Laughing, she tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “I don’t have a man of my dreams.”

“Then you should think of one.”

“Do you have one?” she asked. “A woman of your dreams, that is.”

“I do, actually.” He cast his head back and looked at the ceiling. “She’s smart and funny. She’s mature so that she knows what she wants and is not easily swayed. I suppose she’s also strong and confident.” He lowered his gaze and met hers once more to find she was staring at him.

“You’ve thought about this.”

Because he’d made a mistake two years ago, and he wouldn’t repeat it. “I have to. I’m an earl. It has always been my duty to wed and have an heir. That I didn’t do so sooner was a thorn in my father’s side. What if I died without issue?” He slapped his palms to his cheeks and gaped at her.

She giggled. “We shouldn’t be joking about death.”

“Why not? It happens to all of us. If we can’t laugh at life—and death—what point is there?”

She grew serious, returning her elbow to the arm of the chair and resting her chin on her hand. “You make a compelling argument. I’d rather laugh. Take today’s debacle, for instance. I was so wound up with anxiety and fear that I almost forgot to have a good time. I met the queen, for heaven’s sake! And yes, I fell on my arse, but—” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”

Laughter erupted from him, and once he started, he couldn’t stop. It was the combination of the horror on her face from saying “arse” and the memory of the horror on her face when she’d collapsed in front of the bloody Queen of England.

Thankfully, she joined in with him, her face lighting up with humor and joy. And of course she did. He’d meant it when he’d told her she was witty. His eye caught the clock on the mantel. If he was going to the club, he should probably leave…

He didn’t want to.

When his laughter began to fade, he sat forward to the edge of his chair. “We’re still going to a ball tomorrow night. How is your dancing coming along?”

“Well, I think. I practiced with the dancing master every day except today.”

He stood and offered her his hand. “Show me.”

She slipped her fingers into his palm, and he felt a surprising jolt. Her gaze ratcheted up to his, and he tugged her from the chair.

Leading her to the center of the study, he stepped back from her. “What dance do you prefer?”

“None of them.”

He arched a brow. “You don’t like dancing at all?”

“I like dancing. I’m just awful at it.”

“You can’t be that bad. Have you waltzed?”

“No. Lady Pickering said I would learn that last, and, in the meantime, I’m to say I don’t have permission. Doesn’t that make me sound dreadfully provincial?” She shuddered.