“No,” Simon muttered, feeling his blood heat until it scalded the inside of his veins. He could not allow himself to pursue that line of thought, or his hard-thrumming desire would make the rest of the ride damned uncomfortable. When he had gotten his lust under control, Simon glanced at Westcliff, who appeared to be brooding. That was unusual for Westcliff, who was not the brooding sort.

The two men had been friends for about five years, having met at a supper given by a progressive politician with whom they were both acquainted. Westcliff’s autocratic father had just died, and it had been left to Marcus, the new earl, to take charge of the family’s business affairs. He had found the family finances to be superficially sound but ailing underneath, much like a patient who had contracted a terminal disease but still appeared healthy. Alarmed by the steady losses revealed by the account books, the new earl of Westcliff had recognized that drastic changes had to be made. He had resolved to avoid the fate of other peers who spent their lives presiding over an ever-shrinking family fortune. Unlike the silver-fork novels that depicted countless peers losing their wealth at the gambling tables, the reality was that modern aristocrats were generally not so reckless as they were simply inept financial managers. Conservative investments, old-fashioned views and illfated fiscal arrangements were slowly eroding aristocratic wealth and allowing a newly prosperous class of professional men to encroach on the higher levels of society. Any man who chose to disregard the influences of science and industrial advances on the emerging economy was sure to be abandoned in its churning wake…and Westcliff had no desire to be included in that category.

When Simon and Westcliff had struck up a friendship, there had been no doubt that each man was using the other to get something he wanted. Westcliff had wanted the benefit of Simon’s financial instincts, and Simon had wanted an entree into the world of the privileged class. But as they had become acquainted with each other, it became apparent that they were alike in many ways. They were both aggressive riders and huntsmen, requiring frequent strenuous physical activity as an outlet for an excess of vigor. And they were both uncompromisingly honest, although Westcliff possessed sufficient grace of manner to make his candor far more palatable. Neither man was the kind to sit for hours at a time to chat about poetry and sentimental concepts. They preferred to deal with tangible facts and issues, and, of course, they discussed current and future business ventures with keen enjoyment.

As Simon had continued to be a regular guest at Stony Cross, and a frequent visitor to Westcliff’s London house, Marsden Terrace, the earl’s friends had gradually come to accept him into their circle. It had been a welcome surprise for Simon to discover that he was not the only commoner whom Westcliff considered a close friend. The earl seemed to prefer the company of men whose perspectives of the world had been shaped outside the walls of noble estates. In fact, Westcliff occasionally claimed that he would like to disclaim his title, were such a thing possible, since he did not support the notion of hereditary aristocracy. Simon had no doubt that Westcliff’s statements were sincere—but it had never seemed to dawn on Westcliff that aristocratic privilege, with all its power and attendant responsibilities, was an innate part of him. As the holder of the oldest and most revered earldom in England, Marcus, Lord Westcliff, had been born to serve the demands of duty and tradition. He kept his life well organized and tightly scheduled, and he was the most self-controlled man that Simon had ever known.

At the moment, the usually coolheaded earl seemed rather more perturbed than the situation warranted.

“Damn,” Westcliff finally exclaimed. “I have occasional business dealings with their father. How am I supposed to face Thomas Bowman without remembering that I’ve seen his daughter in her underwear?”

“Daughters,” Simon corrected. “They were both there.”

“I only noticed the taller one.”

“Lillian?”

“Yes, that one.” A scowl crossed Westcliff’s face. “Good God, no wonder they’re all unmarried! They’re heathens even by American standards. And the way that woman spoke to me, as if I should have been embarrassed to interrupt their pagan revelry—”

“Westcliff, you sound like a prig,” Simon interrupted, amused by the earl’s vehemence. “A few innocent girls scampering about in the meadow is hardly the end of civilization as we know it. And if they had been village wenches, you’d have thought nothing of it. Hell, you probably would have joined them. I’ve seen you do things with your paramours at parties and balls that—”

“Well, they aren’t village wenches, are they? They’re young ladies—or at least they’re supposed to be. Why in God’s name are a bunch of wallflowers behaving in such a way?”

Simon grinned at his friend’s aggrieved tone. “My impression is that they have become allies in their un-wedded state. For most of the past season they sat without speaking to each other, but it seems they’ve recently struck up a friendship.”

“For what purpose?” the earl asked with deep suspicion.

“Perhaps they’re merely trying to enjoy themselves?” Simon suggested, interested by the degree to which Westcliff had taken exception to the girls’ behavior. Lillian Bowman, in particular, seemed to have bothered him profoundly. And that was unusual for the earl, who always treated women with casual ease. To Simon’s knowledge, despite the numbers of women who pursued him in and out of bed, Westcliff had never lost his detachment. Until then.