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consider Miss Cherrymore." A plainer girl had never lived, in Eppie's opinion.
    The dread in her eyes eased a bit. Then it was back.
    "Yet she is so beautifully dressed. One can accept her, because she so clearly fits in."
    He still did not understand. And he wanted to. He never stopped to think how out of character it was for him to want to. This woman intrigued him with her careless disregard for society in some ways, and overactive regard for it in others. He wanted her to see and experience a side of life she had missed.
    He walked up behind her, then taking her hand, turned her to face him. Looking down at the top of the ugly cap, he said softly, "My dear, you also shall be beautifully dressed and you also shall be accepted. Now, why so reluctant? Just wear your loveliest gown and I will take care of the rest."
    She sniffled. "I am wearing it."
    He looked down at her in horror. It could not be. That dress wasn't fit for a servant. Dark and shapeless, it bore no resemblance even to the well-cut dresses he had seen on upstairs maids.
    She had no ball gown? No gowns at all, apparently, except the ugly serviceable sort. His disgust with the Marchwells expanded. Was there nothing to which these people wouldn't stoop?
    Yet, this too, he could repair for her. Smiling, he pictured her in something wispy and blue. She might not look half-bad out of those horrid gowns. She was slender, and judging by the hand he held, delicately boned. At the very least, she would look like a lady of the
ton
. That would have to do, he supposed.
    "If I promise to take care of everything, will you go?" he asked.
    She nodded.
    "My dear Elizabeth, I will not allow anyone to humiliate you. Do you believe that?"
    "I do believe you will try." She smiled, then she rallied and fixed him with a mock glare. "Lord Blackworth, I am shocked that you would propose to a woman without first learning her name."
    "What?" She had left him behind once more with the swift darting of her mind. Where a moment ago she had seemed lost, now she stood before him in a challenging pose, her fists on her hips.
    "My name is not Elizabeth, but Isadora." Izzy broke her stance with a laugh, making a face. "Nearly as bad as Eppingham, I think. Oh dear, I suppose you like your name. I'm sure it has some significance for you, after all." She gave him an embarrassed look.
    He grinned. "No, I loathe it. I always have. Although my brother's name was worse."
    She raised a brow. "Worse?"
    "Mandelfred."
    "Mandelfred? And Eppingham?"
    "My father insisted." The look of amused horror on her face made him smile. "But you must inure yourself to it, Isadora. If we are to put on a convincing betrothal, you cannot keep weaseling out of it by addressing me constantly as 'my lord.' " He recaptured her hand and led her to sit with him once more.
    "Oh my. You noticed. I am sorry, but I simply cannot call you Eppingham with a straight face. We must come up with an alternative."
    "Well, those close to me call me Eppie—"
    She snorted. She actually snorted. Clapping her hands over her mouth, she dissolved into a fit of laughter. Her embarrassment spurred the giggles higher, until she turned away to bring herself under control.
    Blackworth leaned back and basked in the rippling sound, letting the husky giggling wash over him like sunlight.
    He rarely spent so much attention on a woman without bedding her, yet he had a feeling that time spent with Izzy could prove quite satisfying in its own way. A little surprised at his own conclusion, he studied her again.
    Her pose as she leaned her small rear against the back of the settee, fighting for breath with her arms wrapped around her midriff, was not seductive in the slightest. Accustomed to the considered posturing of the ladies of his world, he was impressed again by how natural this girl was, like an unspoiled child or perhaps a wild woodland creature. She seemed very free. He wondered if it really was her lost reputation that gave her such freedom. If so,