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with a space for her real last name, right above his: Galen Collin Spreewell Woodrow.
    No gentlemen ever came to her rooms; Margot made sure of that. Accepting a gentleman’s carte blanche was expected for a female in her position, and it might even have been the answer to some of her pressing problems, but Margot was not interested. She was not tempted to set her feet on the primrose path, not tempted by any of the libertines who pressed flowers and poems and damp kisses into her hands in the Green Room. But, oh, she was tempted now by that piece of paper, whatever it was his lordship had in mind.
    While Margot was building air castles, Rufus had gone to the parlor door. His mistress was on the other side, and she was always willing to share her muffins and toast, so he whined. Since Ella was encumbered by her sewing, Viscount Woodbridge got up to let the dog out. He pulled on the handle to open the door, then had to jump back as a slim, golden-haired young female wearing spectacles tumbled at his feet.
    First he reached for her hand, to help her up. Then he reached for his quizzing glass. Lud, the chit was even lovelier up close than she appeared from his theater box. She seemed younger, fresher, more innocent, which made her more alluring to him. Now he could almost imagine he wasn’t taking a soiled dove as his viscountess. With her wide-eyed stare and embarrassed blushes, Miss Montclaire looked as if she’d never even been kissed.
    Usually her hair was coiled into a topknot; now it flowed down her back, held off her face by a cornflower blue ribbon that matched her incredible eyes. Usually she wore stage makeup; now he could see that she had a clear, rose-tinged complexion under the suddenly reddened cheeks, enhanced by a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Usually he admired a pretty woman as a dispassionate connoisseur of artwork; now he was ready to fall at her feet.
    Margot stuffed the spectacles into her gown’s pocket and tried to will her blushes away. Goodness, such hoydenish behavior would frighten the poor man off before he even met her. Please, please, she begged, don’t let him turn his back and walk out. The dream was too sweet not to savor as long as it lasted.
    He didn’t leave, but guided her to a seat instead. With a glance in Ella’s direction, he said, “Miss Montclaire, I am certain you have gathered that I have something of a personal matter to discuss with you.”
    She could not help her unruly tongue from blurting out: “I don’t see how, since we have never met. And I cannot think it proper to—” Ella was already gathering her sewing together to leave.
    “I’ll take the dog for his walk, then, Miss Margot.”
    What, they were both going to desert her, along with her wits? Margot folded her hands in her lap, trying to feign a poise she was far from feeling. Goodness, she mentally shook herself. She faced hundreds of strangers every night as she sang; surely this one was not going to discompose her. She’d listen to what he had to say, and later she and Ella could have a good laugh over the antics of the aristocracy.
    He was still standing, too tall in the little room. “Won’t you please sit down, my lord?”
    He went back to the pianoforte bench, then decided it was too far away, so he dragged it toward her chintz-covered chair. Then he brought the breakfast tray to a closer table, saying he regretted causing her to miss her meal. One slice of dry toast remained, and half a scone. The water for tea would be cold by now, besides. “Dash it, I am sorry.” He looked around, as if seeking the bellpull to make a legion of servants appear with a fresh tray. There was, of course, no bellpull, and no servants. The viscount flushed and cleared his throat.
    He was nervous, Margot realized. Amazingly enough, this top-drawer gentleman was ill at east over his errand. As well he should be, she supposed, if he was trying to invent some faradiddle to dupe an innocent female into taking