“This is the beau you have been telling everyone about?” Mrs. Oliver asked. Diana stood from her desk and brushed her hands down her skirts the way she did whenever an important investor came to the office. Perhaps she should have told Mrs. Oliver the truth.

A muscle moved in Lord Bryant’s cheek. That wasn’t humor. “It seems I am.” At his home, his eyes had been guarded and weary. In the daylight, with his hair styled to perfection and his eyes lazily perusing her office, Lord Bryant seemed much more alive. He strolled over to Mrs. Oliver’s smaller desk and gave her a flourishing bow. “And you must be Miss . . .”

At sixty-seven years old, Mrs. Oliver positively simpered, her hand coming to her cheek as if to cool it.

“This is my assistant, Mrs. Oliver,” Diana informed him.

“You can call me Miss. My husband won’t mind. We have been married long enough for him to—”

“Mrs. Oliver.” Diana didn’t hide the rebuke in her voice.

“Oh dear, I suppose I forget myself. How can I help you, Lord Bryant?”

Lord Bryant turned to look at Diana, and in that moment, he transformed. As a young girl, Diana had had a favorite hunting dog. He had been sold just before her father died like many other things of value. But that dog had loved Diana. His eyes would light up in devotion every time she visited him, most likely because she usually came bearing scraps from breakfast. No matter the reason, he couldn’t contain his excitement when he saw her coming.

That was how Lord Bryant was looking at her. Completely, utterly smitten, from the hesitancy in his stance to the wide guilelessness of his lash-framed eyes. Lord Bryant was skilled.

If only he would have agreed to her plan, he could have played his part perfectly. As it was, those loving looks set Diana on edge. She glanced toward the door, but she wouldn’t be reduced to running out of her own office. He noticed her gaze and almost imperceptibly quirked one corner of his mouth. He was enjoying her discomfort far too much. She straightened her shoulders. Even if she was in the wrong here, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her squirm. He gave a deep, lovesick sigh before turning to Mrs. Oliver. “I have come to speak with Miss Barton alone. Is there a place where we could have some privacy?”

Mrs. Oliver’s other hand flew to her cheek, and her wide eyes found Diana’s. A smile as broad as a river crossed her face. Mrs. Oliver was reacting to Lord Bryant’s shenanigans like a parched woman being offered a glass of pure spring water. Diana bit the inside of her cheek. This was her own fault. She was the one who had been telling every other man that came into the office that she was expecting a proposal any day. Mrs. Oliver was only too eager to allow the privacy for that much-awaited event to occur.