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Despite her circumstances, Livie felt a wave of happiness. Major FitzRoy was absurdly handsome, that is if one liked sandy hair cut very short (she did), and stubborn, clean-shaven chins (she did). He had lines around his mouth, the kind that suggested he’d suffered pain in the past.

She didn’t want to like those lines, or even think about why they were there … but she couldn’t help but find them frightfully attractive.

Just now he was frowning at her, while she smiled back like a loon.

“How on earth did you push Clod to the ground?” the major asked. “He’s a large, study man, and you are small.”

“He’s the size of a barrel of beer,” she agreed. “But I assure you, sir, that I am not small. I am accounted very tall, if not overly so, for my sex. My father is taller than almost anyone on—in—” She broke off, remembering that she couldn’t give him any clues about her identity.

“In the House of Lords?” the major hazarded. “I am fairly good at sorting accents.”

They had reached a settee. Livid plumped down on the seat. She had just been accosted by a degenerate for the first time in her life; she had foolishly entered a den of iniquity; and yet she couldn’t stop smiling.

She had not needed saving, but she was certainly safe now. The major wouldn’t allow a man to wrap a hand around her buttock the way his disgusting friend had done.

She didn’t even think about what to say next. It just tumbled out of her mouth. “I can’t tell you how I tripped the clodpole, because what if I need to topple you at some point?”

The major blinked down at her. For a dreadful moment, Livie thought she had misjudged their interaction so far. She had been certain that she had seen warmth in his eyes—yet what did she know of flirtation, after all?

He seated himself beside her. “You shock me.” Thankfully, his voice was teasing, not critical. “If you won’t share your name, what am I to call you?”

“Lady Macbeth. I was ferocious, didn’t you think?”

“Not precisely at the level of wielding bloody daggers, but yes. Unlike the murderous queen, I would guess you are a young lady under that veil. Perhaps in your first Season.”

“How many ladies in their first Season could trample a rakehell after such an insult?” Livie demanded proudly.

“What exactly did Trywhitt do?”

The steel in his voice was unmistakable. He looked ready to whip out a dagger of his own and carve out the clodpole’s heart.

“He made me an improper proposal and touched me in a way that I considered indecorous. So I bamboozled him, before knocking him to the floor. I conquered Clod!”

Major FitzRoy picked up her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. Livie blinked down at their hands, wondering how it was possible to feel a shock that affects one’s whole body, especially through a glove. “This is also indecorous,” she observed. “My aunt would be horrified, sir.”

“Surely you need reassurance after such a disturbing experience.” His eyes told her that wasn’t the reason. He wanted to hold her hand.

Livie found her lips tipping into an uncertain smile. “I suppose I might feel a trifle unsure.” He had dark brown eyes, beautifully shaped. And his lower lip was …

“I can’t kiss you until we’re betrothed,” he said nonchalantly.

That shocked Livie back into sanity, and she pulled her hand away. “We are not betrothed! I mean, we will not be betrothed, either.”

“Are you promised to someone else?”

“No.”

His big body relaxed. “May I lift your veil?”

Livie couldn’t bring herself to say no. Her breath caught as he slowly reached out and pulled aside the small scrap of fabric, tucking it behind one ear.

“You may not remove my mask,” she told him.

“I knew you were exquisite,” he said conversationally.

“I’m not,” she protested. Who would have thought flirtation was so easy? Livie simply had to catch the eye of a handsome man, and here they were, laughing and talking as if they’d been friends for years.

“Your mouth is perfectly shaped,” the major observed.