Alex had listened to him silently, his black eyes inscrutable. But Marcel fancied his point had sunk in. Now, what he, Marcel, would do in this situation would be to convince her. Yes, convince her. And that might take a while, he thought with an inward grin. Under no circumstances was Marcel going to let Addie bounce into the room and ruin the mood. Down in the hallway he dismissed the footmen and told Campion to keep an eye on the place. (Campion immediately understood the master’s vague direction meant to keep inquiring eyes away from the door to the Chinese Salon.) Then Marcel triumphantly bore his wife off to a musical luncheon.

Back in the Chinese Salon, Charlotte sat bolt upright beside Alex.

“Why don’t you want to marry me?” he asked, finally.

Startled, she swung her head to look at him. He looked so handsome, and almost—could he be a little anxious? Charlotte’s resolution wavered again. But no. She marshaled her reasons: He really only wanted a nursemaid, and he had forgotten their encounter three years ago. Which meant that he would be out propositioning girls in gardens whenever she turned her back.

“Mayn’t I simply refuse?”

“No,” Alex said indomitably. “Not when you kiss me the way you do.”

A faint blush crept up Charlotte’s cheeks. Oh, God, he did think she was a shameless wanton. If she mentioned what happened three years ago, he’d probably just walk out. Irrationally, she didn’t consider the difference between Alex walking out and her refusing his proposal.

A little silence fell.

“Let me guess,” Alex said in a somewhat softer voice. “You heard the rumors about my being incapable, and—”

Charlotte shook her head frantically, eyes fixed on the couch cushion.

“You didn’t hear the rumors, or that isn’t the problem?”

“I didn’t … I mean, I did hear, my mother told me, but I knew….” She bit her lip. She felt as if she must be crimson by now.

Alex gave a bark of laughter. “You knew,” he said. “You’re—remarkable, Charlotte.” He reached out a lazy finger and stroked her neck.

“Don’t!”

He withdrew his hand as if it had been burned. There was another silence. Then: “I’m waiting, Charlotte.” His tone was grim.

Charlotte raised her eyes to his, pleading for understanding. “I know what ton marriages are like,” she said in a near whisper. “I don’t want one like that. I—” She broke off suddenly as a brisk knock heralded the entrance of a tea tray. Campion brought it himself, beaming avuncularly at the couple as he deftly set up a small table.