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Miss Morgan flapped a hand dismissively. “Yes, but Lord Marsden isn’t going to marry.”

“He isn’t?” Diantha thought back to what he’d said on the topic the night she’d visited him. I am disinclined to marriage at this point in my life. She’d assumed that meant he was taking his time but that he’d get there eventually.

“Apparently not.” Miss Morgan performed an exaggerated shrug.

“Isn’t that unusual for a gentleman in his position?” Diantha asked. “Who will inherit the title?”

“I had the very same question, and I turned to Debrett’s. The answer is his cousin Ambrose Courteney, son to his father’s younger brother. To hear it told, he is, let’s just say, not a great intellect. Not that anyone is compared to Simon. But this Ambrose fellow apparently also lacks any kind of charm that might make up for it.”

“I wonder why Lord Marsden has closed his mind—and his heart, I suppose—to the possibility of marrying,” Diantha mused.

“All I can get out of my sister is that he has his reasons.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm indeed. I am sure that Lord Marsden is delightful once you get to know him. I, however, do not know him, despite having spent considerable time in his company.”

“He is somewhat inscrutable,” Diantha allowed, though she was rather pleased to think she did know Lord Marsden.

“I suppose that’s the generous interpretation. I was going to say boring.”

“Boring!” Diantha regretted the vehemence of her exclamation, but Miss Morgan did not seem to notice. In fact, she appeared quite cheery as she surveyed the room, an attitude Diantha found incompatible with insulting someone.

“Perhaps he isn’t boring so much as he simply isn’t overly talkative,” Diantha said, attempting to strike a diplomatic, and not defensive, tone. “People like that are often good listeners, I find.”

Miss Morgan swung around to regard her. “Do you?”

“Well, generally speaking, yes.”

Miss Morgan leaned closer in. “Miss Brown, did you get enough time nearly freezing to death under the stars last night? For your article, I mean? I would be more than happy to sit with Lady Harcourt again tonight. Archie is up there now. You could spell him off and then I could spell you off.”

Lord Marsden’s parting words from last night echoed in Diantha’s mind. I will try again tomorrow.

She cleared her throat. “Miss Morgan, I would be most grateful for another night free to conduct my research. I believe the article will be much improved for it. Are you certain you do not mind?”

“Am I certain? Am I not known as a patroness of journalism?”

If Miss Morgan was a patroness of journalism, Diantha wasn’t aware of it, but she held her tongue.

Diantha found him by the fire. Fully clothed.

Well, of course he was fully clothed. As was she. It was just that she might have thought he would be taking the waters. She had brought the same blanket from last night, she supposed because she was pretending she was here to conduct further experiential research for her article.

She crept toward him—his back was to her, as it had been last night, but this time only because he was sitting staring at the flames.

Everything happened at once: She covered the last few steps toward the ring of light cast by the fire. He turned in his seat. She said, “Have you seen it?” He said, “I haven’t seen it.”

And then she realized that while he was, technically, fully clothed, he wasn’t wearing a coat or waistcoat. And his sleeves were rolled up, exposing those forearms she found so … provoking.

Diantha was not a swooner, she reminded herself.

He stood, belatedly, and gestured to the chair he’d been occupying. The act put him closer to the flames, which illuminated the cords of muscles running down his arm in a way that made her feel she was looking at a living, breathing statue, which turned out to be so much more compelling than the cold marble kind.

“Please, sit.” He took note of her blanket. “Unless you were planning to take the waters again?”

“No, no. I was just—” What? She had no idea what she was doing. The blanket was a prop.

She sat. Took a moment to catch her breath and decided, perhaps ill-advisedly, to risk the truth. Well, not the truth, a truth. A little one, not the big one. “I was hoping to find you out here.”