“I’m sorry.” She made a small moue-reluctant to find herself feeling compassion for Ormond who would have seduced Harriet without a qualm.

“No, you’re not.” Corking the flask, he tossed it on the opposite seat.

“Rather, I don’t wish to be.”

“Because of Harriet.”

“Of course. You would have dishonored her.”

He didn’t answer. He shrugged instead. “She wasn’t exactly unwilling.”

“She’s young and stupid. You are neither.”

“What do you want me to say? It’s the way of the world.” He shrugged again. “And I’m no saint.”

“Just kindly stay away from her.”

He held her gaze for a moment in the dimly lit interior, a willful fire in his eyes. “What about you?”

“I’m not interested.”

Immune to the reproof in her voice, he said half under his breath as though trying to understand his aberrant impulse, “And yet, curiously, you interest me.” He frowned faintly in an effort to grasp the incomprehensible. Fulsome blondes were generally his style, not this prickly, bluestocking with a disconcertingly direct gaze.

“Take heart, Ormond,” Claire murmured, noting his frown. “I’m sure you’ll change your mind by morning. Rumor has it you’re fickle,” she added, sardonically.

He laughed, her mockery pointed but true. “Touché. While you, I expect, only harbor the most sincere and lasting emotions.”

“Is that not the way of the world, my lord,” she replied, derisively. “Men play at love while women risk shame for similar activities.”

“As you say,” he murmured. So she was not a complete martinet when it came to the conventions governing women; she apparently took issue with the double standard. Before he had time to reflect further on that intriguing bit of information the carriage came to a halt. Glancing out, he saw that they had reached Mrs. Bellingham’s. As his gaze returned to Claire he found himself saying something he hadn’t said since his green youth. “May I kiss you good night?”