A Gentleman Never Tells by Eloisa James

“Asparagus tart, my lady.” It looked fresh and green, and far more appetizing than the brown sludge on Mr. Berwick’s plate.
    He watched her eat a bite and then nodded, which could have been patronizing but somehow wasn’t.
    â€œSo your father forced you into marriage, and as a result you refuse to see him?” he asked.
    Lizzie froze with her fork half way to her mouth. Then she took the bite, carefully chewed, and swallowed. “It seems you and my sister have had remarkably candid and wide-­ranging conversations.”
    â€œYes.”
    There was something intoxicating about the way Mr. Berwick’s eyes focused on her face, the way he listened with complete concentration.
    â€œI was not particularly angry about my father’s choice of Lord Troutt,” Lizzie said, surprising herself with the confession. “I only became angry after I fled my husband and my father refused to take me in.”
    Mr. Berwick made a grunting sign that somehow, improbably, Lizzie took as indicating support.
    â€œIf I ever have children,” she added, “my home would always be open to them. Always .”
    â€œLucky children,” he said.
    Lizzie felt a flash of alarm. Mr. Berwick was dangerous, with his warm eyes and straightforward questions. He could make one believe that he had no secrets. That what you saw was . . . who he was. That he was honest in his dealings with the world.
    What’s more, the hint of desire in his eyes when he looked at her made her feel giddy, which was an absurd emotion.
    â€œI don’t mean to have any children, so it’s a moot point,” she told him, straightening her backbone, because she was showing an alarming tendency to lean toward him.
    â€œOh? Why not?” He didn’t look critical, merely interested.
    She ignored the obvious fact that she had no husband. “They look like howling plums, round and purple.”
    He gave a bark of laughter. “You’re absolutely right. Howling plums wearing little white bonnets.”
    â€œWorst of all is when the plum has a huge shock of hair,” she said, smiling despite herself. “What about you? Why aren’t you married, with a fruit basket of your own, Mr. Berwick?” If he could be direct, so could she.
    â€œI haven’t fallen in love, and I see no point in marriage otherwise. I do not lack for company—­for all my niece is convinced that I will wither from loneliness after she grows up.”
    Of course, he didn’t lack for company. He likely had a Shady Sadie of his own, installed in a snug house, just as Adrian had.
    That was the moment when she discovered that Mr. Berwick was able to anticipate her thoughts, as well as her love of vegetables.
    â€œNot that sort of company,” he said bluntly. “That wouldn’t be appropriate, given that I am guardian to an impressionable young girl.”
    Lizzie discovered that she was smiling. “I expect that heartlessness is a useful attribute for a bachelor.”
    â€œOnly if one wishes to remain unmarried.”
    His eyes caught hers, and an uneasy thrill went through her, as if someone had struck a gong just behind her shoulder. “Heartless conduct is definitely required of rakes,” she said, striving for a careless tone. “I am a great reader of novels. In Lucibella Delicosa’s books, rakish men are invariably ill-­mannered.”
    Too late, she remembered the Wooly Breeder fiasco. “I didn’t mean that !” she said. “You were very young.”
    â€œBut definitely ill-­mannered,” he said wryly. “It was kind of your sister to overlook my conduct and invite me to her house, given our past.”
    â€œI suspect that you came all this way merely in order to apologize.”
    He nodded. “I did. But your sister turned something I had dreaded into a pleasure—­and I would be glad I came even if that wasn’t the case, because