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Daisy stopped listening. Miles had instructed her to call him by his first name—did that mean they were courting? Perhaps he would pay her a call tomorrow morning or ask her to go for a drive in Hyde Park.

He didn’t find her fat and unkempt. He said she was sophisticated. He thought she was funny.

More importantly, he wanted her. The more Daisy thought about it, the more certain she was that he would pay a call tomorrow morning.

She went to sleep with a smile on her lips.

EPISODE NINETY SEVEN

A DECENT PROPOSAL

Miles rose the next morning with a sense of inevitability. He was a gentleman who came from a long line of honorable men. Having seen Miss Wharton’s unclothed rear, he was obligated to propose marriage. Caught in the parson’s mousetrap.

Daisy would soon become Lady Devin.

His future wife was flighty, impulsive, silly …

And intelligent, witty, and self-possessed. She hadn’t panicked in a situation when many young women would have collapsed in a faint—or pretended to do so.

Not that it mattered.

More crucially, she was his. The moment she leaned teasingly back against him, and then giggled … Or perhaps it was the moment when her eyes grew larger as her bottom pressed against the ballroom wall.

She was his.

Staring unthinkingly at the mirror, he twisted his cravat in the complicated folds of formal dress. Lady Wharton would expect him to be dressed as one would be for the queen’s drawing room.

Maybe Daisy had been his from the moment he strode across Lord Rothingale’s ballroom and saw hair spilling like moonlight from beneath a masquerade hat.

“Congratulate me, Stubbins,” he said to his valet. “I’m planning to ask for a young lady’s hand in marriage.”

“She’s a lucky woman,” Stubbins said cheerfully. His valet had been his father’s manservant and had known Miles since he was a lad.

“I hope she agrees with you.”

Daisy had looked at him with desire. She had trembled against him, and not just because of shock. She had nestled against him.

He was hers.

An hour later, he was disabused of that notion.

“Absolutely not,” Lady Wharton said. She held up her hand, palm toward him. “And do not imagine that an appeal to my husband will make any difference, Lord Devin. I hold the purse strings, and Lord Wharton gave up responsibility for our daughter long ago.”

Miles felt a violent wish to disobey the lady’s command. If need be, he could elope with Daisy, though the resulting scandal would be irritating.

“You don’t think that your daughter should be consulted as regards her marriage?” he inquired, keeping his tone mild.

She snorted. “My daughter is far too young and innocent to be able to understand what it means to marry a man of your reputation.”

“My reputation?” His voice chilled.

“All those women,” she said grimly. “Don’t try to tell me you’re not a rakehell, because I’ve heard stories from numerous sources.”

“I have done nothing that other men of my rank have not,” he said, startled into defending himself. “I don’t even have a mistress.”

“But you have had,” she snapped. “Aye, and you’ve frequented the opera enough. I’ve heard all about your penchant for Russian opera dancers and their ilk. You have extremely low standards.”

“Do you mean to be so insulting?” Miles asked. If she were a man, he’d challenge her. But she wasn’t. She was an enraged mother lion, determined to protect her cub.