“Did you not hear me?” she asked.

“I heard you,” he said.

“My cap—” she started.

“I heard you,” he repeated.

“But, you didn’t—”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“The loss of that cap is no loss at all. You should be thankful that it is gone. You’re too young to be wearing such a loathsome thing.”

“I like it!” she said, indignantly.

“No, you don’t.”

She turned her face away from him, looking out the window to the street passing beyond. He was right of course. She hated the lace cap and everything it represented. After all, hadn’t she incinerated one of the awful things already? She couldn’t help the little smile that crossed her face. Fine. She was happy to be rid of it.

Not that she would allow Ralston to know that.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, the words echoing in the silence of the carriage. When he did not reply, she added, “For saving me.”

Ralston gave a noncommittal grunt in response. Clearly, he was put out by her actions. Fair enough.

After several minutes of silence, Callie tried again, offering what she hoped would be a conversational olive branch. “I look forward to Juliana’s coming out, my lord. I have every hope that she will find a love match.”

“I hope she finds no such thing.”

Her eyes flew to him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“Love does not bode well for the Ralston family. I do not wish it upon any of us.”

“Surely you cannot believe that.”

He responded matter-of-factly, “Why would I not? My mother left a trail of broken hearts through Europe, cuckolding two husbands and deserting three children—all of whom she claimed to love—along the way. And you suggest that a love match should be the standard by which I measure my sister’s success in society? No. I shall measure Juliana’s success by her marriage to a man of character and kindness—two qualities with far higher value than love.”

Were they in any other place at any other time, Callie would have likely allowed the conversation to end at that. Whether because of the whiskey or the adventure as a whole, she turned on the carriage seat to face him. “My lord…are you saying that you do not believe in love?”

“Love is merely an excuse to act without considering the consequences,” he said with disinterest, “I’ve never seen evidence of its being anything more than a precursor to pain and anguish. And, as a concept, it does more harm than good.”

“I must disagree.”

“I would expect no less,” he said frankly. “Let me hazard a guess. You think that love exists in all the poetic glory of Shakespeare and Marlowe and the wretched Lord Byron and whomever else.”

“You needn’t say it with such disdain.”

“Forgive me.” He waved a hand in the air, meeting her gaze directly in the dim light. “Please, go on. Educate me in the truth of love.”

She was immediately nervous. No matter how academically he seemed to be able to discuss it, one’s views on love were rather…well…personal. She attempted a scholarly tone. “I would not go so far as to believe that love is as perfect as those poets would like us to believe, but I believe in love matches. I would have to. I am the product of one. And, if that weren’t enough proof, I should think tonight would have been at least moderately convincing. My sister and Rivington have eyes only for each other.”

“Attraction is not love.”

“I do not believe that what is between them is simple attraction.”

The words faded into silence, and he watched her intently for a long moment before leaning in, stopping mere inches from her. “There is nothing simple about attraction.”

“Nevertheless—” She stopped, unable to remember what it was she was trying to say. He was so close.

“Shall I show you how complicated attraction can be?” The words were deep and velvety, the sound of temptation. His lips were nearly on hers, she could feel their movement as he spoke, barely brushing against her.

He waited, hovering just above her, for her to respond. She was consumed with an unbearable need to touch him. She tried to speak, but no words came. She couldn’t form thoughts. He had invaded her senses, leaving her with no other choice but to close the scant distance between them.

The moment their lips touched, Ralston took over, his arms coming around her and dragging her into his lap to afford him better access to her. This kiss was vastly different than their first one—it was heavier, more intense, less careful. This kiss was a force of nature. Callie moaned as his hand ran up the side of her neck cupping her jaw, tilting her head to better align their mouths. His lips played across hers, his tongue running along them before he pulled away just barely and searched her half-lidded eyes. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips.

“So passionate,” he whispered against her lips as he drove his fingers into her hair, scattering hairpins and sending her curls tumbling around them. “So eager. Open for me.”

And then he claimed her mouth in a searing kiss, and she did open for him, matching him stroke for stroke, caress for caress. She became caught in a web of long, slow, drugging kisses, and all she could think was that she had to be closer to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he opened her cloak and set his hands on a path to her br**sts, cupping and lifting the heavy flesh there. She tore her mouth from his in a gasp as he ran his thumbs over the tips, hardened beneath the strained wool of the borrowed dress, freeing him to set his lips to the taut muscles in her neck, his tongue tracing a line along the column to her shoulder. He ran his teeth over the sensitive skin there, sending a jolt of pleasure through her, then laved the spot with his tongue. She sighed at the sensation and felt the curve of his lips against her shoulder, just as the taut wool of her bodice came loose, and her br**sts spilled into his hands.