Dare grabbed her hand to keep her from poking at him again. She used her other hand. He grabbed that as well. Reading in his eyes no uncertain repercussion if she were to continue with the chest poking, she decided on a tactical retreat, withdrawing her hands from his and returning to the lumpy settee. “Really, my lord, you are the most argumentative person I’ve ever met!”

He ground his teeth and clutched with clearly visible white knuckles at the back of a nearby chair. Charlotte watched warily as he struggled for control, relaxing when he regained it and finally unclenched his jaw long enough to say, “I don’t know why our conversations always end up in arguments.”

“Neither do I, Alasdair,” she said after a moment’s thought. “I do try to get along with you, but you will insist on arguing.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened as he stared at her with a wild look for a long moment. Then he turned on his heel and without another word left the small sitting room. “Well, really! How are we to discuss our wedding if he can’t even remain in control of his emotions for a few seconds at a time?” she asked slowly, her ears still reverberating with the slamming of the door. “Has he always been so?”

Patricia seemed to have swallowed her tea wrong, for she was making odd little choking noises, and finally had to resort to a handkerchief to dab at the resulting tears. “No. He’s not normally emotional, Lady Charlotte. He’s usually quite the opposite. It seems that only when he’s in your presence…” The words trailed off as Patricia choked again. Charlotte leaned sideways and thumped her back.

“You should be careful how you drink tea,” she warned as she took up the paper and quill lying on the table before her. “There was a girl at Miss Bengyman’s School who drank her tea wrong while the vicar was calling and it spewed out her nose and all over the vicar, his wife, two of their children, and a large gray Persian cat that happened to be passing. A most unfortunate circumstance for everyone involved. I believe the cat died. Now, let me see, you are being married on Sunday next, which means my wedding must be no later than Wednesday. Yes? What is it…Pigeonfroth, isn’t it?”

“Batsfoam, my lady.” The butler made an obsequious bow to the accompaniment of many cracking and popping noises that Charlotte felt were best ignored.

“Batsfoam, of course. How silly of me. That’s nothing at all like Pigeonfroth, is it? Did you wish to speak to me?”

“Indeed, my lady. My lord, your soon-to-be husband and protector, instructed me to make myself of service to your august ladyship, and thus it is that I abase myself before you, offering my services, humble and no doubt unwelcome though they are.” The man bowed again, this time so low his nose bumped into Charlotte’s ankle. He apologized and straightened up with audible relief, pulling from an inner pocket a folded sheet of paper, which he presented to her with great flourish.