“Charade?” He released a rough bite of laughter. “That’s a delicate phrasing of your dishonesty, but you needn’t have worried.” He motioned around the fine drawing room. “I am rather new to all of this, but I know to watch what I say in front of the servants. I won’t expose your fraud. Yet.”

Yet. The word fell heavily on the air, the threat as alarming as ever.

She resisted the urge to defend her actions. She had already attempted that and it had not dissuaded him.

“Ah. Yes.” She fixed her smile in place once again. “You find yourself in the enviable position of being heir to a duke.”

“I don’t know if I would call it enviable. It took the premature deaths of my three cousins for me to become heir.”

Had she mentioned she lacked charm? She closed her eyes in a long miserable blink.

“Well, now I feel perfectly wretched.”

He grunted in a way that sounded very . . . self-satisfied.

She narrowed her eyes. “But that was your intention, was it not? To keep me in the box where you have allocated me.”

“I don’t understand your meaning. What box do you speak of?”

“The box where you relegate things you dislike. I am sure I exist in this box for you.”

He blinked and shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t . . .”

“Let’s see.” She angled her head and started counting on her fingers. “My box contains mottled sheep liver. And jellied quail eggs. Warrington’s cook has introduced me to both and I wish I had never tasted the like.”

He stared at her without expression.

“Do you care for jellied quail eggs?” she asked.

“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“But you’ve had the pleasure of me.” And he did not like her. Not anymore. Not since realizing she was not her father.

He was staring at her rather oddly now, his dark eyes gleaming. She angled her head, wondering at the sudden intensity of his stare. Then she heard her own words. You’ve had the pleasure of me. They hung in the air between them. Heat crept up her face.

“I have not,” he began slowly, “had the pleasure of you.”

She nodded briskly, regretting that she had said something that could be interpreted so luridly. She decided not to acknowledge it and changed the subject.

“We’ve not rubbed on well today.” Was it only today that they first came face-to-face? This day felt like it would never end.

He gave a grunt of agreement.

She continued, “You would think we would. We’ve been corresponding for years.”

His reply came quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

“It was me.” She patted her chest. “Those letters were me. They were you and me and we were friends. I might have signed Papa’s name, but that is the truth.”