Callie wet her lips and gave him one more chance. "But you must wish to find someone who would be more worthy of Monceaux."

He gave a short laugh and turned away, his hands shoved into his pockets. "Do not concern yourself on that head, ma'am."

So. She lifted her chin, growing more sure, and at the same time more disheartened. He had been eager in the night, and passionate, but what was that vulgar phrase she had overheard once among the stable lads? All cats look alike in the dark. She had fairly well thrown herself at him, even if she hadn't meant for him to find her in his bed, playing a trick like that impudent house maid who had tried to entice the parson on a dare. If he had even a slight wish to marry her, he would certainly show more delight at the idea. Even her jilts had managed to summon a greater show of gratification at the prospect than Trev appeared to feel.

She had a gloomy vision of becoming betrothed to him now, in this moment of crisis, and then in a month or two receiving one of those polite, reserved letters in which he expressed his deep regret at breaking off their engagement because he found he was unable to make her a praiseworthy husband. Her jilts would be a nice round number: a wretched prospect.

Or worse, far worse, a thousand times worse—for him to wed her because he felt he must, and then to be sitting some evening in some drawing room, listening to the whispers, to overhear that he was seeing Lady So-and-So, or Madame Vis-à-Vis, or whatever reigning beauty it might be, and how mortifying for his dreary little mouse of a wife, poor thing!

"Well!" she said quickly, turning and walking to the table, where she started to pick up the teapot and then put it down when the exasperating lid would rattle under her trembling hands. "It is most kind of you, but I find that I cannot accept. I hope… I hope that we may remain friends."

He inclined his head coolly. "Of course. We will certainly remain friends."

She knew in that moment that she had been right to refuse him. He didn't wish to marry her. A tiny remaining hope that he might dispute her decision died a final death. She poured tea in spite of the fact that she spilled several drops into the saucer.

"I suppose," he remarked, still in that dispassionate voice, "since you find you cannot accept me, we must pray that no natural consequences will result from my mistake."

Callie felt herself grow cold, her blood seeming to recede from her head to her feet. It was a "mistake" now. She sat down abruptly, feeling light-headed. "No," she whispered. "I don't think that likely."

The chamber was so quiet that she could hear a horse's hooves ring distantly against the cobbles in the stable yard.