“Thank you, Doctor,” Jane replied with a smile. “I haven’t yet seen Lord St. Clare out of temper. All the same, I’m not foolhardy enough to provoke him.”

“I’d like to speak to him alone, if I might,” Maggie said after the doctor had gone. “If you can contrive it.”

Jane frowned. “I don’t see how I can. Not without risking both of our reputations. Unless… I suppose we could walk in the garden? I could steer Lord Mattingly away, and if you and the viscount lingered a few steps behind, I wouldn’t draw attention to it.”

Maggie pressed a swift kiss to Jane’s cheek. “Bless you.”

Jane wasn’t so easily placated. “Do you truly like him? He’s handsome, I grant you. And rich, if reports are to be believed. But there’s something else…”

“What?”

“Something beneath the surface—something cold and unforgiving. He doesn’t seem to possess any warmth about him. It quite frightens me.”

Maggie recalled St. Clare’s embrace in Hyde Park. The way his arms had closed around her, his sinful mouth capturing her lips in a slow, and thoroughly devastating kiss. “He’s warm enough.”

Jane’s brows shot up. “Upon my word, Margaret. You haven’t been indiscreet with the man, have you?”

Before Maggie could answer, the butler ushered St. Clare and Lord Mattingly into the library. He may as well have ushered in a tiger, for that’s how St. Clare appeared standing in the midst of the wood-paneled walls, thick Aubusson carpeting, and polished bookshelves filled with somber, leather-covered volumes. It was all very proper and civilized. And St. Clare wasn’t civilized. Not entirely.

Jane was right. Something lurked beneath the surface of him. Something cold and predatory. It wasn’t obvious at first glance. Indeed, he looked immaculate as always, clad in biscuit-colored pantaloons and a coat of impeccably cut superfine. Next to him, Lord Mattingly paled into insignificance.

Not to Jane, however. Though she kept her composure and played the dutiful hostess, Maggie could sense her friend’s attraction to the dark-haired gentleman at St. Clare’s side.

“We’ve been shut up inside all morning,” Jane said. “It seems a shame to let this fine weather go to waste. Shall we take a turn about the garden?”

St. Clare’s gray gaze was settled on Maggie. It had been ever since he’d stepped into the room. He looked at her as if no one else existed.

It gave her an odd, fluttery feeling. Nerves, she suspected. Either that or some manner of giddy girlish excitement. This was, after all, a man she’d kissed. A man who had kissed her, more deeply and intimately than she’d ever been kissed before in her life. It was impossible to stand in front of him and not think of it.

Impossible not to want to do it again.