The chef turned back to the housekeeper. “Why is there doubt about the relations between Monsieur and Madame Rutledge?”

The sheets,” she said succinctly.

Jake nearly choked on his pastry. “You have the housemaids spying on them?” he asked around a mouthful of custard and cream.

Not at all,” the housekeeper said defensively. “It’s only that we have vigilant maids who tell me everything. And even if they didn’t, one hardly needs great powers of observation to see that they do not behave like a married couple.”

The chef looked deeply concerned. “You think there’s a problem with his carrot?”

Watercress, carrot—is everything food to you?” Jake demanded.

The chef shrugged. “Oui.”

Well,” Jake said testily, “there is a string of Rutledge’s past mistresses who would undoubtedly testify there is nothing wrong with his carrot.”

Alors, he is a virile man . . . she is a beautiful woman . . . why are they not making salad together?

Annabelle, what happened to you?” Lillian asked the next morning. “You look dreadful. Why aren’t you wearing your riding habit? I thought you were going to try out the jumping course this morning. And why did you disappear
so suddenly last night? It’s not like you to simply vanish without saying—”

“I didn’t have a choice in the matter,” Annabelle said testily, folding her fingers around the delicate bowl of a porcelain teacup. Looking pale and exhausted, her blue eyes ringed with dark shadows, she swallowed a mouthful of heavily sweetened tea before continuing. “It was that blasted perfume of yours—as soon as he caught one whiff of it, he went berserk.”

Shocked, Lillian tried to take in the information, her stomach plummeting. “It… it had an effect on Westcliff, then?” she managed to ask.

“Good Lord, not Lord Westcliff.” Annabelle rubbed her weary eyes. “He couldn’t have cared less what I smelled like. It was my husband who went completely mad. After he caught the scent of that stuff, he dragged me up to our room and…well, suffice it to say, Mr. Hunt kept me awake all night. All night ,” she repeated in sullen emphasis, and drank deeply of the tea.

“Doing what?” Daisy asked blankly.

Lillian, who was feeling a rush of relief that Lord Westcliff had not been attracted to Annabelle while she
was wearing the perfume, gave her younger sister a derisive glance. “What do you think they were doing? Playing a few hands of Find-the-Lady?

Of all the Hathaway sisters,” Cam said equably, “Beatrix is the one most suited to choose her own husband. I trust her judgment.”
Beatrix gave him a brilliant smile. “Thank you, Cam.”
“What are you thinking?” Leo demanded of his brother-in-law. “You can’t trust Beatrix’s judgment.”
“Why not?”
“She’s too young,” Leo said.
“I’m twenty-three,” Beatrix protested. “In dog years I’d be dead.

I've missed you, Sebastian."

"Have you, love?" He unfastened the buttons of her robe, the light eyes glittering with heat as her skin was revealed. "What part did you miss the most?"

"Your mind," she said, and smiled at his expression.

"I was hoping for a far more depraved answer than that."

"Your mind is depraved," she told him solemnly.

He gave a husky laugh. "True.

It's the perfect solution. We argue all the time. We can't stand each other. It's like we're already married.

I'm not the marrying kind -"
St. Vincent snorted. "No man is. Marriage is a female invention.