Pettigrew, of course, was oblivious to the scalding undercurrents in the room. He chewed the end of his pen. “No. I don’t think I can put a composer in here. Perhaps I can insert a chicken? And use ‘cluck.’”

Benedict clapped his hands. “Excellent idea, Mr. Pettigrew. I’ve yet to encounter a poem that wasn’t immeasurably improved by the inclusion of a chicken. Carry on.” He waved his hand like a royal pardon, then caught Georgie’s elbow and steered her toward the window seat on the other side of the room. “A moment of your time, Miss Caversteed.”

As soon as they were safely out of earshot, Georgie turned innocent eyes on him. “Don’t tell me you’re not a fan of poetry, Mr. Wylde?”

“That is not poetry,” he growled. “That is a mangling of our great and noble language. I’ve heard better verses in St. Giles.”

She raised her brows.

“There’s one by Prinny’s favorite, Captain Charles Morris, that starts, ‘The Dey of Algiers—’”

“I’m sure I don’t want to hear it,” she said swiftly. “I doubt it’s suitable for a lady’s ears.”

“Why not? It’s amusing. And at least it rhymes. It celebrates the Dey’s magnificent—”

“Naval victory?”

“—manly appendage,” Wylde finished, completely unrepentant. “But perhaps your ‘gentle ears’ aren’t ready for such profanity.”

Georgie suppressed a snort. He knew she’d been thinking of that dreadful word earlier. And unlike every other man of her acquaintance, he found it amusing, instead of censuring her for it. How liberating, to be able to share a joke with someone of equal wit and flexible morals.

“All right, what about this one by Robert Burns?” he pressed.

“Tom and Tim on mischief bent,

Went to the plains of Timbuctoo;

They saw three Maidens in a tent,

Tom bucked one, and—”

“Let me guess,” Georgie said dryly, determined not to let him discompose her, “‘—and Tim bucked two’? How original. At least Mr. Pettigrew’s verses are about more than…” She strove for an appropriate word and settled on “… tupping.”

“No, they aren’t. They might be couched in obfuscation and circumlocution, but at the heart of every one of them is tupping. Or screwing. Or whatever else you want to call it. The hero of any courtly romance, whether he admits it or not, is pining for a good, hard—”

“Kiss,” she finished emphatically.

“No. Not a kiss, Miss Caversteed. I can tell you quite candidly, that there’s not a man alive who would turn around after killing a bloody great dragon or vanquishing some horrible witch and be happy with a kiss on the cheek.”

“So die my dreams of courtly love,” she sighed, emulating Juliet’s breathy tone to perfection.

“Courtly love isn’t what populates the world,” he finished darkly. “If you ever want a demonstration of what does, I’ll be happy to show you.”