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and no more excuses. Unless he’s fled the country by now, you will marry Lord Althorpe, and you will face the consequences of your actions.”
    “Haven’t you ever done anything just for fun?” she pleaded.
    “Fun is for children,” he said stiffly. “You are twenty years old. It’s time you became a wife—and it now becomes a question of who else would have you.”
    He stalked out of the room, heading straight for his office. There he would wait until Althorpe arrived, and then he would bargain her off to the infamous blackguard, just so he wouldn’t have to put up with her high spirits any longer.
    Victoria sighed and flopped back down on the couch again. Ten hours should have been more than enough time to convince him of how unwise he was being, and of what a ridiculous match this would be for everyone concerned. Of course she’d stepped too far; she was always doing that. Her parents should expect it by now.
    “I am not getting married!” she yelled at the ceiling.
    It didn’t reply.
    Of all the punishments her parents could devise, this was the absolute worst. In one more year she would come into her majority and be able to travel and aid whatever cause she saw fit. Once she married, that money would go to Sinclair Grafton, and he would no doubt lose every blasted bit at the gaming tables before she could do anything useful with it at all.
    Yes, he was handsome, and yes, he’d made her pulse fly when he kissed her. That, though, was noreason for her to marry him. She didn’t even know anything about him, except for the rumors of his terrible reputation. Her parents couldn’t want her to be leg-shackled to someone like that. They couldn’t think she deserved someone like that.
    Victoria pounded the soft cushions of the couch in frustration. Her only hope was that the idea of marriage horrified Althorpe as much as it did her. Perhaps he had already left for Europe or parts unknown. She shut her eyes, then realized she was slowly tracing her lips with one finger. With an oath, she shot to her feet. One did not marry a man simply because he kissed with the skill of Eros. One married a man because he was kind and intelligent and understanding and supportive, and didn’t expect his wife to be nothing but a pretty picture who embroidered and had tea parties all day long. She wasn’t that kind of woman, and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—be that kind of wife.
     
    Sinclair hopped down from his phaeton and climbed the shallow marble front steps of Fontaine House. He’d debated whether to call on Lord Stiveton or not, and decided that the Sin Grafton everyone knew would have—with some excuse as to why the marriage was impossible.
    From what he knew, the earl was as dull and plodding as a wet sheep, but no fool. While Stiveton’s coming to his senses and whisking his daughter away would solve one problem, though, it would leave at least two more.
    First, he’d gone too far last night. Lady Vixen Fontaine had seemed likely to know something of Marley’s possible involvement in a murder, but he hadn’t exactly gotten around to questioning her about it. He’dbeen too busy ogling the splendid black-haired chit and enjoying the fact that he’d stolen her from her beau. Beaux, actually. If he had behaved that carelessly in France, he would never have survived Bonaparte.
    Whatever the Vixen’s reputation, though, his was worse—and if he hadn’t stepped in with his marriage offer, the Franton soiree would have been both the first and the last gathering to which anyone invited him. And whatever he thought of proper society, he had to have access to it—at least long enough to prove whether Marley or one of the rest of them had killed his brother.
    Of course Stiveton wouldn’t agree to the marriage. But the earl had to accept an apology sincere enough that it would keep Sinclair in the ton ’s good graces until he didn’t need them any longer.
    The second problem was nearly as troubling. Last night he had