The Marquis sipped his wine, watching her over the rim of his glass. “I think it only fair to warn you, ma’am, that this paragon is secretly contracted to a cousin of mine. In fact, his business in Paris, and I mistake not, is to elope with her.”
“Indeed?” Miss Challoner said innocently. “Your cousin is no doubt very like you?”
“Oh, just a family likeness, ma’am,” retorted his lordship. “She should be pleased with you,” he added thoughtfully.
“I cannot conceive why, sir.”
“She’d be pleased with any female who married me.”
Miss Challoner looked at him curiously. “She is so fond of you?”
“No, that ain’t the reason. Her mamma, my ambitious Aunt Fanny, intends her to be my bride — a prospect Juliana dislikes as much as I do.”
Miss Challoner said quickly: “Juliana?”
“My cousin.”
“Yes, I understand that, my lord. But what is her surname?”