The viscount pulled her back down, held her firmly on his lap. “Stay. Please.” He stopped himself from saying, I beg of you, only by sheer will. “I promise complete discretion,” he said instead. “No one will ever know. My word on it.”

She hesitated when she shouldn’t have. When she should have instantly refused.

With practiced skill, he entered that breach of indecision and offered in negotiation, “What if I promise not to court Harriet?”

She swung around to face him. “I wouldn’t let you see her anyway.”

Her cool, abrupt volte-face surprised him; she was a woman of parts it seemed. Even in the heat of lust, she’d reverted to her role of protector. “You think not?” he murmured, his gaze amused. “Would you be locking up your sister, then?”

“Very funny,” she said with a sniff, brushing away his hands.

He obliged her, releasing her when he wouldn’t have had to.

But the mood was broken.

There would be other opportunities, he decided. The lady obviously liked sex. It would just be a matter of waiting for the right occasion. “Perhaps we could be friends at least,” he pleasantly said, lifting her from his lap and placing her on the seat beside him. He smiled. “You could tutor me in Greek philosophy when you have time.” Harriet had spoken of her sister’s admiration for the Greeks with mockery. “I confess, Aristotle always put me to sleep.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t make him any more palatable,” Claire said, crisply.

“I’m sure you could,” he answered with a grin.

“Fortunately, Ormond, that question will remain moot. Although, I thank you for the ride home,” she added politely, as if they had just finished tea or ended a waltz.