“Oh,” she murmured. “You must mean my…my request for her sponsorship…”

“Are we calling it a request?” Westcliff reached out to tuck a strand of loose hair neatly behind her ear. His fingertip brushed the outer edge, following the curve to the soft pad of her earlobe. “As I recollect, it bore a strong resemblance to extortion.” He fingered the delicate lobe, his thumb smoothing over the tingling surface. “You never wear earrings. Why not?”

“I…” Suddenly she wasn’t breathing properly. “My ears are very sensitive,” she managed. “It hurts to clamp them with earbobs…and the thought of piercing them with a needle…” She stopped with a broken inhalation as she felt the tip of his middle finger investigating the shell of her ear, tracing the fragile inner structure. Westcliff let his thumb brush over the taut line of her jaw and the vulnerable softness beneath her chin, until she felt hot color spreading over her cheeks. They were sitting so close…it must be that he could smell her perfume. That was the only explanation for his loverlike touch on her face.

“Your skin is like silk,” he murmured. “What were we talking about?…Oh yes, the countess. I managed to persuade her to sponsor you and your sister for the next season.”

Lillian’s eyes widened in astonishment. “You did? How? Did you have to bully her?”

“Do I strike you as the kind of man who would bully his sixty-year-old mother?”

“Yes.”

A low laugh vibrated in his throat. “I have methods other than bullying,” he informed her. “You just haven’t seen them yet.”

There was an implication in his words that she couldn’t quite identify …but it filled her with a tingle of anticipation. “Why did you persuade her to help me?” she asked.

“Because I thought I might enjoy inflicting you on her.”

“Well, if you’re going to make me sound like some sort of plague—”

“And,” Westcliff interrupted, “I felt obligated to make amends after my rough handling of you this morning.”

“It wasn’t all your fault,” she said reluctantly. “I suppose I might have been somewhat provoking.”

“Somewhat,” he agreed dryly, his fingertips sliding behind her ear to the satiny edge of her hairline. “I should warn you that my mother’s consent to the arrangement is not unconditional. If you push her too far, she’ll balk. Therefore, I advise you to try to behave in her presence.”

“Behave how?” Lillian asked, excruciatingly aware of the gentle exploration of his fingertip. If her sister didn’t return soon, she thought dizzily, Westcliff was going to kiss her. And she wanted him to, so badly that her lips had begun to tremble.

He smiled at her question. “Well, whatever else you may do, don’t—” He broke off suddenly, glancing at their surroundings as if he had become aware of some- one’s approach. Lillian could hear nothing except the rustle of the breeze that swept through the trees and scattered a few fallen leaves across the graveled pathways. However, in just a moment a lean, lithe form cut through the mosaic of torchlight and shadow, and the gleam of antiqued-gold hair identified the visitor as Lord St. Vincent. Westcliff withdrew his hand from Lillian immediately. The sensual spell was broken, and she felt the rush of warmth begin to fade.

St. Vincent’s stride was long but relaxed, his hands buried casually in the depths of his coat pockets. He smiled at the sight of the pair on the bench, his gaze lingering on Lillian’s face.

There was no doubt that this remarkably beautiful man, with the face of a fallen angel and eyes the color of heaven at daybreak, had occupied the dreams of many women. And been cursed by many a cuckolded husband.

It seemed an unlikely friendship, Lillian thought, glancing from Westcliff to St. Vincent. The earl, with his straightforward, principled nature, must certainly disapprove of his friend’s wayward inclinations. But as often was the case, this particular friendship might be strengthened by their differences rather than being undermined by them.

Stopping before them, St. Vincent confided, “I would have found you sooner, but I was attacked by a swarm of dingy-dippers.” His voice lowered with conspiratorial furtiveness. “And I don’t wish to alarm either of you, but I had to warn you…they’re planning to serve kidney pudding in the fifth course.”

“I can manage that,” Lillian said ruefully. “It is only animals served in their natural state that I seem to have difficulty with.”

“Of course you do, darling. We’re barbarians, the lot of us, and you were perfectly right to be appalled by the calves’ heads. I don’t like them either. In fact, I rarely consume beef in any form.”

“Are you a vegetarian, then?” Lillian asked, having heard the word frequently of late. Many discussions had centered on the topic of the vegetable system of diet that was being promoted by a hospital society in Ramsgate.

St. Vincent responded with a dazzling smile. “No, sweet, I’m a cannibal.”

“St. Vincent,” Westcliff growled in warning, seeing Lillian’s confusion.

The viscount grinned unrepentantly. “It’s a good thing I happened along, Miss Bowman. You’re not safe alone with Westcliff, you know.”

“I’m not?” Lillian parried, tensing inwardly as she reflected that he never would have made the glib comment had he known of the intimate encounters between her and the earl. She didn’t dare look at Westcliff, but she apprehended the immediate stillness of the masculine form so close to hers.