He plopped down next to her, and he dawdled in the silence, aware that his lack of conversation would spur her to ease the tension by chattering away. He’d learn all sorts of useful details.
As for himself, he perceived everything about her on a level that was nearly frightening in its intensity.
He could smell the soap with which she’d washed, could feel her bodily heat emanating from under her clothes. There was an air about her that called to his masculine drives, making him want to throw her down and engage in wicked conduct she should never allow.
It was peculiar and thrilling, and he was transfixed, struggling to figure out what it indicated.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said.
“You can ask me a thousand questions.” He braced, hoping it wasn’t a request for devastating information about Gregory.
“When we were in the manor,” she said, “Gregory and Mrs. Starling were discussing the London theater. They mentioned a Miss Libby Carstairs and that she performed on the stage there.”
“Yes, she’s famous in the city.”
“Libby Carstairs? You’re certain that’s her name?”
“Yes. She was one of those Lost Girls. From twenty years ago? Do you remember them? They were traveling to Jamaica with their parents, but their ship sank in a storm in the Caribbean.”
“Yes, I remember. They were rescued on an island by British sailors.”
“The whole country has always been riveted by the tragedy.”
“The whole country has been?” She appeared flummoxed by the notion.
“Yes. People still talk about it all the time.”
“My goodness,” she murmured. “I had no idea. Why is Miss Carstairs on the stage? Is she an. . . an. . . actress?”
“I guess you could describe her as an actress. She tells stories and sings songs about her ordeal. I’ve never seen her, but I’m told she’s extraordinary. She’s a celebrity now.”
“Libby Carstairs is a celebrity?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose it makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“What makes sense about it? I’ve never understood the fascination with those girls or that tragedy, and it’s been two decades since it happened. I can’t believe Miss Carstairs earns money from it.”
“I absolutely can,” she said dreamily, as if Miss Carstairs was her idol.
He shifted so he could study her, and he was struck again by how beautiful she was. The moon circled her in a silver halo so she seemed to shimmer as if she were an apparition and not a real woman.
He kept staring, his focus potent, demanding she look back at him, but she didn’t. Perhaps she was stronger and more stubborn than he’d assumed.
“How long were you in the navy?” she ultimately inquired.
“Ten years.”
“Why are you retired? I’ve always heard it’s a difficult existence that’s suitable for younger men. Was that it? Was your anatomy failing you?”
He huffed with feigned offense. “I’m hardly decrepit. I’m only thirty, so no, I wasn’t failing—as you so delicately put it. And how old are you? Twenty-four?”
“Yes.”
“Whew!” he teased. “It’s a good thing you’re about to marry. You just avoided being a spinster.”
“I’ve been betrothed since I was seventeen, so I was never destined to be a spinster, and you haven’t answered me. Why did you leave the navy?”
“I was kicked out.”
Her jaw dropped. “What? No! That’s not true. You have to be joking.”
“I’m not joking, although it’s more accurate to say that I was asked to quit, and I received a very firm shove as I was marching out the door.”
“Are you pulling my leg? Why would you be kicked out? To me, you’re precisely the type of person that I, as a British citizen, would want serving our country.”
“Thank you.”
“Tell me a credible story about your departure—if you can. Don’t lie and don’t invent one merely to placate me.”
“My brother, Blake, landed himself in some trouble, and I took the blame.”
“Was he worth the sacrifice?”
“I’m quite sure not.”
She chuckled at that. “I forgot you have a brother. It means you must not have been raised by wolves in the forest.”
“I definitely had two parents.”
He prayed she wouldn’t inquire about them, for he never mentioned imperious, depraved, Captain Miles Ralston, who’d been his father. The man was a classic example of how foolish and complex a human could be.
Luckily, she moved on to a new topic. “How do you keep busy now that you’re not a sailor anymore? Are you a rich, indolent dandy, living off your fortune?”
“Gad, no. There are no fortunes in my family. I’m a gambler.”
“You are not.” She scrutinized him, then added, “Are you?”
“Yes, I own a notorious club in London.”
“Gambling is immoral, Mr. Ralston. Why would you involve yourself in such a corrupt enterprise?”
“I have to earn an income somehow, and in my own defense, I don’t force any scoundrels to wager. They’re adults, and they’re responsible for their bad choices.”
“That sounds like a very tidy method of excusing your complicity in their downfalls.”
He shrugged, not inclined to debate the matter. “Probably.”
“You gamble too?”
“Occasionally. I’m not reckless about it though. I only play when there’s a good reason.”
“What would you define as a good reason? Name one.”
“To pass the time? To make money? To prove a point? To put a cretin in his place when he deserves it?”
“Would you stop if I begged you to?”
He laughed. “No. First off, we’re practically strangers, so I would consider it to be incredibly brash of you to suggest it. And second, I like winning and growing wealthy because of it. Why would I stop?”
She slid off her knees and sank down next to him, so they were sitting very close. Their arms were touching, their thighs too. It was dark, and they were alone, so there were a hundred improprieties swirling, but she didn’t notice, and he wasn’t about to bring them to her attention.
“Is this how you know Gregory?” she asked. “From your gambling club? Out on the lane, you claimed it was the
