it was. She had ten older brothers; she knew the look well.

Clarissa turned away and fanned herself gracefully, pretending to listen to the crescendo of Elena's piece. Beau grew more confident by the hour, and such confidence, since it was directed at her, did not sit well. It was stupid to delay the inevitable when it would only gratify his arrogance. She would not be coy or flirtatious with the man she had chosen to marry. To what purpose to pretend hesitation or uncertainty? She had made her selection-all that was left was to pay the bill.

Elena concluded to a round of warm applause at her skill and her general prettiness. Beau left his position at Clarissa's back and went around to the pianoforte, bowing low over Lady Elena's hand and murmuring words that only she could hear-and that caused a most delicate blush to rise in her cheeks. Clarissa watched all with a cold eye and a trim smile of amusement. Let him play at seduction; he was already hers. She was certain he knew that as well as she, for she would never have chosen a man of low intelligence or dull sensitivity.

After escorting Elena back to her seat, Beau approached Clarissa. She rose so as to meet him standing. She had known he would return to her; it was inevitable.

His eyes searched hers again, and again she held his gaze. She was not insensible to him-hardly that, for he made the blood grow thick in her bosom and her legs felt as soft as pudding-but she would not be the timid miss for him; he would not want that, and she did not want it for herself. Let them meet as equals in this matrimonial excursion, and let them both willingly and openly pay the price of union.

"You've made your selection," she said softly, her bosom heating as she said the words. "Why encourage her to think otherwise?"

"Have I?" he whispered, staring down at her.

He was such a tall man, so broad, with such bearing; it came to her mind that she should be the slightest bit in awe of him. She rejected the thought as illogical.

"You would like to play out the farce?" she asked. "When we both know the finale?"

"Are you as bold as you seem?" he said, almost in an undertone for his own ears.

"Is it boldness you see in me?" Clarissa asked, wanting him to see more.

"Assuredly," he said.

"Not astuteness? Not discernment?"

He took her arm in answer, and they left the light and noise of the salon behind them. Lord Wingate and his sister were being encouraged in a duet. Beau closed the door behind them and led her into the wide central hallway. It was well lit, with the noise of the party and the bustle of servants surrounding them, yet the quiet and seclusion, the intensity of his presence, made all seem intimate and clandestine. She felt, somehow, that it was intentional on his part-that he was testing the degree of her temerity. She did not care. He was her best choice, and, without undue pride, she determined that she was his.

"Because you are an astute shopper?" he asked, his eyes intent upon her face. "Able to choose the finest lace at the most reasonable price?" He moved closer to her, just a step, but she felt her breath catch and moved away from him.

"I am a good shopper. Your vanity must compel you to agree. And there are worse attributes in a wife."

"And what woman, maid or matron, shops without a list?" he said abruptly, hoping to catch her in an embarrassment.

"Not I, surely," she said, chin up and eyes clear as fine wine.

Yet she, impossible woman, would not be pricked by so small a thing as shame. She did not bleed from the wound his words had attempted. She was bold, no matter her claims to be discerning. What woman on the marriage mart would be so obvious, so blatant, so without feminine guile in her matrimonial pursuits? Was it a game she played to catch his interest, for she surely had, or was she truly as bold as she appeared?

He pressed closer to her, his hand upon her arm, and forced her to promenade the hallway with him; he would not compromise her, for he did not want her by that route, and he would not give her the chance to catch him with that old ruse. No, all would be proper, if a bit irregular.

"What was the body of your list? How was it compiled?" he asked.

"By priorities, my lord, how else?" she said, and then smiled. "Surely Dalton told you as much."

He smiled down at her, amused and engaged. She was astute. And a beauty. If he had bothered to compile a list, certainly it would have featured those two attributes. Rather call them necessities.

"I was informed only of a list in the making," he quibbled. "I am… honored?… to have been included."

"You are not sincere, but I am," she said, her hand light upon his arm. She did not tremble. He was impressed. "You are on my list of possible husbands. If the truth be told, I am quite certain that you are on many similar lists throughout London. I'm sure your dining companion who plays the pianoforte so sweetly will add your name to her list before she retires."

Her boldness went too far, straying into vulgarity. "You show only boldness and no discernment in making such a remark," he said with tight anger.

"You are right. I apologize," she said quickly enough. "But it is the truth."

It may well have been the truth, but he was both appalled… and flattered. She could read it in him, he knew.

"The truth is delightful, is it not?" she said, laughing lightly.

He had never found being laughed at to be even remotely tolerable. Until now.

He wanted to tell her that she was the rarity, the delight. He didn't know there could be such a woman as Clarissa Walingford seemed to be. But perhaps she only seemed to be.

"Shall we test it?" he challenged. "A conversation of truth, only truth, with none of the layered shadings of practiced civility? Do you dare it, Clarissa?"

"Truth need not be uncivil," she said, her manner quietly cautious. He silently applauded her: bold but not reckless.

"Then a civil truth. Shall we try?" He grinned, pressing his hand over hers as it lay upon his arm.

Clarissa smiled up at him, her expression playful, and said, "Yes. I would enjoy it."

"The first truth. And a truth most civil," he teased. But he wanted more than careful, polite truths from her. He wanted to see into her heart. "How real is your list?"

"Quite real. I held it in my hand but hours ago," she said.

"And my name was on it, held between your hands?"

He did not touch her hand, but his eyes went there, and she clenched her hand upon his arm to keep him away from the vulnerability of her palm.