Taking Liberties. Jackie Barbosa

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      “No, my lord,” the footman replied with a shake of his bewigged head. “Yours was the last.”

      The pressure in Nash’s chest eased. So it was just him, Hapsborough and Randley. At least he didn’t have to eliminate the entire male population of London from the competition. Moreover, if she was down to three choices, she must be close to making her decision.

      And he would do whatever it took to ensure she made the right one. Even if it meant changing the rules of the game.

      “You want me to do what?”

      Tish covered her ears to protect them from Beatrice’s shriek of protest. Perhaps she ought to have informed her sister of her plans before executing them, but she had always operated on the premise that forgiveness was more forthcoming than permission and had yet to be proved wrong. Thus far, she had been pardoned for every transgression she had ever committed, up to and including the time when she had painted mustaches on all of the family portraits hanging in the main hall. Papa had pretended to be angry, of course, but in the end had been forced to admit that the appearance of a great many of their ancestors—particularly the women—had been improved by the addition.

      But painting had never been her talent, anyway. Wheedling, on the other hand…

      Tish sat down next to her elder sibling on the plush, peach velvet sofa and took her sister’s gloved hand. “Please, Bea. You know Papa won’t budge, not when he’s given an ultimatum. How else will I know if my future husband and I are suited? Not a one of them has even kissed me yet, but I am somehow expected to choose one of them to share my body with for the rest of my life. It is quite mad. You of all people should understand—”

      Beatrice snatched her hand away, her once sympathetic blue eyes turning to shards of ice. Tish winced. Perhaps reminding her sister of her own unhappy, loveless marriage hadn’t been an entirely shrewd maneuver, but really, would Bea be any happier if Tish were also to marry unwisely and unwell?

      She grabbed her sister’s hand again and squeezed, refusing to permit its extrication from her grasp. “Bea, it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known because you followed all the rules. But I can know, if only you will help me break them—just a little.”

      “And what good will that do me?” Beatrice’s jaw jutted out, slightly belligerent. “I will still be married to Albemarle, and he will still be a sodding arse who would rather pass his time with whores than with his wife.”

      Tish stared at her sister, wide-eyed with shock. And envy. What she wouldn’t give to be able to rattle off a rant like that. “Why, Bea! Wherever did you learn to speak like that?”

      Beatrice flushed. She worried her lower lip with her teeth and sent a furtive glance toward the open sitting room door. “From John,” she said in a low voice.

      “John?”

      “Albemarle’s land steward. He can be quite…colorful.” Beatrice’s fond tone—not to mention her use of the man’s Christian name—suggested she did not find this objectionable. Good heavens, was Bea…involved with this servant?

      But no, there were some things Tish didn’t want—or need—to know. At least not at this precise moment. Instead she said, “So you’ll help me? Play chaperone for me?”

      Beatrice chewed her lip for several more seconds before finally nodding her head.

      Tish released her hand and threw her arms around her sister. “Thank you!”

      Bea pried herself free. “Don’t thank me yet. I want to know—” She broke off at the sound of a polite knock on the open door.

      The footman whom Tish had dispatched this morning with her invitations executed a swift bow and held out several notes. The responses. Tish all but leaped to her feet, nearly tripping over her skirts in her haste to retrieve them. She pulled the slips of parchment from Garvey’s outstretched hand and eagerly opened them, registering polite acceptances from Randley and then Hapsborough. But where was the third?

      She shot the footman a reproachful look. Had she not told him he was not to return until he had responses from all three gentlemen? “Where is Viscount Langston’s?”

      “I am sorry, my lady, but he refused to send a written response.”

      “Refused?” Tish frowned in puzzlement. Had she misjudged the viscount’s interest in her? Of the three gentlemen, he was the only one who had never expressly indicated a wish to marry her, but she had thought him cautious and considerate rather than indifferent. She closed her eyes as disappointment welled inside her, threatening to crush her heart.

      “Yes, ma’am. He wanted to deliver his answer in person.”

      Her eyes flew open. “What?”

      At her stunned exclamation, the viscount himself stepped into the room. “In the flesh.”

      And oh my, what flesh! Even fully clothed, the man exuded pure, masculine charisma. Broad of shoulder, narrow of hip, and well-turned out of thigh and calf, Nash Langston was carnality personified. It was impossible to look at the man and not at least attempt to picture him in the nude.

      Tish tended to do more than attempt.

      She had never been the swooning sort, but she felt in danger of making a closer inspection of his highly polished black boots, for all her blood seemed to have deserted her brain in favor of regions further south. In fact, she rather fancied her heart might have migrated down and settled between her legs as well, for that was where her pulse was now lodged.

      His effect on her was most disconcerting and not altogether agreeable. He seemed to exert his own gravitational force, rearranging her internal organs and thoroughly disorganizing her normally rational thought processes. It was alarming…and perhaps just a little bit exhilarating.

      From some well of composure, Tish managed a deep and graceful curtsy despite her wobbly knees. “Did you misplace your fountain pen when my message arrived, my lord? Or perhaps your tongue?” she asked, surprised to discover she could formulate a response at all, let alone a saucy one.

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