"Yes," she said softly, averting her eyes. He was so overwhelming at this proximity. It was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain her composure.

"Why am I on your list?" he asked.

She could only look at him, feeling his nearness and his strength, feeling that she should take care and protect herself, but she could not. She stood, immobilized by his touch and by the impossible nature of his question. Why was he on her list? She would not tell him that he was handsome. She would not tell him that he amused her. She would not tell him that he drew her in when all of London seemed closed to her Irish heart. She would not tell, for she would not allow those words into her thoughts. She could only want him for what he could give her, not for what he could inspire in her. That was all she would allow herself.

"What is it about me that has made me so profoundly eligible?" he said.

Ah, he wanted compliments, as all men did. That, also, she would not do. A man never appreciated the giver of the compliment, but only the compliment itself, hugging the words to his chest as he strolled off in self-congratulation. She had not needed ten brothers to teach her that basic truth.

"You have a wonderful… estate in Ireland," she said casually.

It was not what he had expected to hear. It was not what he wanted to hear. He was titled, well regarded, fit, and not unpleasant to look upon. All for naught if his Irish lands were forfeit? Impossible. No truth could have so much folly in it. She wanted him; he knew that for a truth.

" Dalton mentioned as much to me. I assumed in jest," he said, turning her for the walk back down the hall. It was much quieter here, which did not suit him at present, as it made the sound of his shattering vanity ring more loudly in his ears.

"It is no jest."

"I can see that it is not. Why Ireland?" he asked. He had been wondering. It was a strange prerequisite for a betrothal.

" Ireland is home," she said in all simplicity. "I want to go home."

" Ireland is home? When were you last there?"

"Ten years or so. I miss it very much."

"I would say that you could hardly remember it."

"Then you would be wrong. I remember it well," she said, her voice firm and strangely resolute.

He doubted the truth of that statement. She must have been a young girl when she had left, not above ten years. But he could see that she believed her words. As it was to be a discussion of civil truths, he would not argue the point with her.

"Why do you want to marry me?" she asked into his silence.

"Have I said I do?" he replied, just a bit flustered. What sort of woman asked such a question?

"Is this not to be a conversation of truths?" she asked, her words biting into his manhood. "Were the truths all to be my own?"

"I blush," he said almost comically. "You shame me." He grinned and granted her a brief bow. "Very well. I do want to marry you. Have I just proposed?"

"If you need to ask me, then no, you have not. I would not be so unfair."

But he would not call it unfair to achieve union with such a woman. She was enchanting, completely out of his experience, delightful. He was more than ready to ask her for her hand.

He was not to have the chance that evening. Perry and Jane, obviously concerned over her lengthy absence and not put at ease at finding them in such relative seclusion, interrupted their conversation. It would not be resumed that night; he was to have no such liberties with Lady Clarissa again. His eyes followed her throughout the remainder of the evening; he could not even think to play at his amusement with Lady Elena. In all the room there was only Clarissa.

They had not finished their conversation, not yet. Tomorrow… tomorrow he would call upon her. The thought was a fever in his blood that he welcomed as warmly as a brother.

"Has he proposed yet?" Jane whispered as they donned their cloaks.

"Tomorrow," Clarissa said softly, with a smile of pure anticipation. "He will tomorrow."

At the hour of three, which was when Beau felt it appropriate to make his appearance at the Walingford town house, everyone in the house, including the pastry chef, knew he was there to propose marriage. Her brothers were especially jubilant; after all, Clarissa might have an imperfect understanding of politics, but she understood the way a man's mind worked well enough. With ten tutors it was hardly likely that she'd be less than proficient at it. They were damned proud of her, too. Montwyn was a good match for them. She'd done well. For privacy, it was agreed that they be allowed to stroll the garden together. Clarissa looked fetching in a lilac pelisse with a matching bonnet. Dalton, watching from a third-floor window, could only smile. Montwyn had been spoken for. One could only wonder if he realized it yet.

However, the more interesting question was whether Clarissa understood that Montwyn would never let her plop herself down in Ireland without him.

The garden was barren of leaves, but the privet hedge provided structure, as did the stone bench on the back wall. It was a pretty garden, the bricks laid in a herringbone pattern around a sundial that amply demonstrated how cloudy a day it was. Fortunately there had been no rain for a week. It was a pleasant place to linger, even in December. And they had all the privacy they could wish.

"Shall we continue?" Beau asked, looking larger than usual in his greatcoat and hat.

"You like truth very well, it seems," she said, smiling at him.

"I do." He nodded with a smile. "I may well have contracted a daily need for it."

Clarissa held her tongue. She would not put the words in his mouth to spit back out at her. He would do this on his own.

"Do you play coy now?" he asked.

"No," she said pleasantly. "Let us return to my question of last evening. Why do you want to marry me?"

"Why?" he blustered, clearly taken aback. It was most amusing. "Why does any man want to marry?"

"For heirs?" she said. "Any woman could do that for you."

He really was blushing now, but she would not relent. She would not bind herself to a man because he found her amusing or entertaining. Let there be more to their union than that, even if she dwelled in Ireland alone. But with this man, would she be left alone?

"You are the most confounded woman," he grumbled.

"I suppose I am, and it's best you know it now. Perhaps if you ask me to marry you, our conversation will progress more smoothly," she suggested, giving up her earlier transigence.

He turned to face her, stopping them on the path. Her feet were cold. It didn't matter. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, the most masculine, the most marvelous. His eyes, so green in the gray world of winter, demanded something of her. Pity, she supposed. He looked a man beset and just a bit bewildered. A man on the brink of matrimony would have such a look; Lindley had looked so when he had offered for Miss Brookdale. It must be the way of men to have to be hounded to the altar. She felt completely calm. She knew what she wanted. She only waited for him to say it.

"Let me ask you instead why you so clearly want to marry me," he said, adjusting his hat when it was already set perfectly upon his head. When she paused, he crowed, "You see? It is not so simple a question to answer. No one should be put in such a position. I withdraw-"

"No," she interrupted him. "I want to answer you. This is more in the matter of a practical arrangement, and I believe we should be truthful about both our purpose and our expectations."

"Come now. I expect no such answer. This borders on incivility-"

"I disagree. Let us be honest with each other at the very least; even if this is to be our last conversation."

At his silence, she only smiled. He had not liked hearing that gently voiced threat.