On the landing above the open doorway, Hartingfield carefully flicked a speck of lint from his waistcoat before slowly descending the center stairwell. The sound of voices drew him to the drawing room.

The earl's voice rang out, "I do not know what ploy you had in mind, Thea, but it will not work. Be off with you."

Hanging her head, she whispered, "I'm sorry," and hurried toward the door.

Hartingfield stepped in the doorway, taking stock of the situation, then spied Lord Steyne standing near the fire. As a young woman headed in his direction, he stepped back to allow her exit. When she passed, he recognized her—parlormaid.

Earlier she'd been dressed like a typical, although slovenly, servant. Now, however, her appearance had undergone a thorough transformation. She was attired in a manner that might only be politely described as garish. He was particularly struck by the seven glitter-encrusted ostrich plumes dancing drunkenly about her head.

Realizing she was about to escape, Hart scrambled through the hall and up the stairwell. Just as she reached the landing, he clasped her arm and she whirled about, startled. One of the ostrich plumes was dislodged by the sudden motion and it leaned forward over her head, like a fan held over a pharaoh by some historic Egyptian servant.

Ignoring the feather, she glared at him and asked haughtily, "Did you require something, your lordship?"

His jaw tightened. Her arrogant attitude began to grate. Without pausing to consider, he blurted out, "Are you under Lord Steyne's protection?"

She peered at him uncertainly then drew herself up. "At this moment, I fear I need someone to protect me from Lord Steyne!"

His gaze fell to her exposed décolletage. She cleared her throat and he realized he'd been staring far too long. Gadzooks, he was behaving like a cawker. Hadn't he seen many women, far more scantily clad, so just why should she hold such fascination?

Abruptly he led her into a small alcove off the landing. "Are you happy in your situation here?"

She looked at him in surprise, opened her mouth and then shut it without uttering a sound.

He removed his hand from her arm and brought it to encircle her slim waist. She was the most distracting creature he'd come across in years. Hopefully he'd soon make a propitious arrangement with her. Although he felt a little guilt over the idea of stealing his host's lady bird out from under his nose, Hart simply couldn't resist the appeal of her charm. And she did appear to be unhappy.

He gently massaged her rib cage and he heard her breath quicken. Reassured by her response, he asked, "Would you consider a change? A change in situation?"

Recalling the earl's words, Hart tilted his head toward the drawing room. "You would not need to use ploys with me. I would take very good care of you."

His Botticelli beauty's face infused with color and she jerked from his embrace. "You and my father would like that, wouldn't you?"

"Your father?" Just what did her father have to do with it, unless he arranged his daughter's liaisons? The poor thing must have had a rough time of it. He resolved to make it up to her, to provide her with every luxury that his income, and it was a more than adequate income, could provide.

He was brought back to the moment when she jabbed him in the chest with her forefinger.

"And you, you oaf," she said through clenched teeth. "You neither know nor care about me in the least. Why should you? You men are all alike." She jabbed him again.

"We women are merely chattel, to be traded or bartered as you men deem fit. Well, I won't have it, and you won't have me! I cannot bel—"

Hartingfield cut her off by clamping his lips upon hers, effectively silencing the vixen's tirade and halting the bruising of his chest in one swift move. At first, she held herself rigidly, but that was not difficult for a man of his experience to overcome. He softened his kiss and she yielded to his entreaty. After a moment of great satisfaction, he relaxed his hold upon her. "Thea, I am offering you carte blanche."

Again she yanked away from him, her eyes lit like an inferno, as two more plumes flew out of place, lodging above each shoulder. Another plume dropped to the ground. "When pigs fly, my lord!"

At the same instant, each bent to retrieve the feather, resulting in a great knocking of heads.

Thea stood back up and waited, hand outstretched, for Hart to deliver the plume. After he handed her the feather, she left the alcove and marched down the passageway, the two plumes prancing behind her with military precision at each step she took.

"Please stay," coaxed Hart with a laugh in his voice. She did not stop. He didn't follow her, his amused gaze fastening to the trail of glitter drifting in her wake.

It had been rather surprising when she hadn't jumped at his offer. Possibly, she didn't fully understand the ramifications? After all, he'd neglected to sweeten the pot by offering to take her to London and the town house that would be her own.

She didn't behave like any servant or woman he'd ever known, and that was part of her attraction. At least he knew her name, Thea, and that she was not indifferent to him. Her kiss had been pure heaven.

Surely it was just a matter of time before he could claim her as his own.

Thea was infuriated with herself and most particularly infuriated by Lord Hartingfield. Primarily, she couldn't believe she'd acted in such a brazen manner. Perhaps the clothes truly did make the man, or in this case, the woman. At one touch of his lips, she'd nearly swooned into his arms. The cad hadn't even been offering marriage as she'd thought, he'd offered to make her his mistress! At least she was safe from him and from herself here in her room.

After returning to her suite, she'd quickly discarded the costume that had influenced her to act in a most unladylike manner. A footman had delivered her dinner but she'd been unable to eat more than a bite or two.

Now she paced, back and forth, back and forth. Surely Lord Hartingfield knew he offered her, the daughter of an earl, an insult? He'd obviously overheard their conversation. She threw up her hands. Men.

That's why Charles was so perfect for her. He never behaved in an unexpected manner, he hadn't even attempted to kiss her. For the first time, she wondered why. Heavens, he did find her attractive, didn't he?

She hoped he didn't sense what she hadn't realized until tonight, that she was a libertine in ladies' clothing. Sinking onto her bed, she chewed her thumbnail, hoping Miss Mimms wouldn't notice for she'd spent the entire previous summer helping her overcome this dreadful habit.

It was possible Lord Hartingfield had offered her the insult deliberately, in an attempt to make her grateful for a legitimate offer of wedlock. He didn't know his woman if he thought such ploys would work with her.

Thea jumped up and resumed her pacing, more determined that ever to put the arrogant marquess in his place.