And though history wasn’t Libby’s primary interest, she would have far preferred spending the evening learning about the East India Company’s rather justified argument with the king and their leaning toward the Puritan Roundheads than going to a dinner party.

She scrambled to her feet while Mabena was still distracted with the hunt for the necklace, before she could decide she needed more hairpins. “I’ll let him in.”

Mabena was still mumbling about missing pearls and how she knew she’d packed a selection of three necklaces as Libby hurried into the main room. She pulled the door open, offering a smile to Oliver, who stood there with a briefcase in one hand, the other hand in his pocket.

And utter stupefaction on his face as he blinked at her. “Pardon me. I must have the wrong cottage.”

“You’re hilarious.” After spending the last two evenings with him, she could very nearly ignore the fluttering he caused in her midsection and focus instead on the tease. Stepping back, she gestured him inside.

He entered, but without taking his eyes from her. Which very nearly made her think the hairpins were worth it. And the corset. Though if he liked this version, which wasn’t the real her . . . She pressed a hand to her ribs.

His smile was right at least. Soft. Knowing. Altogether Oliver. “The viscount is going to be completely enchanted.”

“I have no interest in enchanting the viscount. Or his wealthy cousin. I’ll bore them with talk of Latin nomenclature to prove it.”

From the bedroom, Mabena called out, “I thought Miss Gossip said the viscount was fascinated by scientific things.”

Libby wrinkled her nose at the memory of when Lottie had found her cottage on Thursday and spent three eternal hours there chattering about people Libby didn’t know. Or want to know. “Then I’ll bore him with talk of pirates.”

Oliver raised a finger. “Talk of pirates is never boring, my lady.”

She sighed. “I’m sure I’ll find some other way to lose their interest then. It never takes me long.”

“How could that possibly be?” He slid his satchel onto the table, as he’d done last evening, and the one before. She rather liked how it looked there—so masculine and comfortable. “I could talk to you for hours and be riveted every moment of it.”

Heat crept up her neck, and she found herself rather glad that his words had been too quiet for Mabena to hear from the bedroom. He was probably being kind, trying to bolster her confidence before the dinner she’d already admitted she didn’t want to attend. He seemed like that sort of man. And Mabena, who knew him better, would no doubt say as much, which would rob it of a bit of its effect.