“Saint took a seat at the main faro table at the Society club. “What the devil is a ladies' political tea?”Tristan Carroway, Viscount Dare, finished placing his wager, then sat back, reaching for his glass ofport. “Do I look like a dictionary?”“You're domesticated.” Saint motioned for a glass of his own, despite unfriendly looks from the tables'other players. “What is it?”“I'm not domesticated; I'm in love. You should try it. Does wonders for your outlook on life.”“I'll take your word for it, thank you.”

“For a long moment the butler sat in silence, his jaw hanging open. “I . . . my lord, I simply don't feel qualified to advise you about such matters.”“Don't tell me that,” Saint protested. “Tell me whether you can imagine me as a married man or not.”To his surprise, the butler set aside his brandy snifter and sat forward. “My lord, I do not wish to overstep my bounds, but I have noticed a change in your demeanor of late. The question of whether anyone can imagine you married or not, however, is one I believe must be answered by you. And the lady, of course.”Saint frowned. “Coward.”“There is that, as well.”

“Did you hear that?” the duke asked with a wide grin, turning to Dare. “She said 'papa.'“The viscount returned the candy dish and tea tray to the relocated end table. “I distinctly heard'baboon.'““Hm, well, you're distinctly deaf.”

“I don't think there'll be a next time, my lady.” Saint smiled. “But thank you for the offer.”Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You're welcome. My, my, manners. Where have you been—church?”

“You've gone mad. What's driven you to this nonsense?""You have," he snarled. "You, with your pretty gray eyes and your smile and the way you speak your mind. The sound of your laugh, your tears when something makes you sad." He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to imagine anyone else who had ever made him feel the way he did when he was with her. Emptiness looked back at him. There wasn't anyone else. "You're the only woman I've ever… liked.”

“Don’t cry,nyonda,” he murmured.Phillipa took a deep breath. “What does that mean, anyway? Nyonda?”His green gaze held hers. “It’s Swahili. It means ‘beloved.’” A small smile touched his mouth, and he brushed her cheek again. “You do know I love you, Phillipa. To an alarming degree.”

“Come below for a moment. Please.”“Zephyr, I don’t have time t—”“Bradshaw, do me the courtesy of at least looking at me when I’m talking to you, or I shall punch you in the nose.”His lean jaw twitched, but he folded his arms across his chest and faced her. “What is it, then?”She took a deep breath. This would have been so much easier in a more intimate setting and if he wasn’t glaring at her. “Shaw, I just wanted to say—that is, I mean—I . . . I love you.”Something crossed his expression so swiftly that she couldn’t decipher it. But then he very obviously scowled. At her. “You’re only saying that now because I bullied you into it.”Oh, that was enough of that. “Idiot. You have no idea how much considering I’ve been doing. And you have never bullied me into anything. I said I love you because I love you.”He hesitated again. “Very well. Thank you. Now you won’t have to worry that you drove me to my death if I don’t return.”Zephyr narrowed her eyes. “All you did was say you loved me and then run away. I’m standing here saying it back to you, and all you can do is try to make me into a liar. It’s your fault, for surprising me. I don’t keep a response to that sort of thing in my pocket, ready for use.”“I know that. And I said thank you.”