His temper briefly flared to match hers, the harsh scrape of suppressed resentment deepening his voice. “You know nothing of my responsibilities.”

“I know that you live only to find amusement for yourself. Is it too much to hope that you might, for once, do something useful? Something that might help another person besides yourself?”

“Help you, you mean.”

“It’s not helping me. It’s helping Miss Wychwood. Whatever you may think of me, she’s done nothing to earn your hatred. She’s a sweet and gentle soul who even now might be in the utmost peril. If you—”

“I don’t hate you,” he said gruffly.

She broke off. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said that I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you.”

“Well . . .” A rare expression of vulnerability stole over her face. She masked it instantly, bending her head as she smoothed her gloves. “In that case, you won’t mind doing what I ask.”

“Would that it were so easy.”

“It’s not difficult, surely. I can write the column myself if needs be. All you need do is see that it’s published as soon as possible.”

“Writing it isn’t the difficult part.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “Then what?”

“I told you. I’m reluctant to exert myself.”

“Hartford—”

“I see little incentive to do so.” He managed a thin smile. “As you so rightly pointed out, I’m a selfish ne’er-do-well who thinks only of my own amusement.”

“I didn’t—”

“Now,” he said, “if there was something in it for me . . .”

The last vestige of Anne’s self-restraint crumbled in spectacular fashion. Her countenance hardened to marble and her hands dropped to clench at her sides, crumpling the pages of the Spiritualist Herald in her fist. She bore down on him like one of the mythical Furies he’d so often accused her of being. “Why you arrogant blackmailing rogue!”

His heartbeat quickened as she approached. Anne in a rage was thrilling sight to behold. “It’s not blackmail. It’s an exchange. Something you want for something I want.”

“And just what do you want?”

The idea struck him all at once—a lightning flash of genius. Or possibly madness. Tomorrow he’d likely regret the raw honesty of his words, but in this moment they seemed right. They felt right. “I want you,” he said.

She stopped mid-stride. Her mouth fell open. “Me?”

“You,” he said. “And not like this. Not here in London, dressed in black, like some wraith at a funeral feast. I want you in Hampshire. And I want you in color. Red, preferably.”

She looked appalled by the suggestion. “I am not wearing red. Besides, what on earth is in Hampshire?” Understanding darkened her gaze. “You can’t mean Sutton Park?”

Sutton Park was the seat of the earldom of March. Hartford descendants had been living there for centuries. Grandfather hadn’t been the best custodian of the place during his tenure as earl. He preferred traveling the globe to languishing in the English countryside looking after his estates. Still, the great house occasionally served a purpose.