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He couldn’t rightly say.

“Are you making a May game of me?” Her reticle swung back and forth as she pointed accusingly at him. “This is all an unkind jest, isn’t it? And to think, I foolishly—”

Eyes narrowed in reproach, she clamped those soft, pink lips together and abruptly cut off whatever she’d been about to say. Staring straight ahead, her pert profile a combination of chagrin and vexation beneath her bonnet’s slightly sagging brim, she marched along beside him. Agitation and disappointed resounded in each angry stomp of her boot heels upon the pavement.

“Come, let’s have a cup of tea or chocolate or coffee, whichever you prefer, and discuss it.” Again, he took her elbow and guided her toward the coffee shop. He supposed he ought to be grateful she hadn’t wrenched free and dashed in the other direction, skirts hiked to her knees, at his outlandish proposition. “And I do know much about you, Miss Harwood.”

Her winged eyebrows shied high in skepticism. “Oh? In our two brief encounters?”

“You are brave and unselfish,” he said with sincerity. “You put others before yourself. You’re gracious, polite, and obviously, extremely well-educated.”

Her tread lightened somewhat, the furious tramping giving way to normal footfall.

Ah, good. He was making headway, then.

“You behave with estimable decorum and poise. Even in the most trying of circumstances,” he went on, giving her a sideways look from the corner of his eyes. She still pointed her attention straight ahead, but her mouth had softened around the edges. “You possess the ability to hold your tongue.”

Bracing himself for the impact gazing into her eyes had on him, he glanced down.

“You make me sound a virtual paragon, my lord. The quintessence of a saint,” she demurred, though that winsome spark of humor in her eyes flashed once more.

“And, Miss Harwood, you also wield an umbrella and a valise with a praise-worthy finesse I’ve never had the pleasure to witness in another.” He winked naughtily, a grin splitting his face.

An actual, boyish grin. Without a trace of his customary mockery, cynicism, or droll humor, which had earned him the unflattering title, Earl of Sarcasm.

When was the last time he felt this carefree? This unrestrained? Unhindered by the driving compulsions that directed his very existence?

Her fetching dimple appeared, and she laughed, a delightful, lighthearted sound. The musical tinkle of rainbows and birds and sunshine. And untarnished happiness.

“I assure you, my lord, I’m not in the habit of clobbering men upside the head with a parasol or valise. By the by, thank you for the umbrella. It wasn’t necessary, and I think you must know, I cannot accept it. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“As you wish.” He shrugged, unwilling to argue over something as trivial as an umbrella.

“Mrs. Smitherman has already hinted the gift alludes to an immoral intimacy between us that doesn’t exist.” She put a finger to her chin, a hint of devilment shining in her eyes. “Although—for the life of me—I confess, I cannot conceive what is the least bit suggestive about the practical accessory.”

He stepped aside to permit a pair of matrons to pass. “It didn’t escape me how unpleasant she was to you last night,” he said when the pair were out of earshot.

“I admit, she was far worse after you left,” she murmured, cutting him a swift glance, then directing her attention forward once more, her delicate chin angled mutinously. “She’s a most disagreeable woman, and I regret I did not know that before making arrangements to board with her.”

He’d gathered the proprietress was a haughty, cantankerous busybody himself.

“She even dared to inquire what you thanked me for as you departed. Her insinuation was most insulting.” Willow pursed her pretty mouth for a second. “I told her the truth. That I’d helped fend off louts intending to rob you. From her contemptuous sniff, I’d say she didn’t believe a bit of it.”

“Her type prefers to believe the worst in people.” He chuckled and tightened his fingers on her elbow. “You were rather spectacular, rushing to my assistance.”

“Hmph.” She made a sweet, disbelieving sound. “I wasn’t anything of the sort. Truthfully, I was scared spitless, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.” She clasped her ugly bonnet against a sudden gust of wind.

Willow Harwood was also impulsive, imprudent, and perchance, more than a little unpredictable and precocious. Four things certain to make his well-orchestrated life as messy as hell. The remarkable thing was, at this moment, he didn’t give a bloody fig.

The pleasure of her company, and the possibility he might have it every day sent a shiver of glorious anticipation to his toes. His life would never be the same. And, by God, he didn’t mind nearly as much as he ought to.

A whiff of lemon and peonies floated to him. He hadn’t noticed her fragrance yesterday. Perhaps he’d been preoccupied, or mayhap she hadn’t worn any. The scent was heady—intoxicating in its simplicity and freshness. Much like the woman herself.

A few minutes later saw them comfortably seated in a quiet corner of the coffee house, near a lace-curtained window overlooking the bustling street. He’d removed his gloves and set them beneath his beaver hat atop the lace-covered table. A pot of tea, a plate of biscuits, bread, butter and jam, and two kinds of scones lay before him.

Willow’s soiled and frayed gloves from the day before were noticeably absent. With the elegance and ease of a haut ton lady, Willow poured their tea. She possessed pale, delicate fingers with neat oval nails. Her movements were smooth and confident as if she was accustomed to acting the part of a hostess.

“Milk or sugar?” Tongs held upright, she gazed at him expectantly.

Her unique beauty struck him with the impact of a fully laden wagon.

“Neither.” He tore his avid attention away and waved his hand toward the cups. “We British put milk in the cup before we add the tea, however.”

Nose scrunched slightly, adorably, she sighed. “I know. But my father was an American and always added milk after his tea had been poured so—” She lifted a dainty shoulder and set the tongs in the sugar bowl. “It’s a habit I find hard to break.”

He accepted the cup she passed him and leaned back in his chair, crossing one knee over the other. “I cannot think that in the grand scheme of things, it should matter one way or the other in the least. What difference does something so trivial make?”

This from him? A man whose newspaper must be set to the right of his plate, and never the left? What was Willow Harwood doing to him?

Or…devil take it. It had finally gone and happened, and Ansley hadn’t even been aware. He’d completely lost his bloody mind. Wasn’t that the way of the mad? They had no idea they were dicked in the nob. That their attic had room to let?

She grinned, revealing those rows of neat white teeth, and the charming dimple in her left cheek flashed again. Leaning forward, she studied the delicacies as if she’d never seen the like before and, at last, selected a lady’s finger.

“I think perhaps, my lord, you’re a very wise man, indeed.”