Standing, she moved toward him with a determined stride and thrust out her hand. As if cued, the singers below ended their hymn, leaving a sudden silence into which she said, “I am Eliza Martin.”

Her voice surprised him. Soft as a summer breeze, but threaded with steel. The sound of it lingered, stirring his imagination to travel in directions it shouldn’t.

He shifted his cane to his other hand and accepted her greeting. “Miss Martin.”

“I appreciate your courtesy in meeting with me. However, you are exactly what I feared you would be.”

“Oh?” Taken aback by her direct approach, he found himself becoming more intrigued. “In what way?”

“In every way, sir. I contacted Mr. Lynd because we require a certain type of individual. I regret the need to say you are not he.”

“Would you object to my request for elaboration?”

“The points are too numerous,” she pronounced.

“Nevertheless, a man in my position seeks predictability in others but fears it in himself. Since you state I am the epitome of what you did not want, I feel I must request an accounting of the criteria upon which you based your judgment.”

Miss Martin seemed to ponder his response for a moment. In the brief time of introspection, Jasper collected what his instincts had recognized upon first sight: Eliza Martin was intensely aware of him. Without her cognizance, her baser senses were reacting to him much the way his were to her: her delicate nostrils flared, her breathing quickened, her body swayed with the undercurrent of agitation…a doe sensing the hunter nearby.

“Yes,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “I can see why that would be true.”

“Of course it’s true. I never lie to clients.” He never bedded them either, but that was about to change.

“You have not been engaged,” she reminded, “so I am not a client.”

The man with the frightening hair intruded. “Eliza, marry Montague and be done with this farce.”