“Harriet refers to you as a spinster,” he said with a teasing grin-apparently untroubled by their close proximity.

“A very contented spinster.” She refused to respond to his boyish grin, intent on retaining her composure. “Unlike Harriet, we’re not all looking to marriage as our salvation,” she pithily added, wishing him to understand that she was not as gullible as the other women who came within his scope.

“Then you and I should get along famously,” he drawled.

She sent him a withering glance. “There is no you and I.”

His brows rose in teasing rejoinder. “I could make it worth your while. My fortune is considerable-and as you previously noted, alluring.”

“Not to everyone, my lord. I choose to earn my own way in the world.”

“Good God. Doing what?” The only women he knew who earned their own way were in the demimonde.

“I have a school for young ladies.”

“How commendable.”

“A necessity. I don’t wish to be beholden to my aunt.”

“I see.”

“I’m sure you don’t. Men like you have never known privation.”

“Or perhaps men like me-as you so censoriously remark-have known other kinds of privation.” Overcome by an unexpected sense of sadness-raw as the day he watched his mother die-he looked away for a moment. He must be overtired, he decided. When had he last slept? He couldn’t remember. Turning to his usual remedy for melancholy, he leaned down and pulled out a flask from under the seat. “Whiskey?” Uncorking the chased silver container, he held it out to her.

“No, thank you.” A stiff, discouraging response.

Perhaps it might have been to others; Ormond took no notice. “If you don’t mind,” he drawled, already lifting the flask to his mouth. Draining it in one long draught, he took note of her rigid posture and murmured, “No need for alarm. I never get drunk.” He smiled tightly. “In contrast to my father who has never been sober,” he added, each word filled with loathing.