The moment she entered the room Hart knew he would need all his powers of persuasion. She was breathing hard, as if she’d been running. Her short dark hair clung in damp feathery clusters around her face. Her clothes were damp and clung to her lithe, slender body. Her hem was as muddy as her dog.

No other woman he knew would have dreamed of entering a room dressed so untidily, especially one containing a gentleman visitor, let alone a young lady expecting a marriage proposal.

Nor would most ladies inflict a damp and muddy dog on a visitor.

But her skin was pale and damp and glowed like a pearl. The dark clusters of hair framed her piquant face enchantingly. Her mouth was plum dark and endlessly enticing.

He was jerked out of his reverie by the dog. The great gray gangly creature inspected his boots, snuffed at Hart’s hand, then nudged him imperiously in a clear demand.

Watching Lady Georgiana, Hart absently patted the dog’s damp head. He didn’t even need to bend down to do it. The dog licked his hand in return.

“Finn, come away,” she ordered, and the dog padded across and flopped down at her feet.

Hart’s hand was now slimy and reeked of eau de damp dog. He pulled out a handkerchief and dried it off. He supposed it was better than the animal jumping up and muddying his clothes.

Lady Georgiana addressed her uncle as if they were alone. “Burton said you wanted to see me, Cal.”

“The Duke of Everingham has my permission to address you.”

Her eyes turned to slits. “Oh?” It wasn’t a happy kind of oh.

The earl rose, looking amused. “I’ll leave you two alone.” He left, closing the door carefully behind him.

*   *   *

“It was just so very unfortunate that everyone came out of the concert at that particular moment,” Hart concluded, hoping he sounded sincere. “But there it is. We have no choice, and so I offer you marriage.” He’d delivered what he fancied was quite a pretty speech, balancing rueful regret at the way their private moment had been exposed, with a gentlemanly determination to protect her from the consequences.

“Well, I don’t want it.” She belatedly remembered her manners and added a grudging, “Thank you for the offer.” Her eyes were as flinty as her uncle’s. “Not that it apparently matters to you whether or not I consent. How dare you announce our betrothal to the world without asking me!”

Her nose was out of joint, Hart realized. He’d spoken too bluntly. Women wanted to be coaxed and flattered. In a soothing voice he told her the same story about the overefficient secretary.

She cut through his explanation with brutal indifference. “I don’t care. You shouldn’t even have drafted such a notice before you’d spoken to me.”