Gaètan Leflur was aware of the moment the woman slipped through the door. The luxurious swish of her petticoats and the delicate scent of ginger reached him. He thought cynically, that it was not one of the ladies on Nick’s list, because to the last, those fragile little roses had all but fainted dead at the sight of him.

He decided that he’d be rude. Not, that he’d been overly polite to start with. But dammit, his teeth were on edge already with all this silly formality. He’d heard whispers of savage, American Yankee, and a few less prettily wrapped observations, since he had stepped off the ship in Liverpool

He should have never made that damned promise to Charles Grayson. Those kinds of vows were too impulsively given to a man on his deathbed. But he’d done it.

“I’m Lady Moyra Dunford,” she said to his profile. “I should like to speak with you, sir. If you will indulge me.”

Gaètan snorted. “I’m not answering anymore stupid questions tonight. I have already decided you society types are ignorant by choice.”

Confused, she supplied softly, “I don’t know what you mean?”

“About savages and barbarians running around with clubs and drums.”

“Oh, that’s not…exactly why I am here.”

He turned fully, leaning back against the railing now, his arms crossed and his olive eyes trying to see her exact features in the back-light. “You’re not on the list,” he said bluntly. Nick had chosen the beauties of the day.

“No? “

“The prospective bride list.”

“I see.” Moyra noted that up close, his face was quite striking, and his voice, it was deep and velvety, the American accent making his words trail softly at the end. “How might one get on such a list?”

He smiled, just a quick flash of white teeth. “Well, you are a surprise. I have been here a month, and to say you ladies are stiff and formal is the nice way of putting it.”

“What is your name?’

“Gaètan Leflur.”

“Mr. Leflur, I…”

“Gaètan. I can do without the Mr.”

“Very well. Might I get on your list?”

“I don’t know.” He was intrigued, able to see only the slim build and braided russet hair.

“I know, I am very plain, not quite what you may be looking for. But, I do have a fortune to offer.”

“You do?”

“Oh, yes. I…”

“Come closer,” he cut in, tossing the cigar away.

She stepped close, her skirts nearly touching his boots. Between moonlight and the ballroom, he could see her quite well.

No, she did not compare to the milk-skinned blondes and snow-faced brunettes. Not even close. But she had good bones, arched brows. He thought her eyes green or brown. Her mouth was neither full nor thin. He looked down the modest gown; few curves, a bit thin, but so were they all.

“Why do you want an English wife exactly?” she asked him next.

“I am fulfilling a promise to someone.”

“Are you in need of a fortune?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then, you are rich?”

“Not particularly.”

Moyra sighed. “I’m not very good at conversation, nor questions. I fear I have not been allowed to converse with many people since my present guardian fetched me."

“You’re doing fine.” He was a bit confused, waiting for her to get to the point.

“Are you planning on taking your wife to America?”

“I sure as hell ain’t staying here.”

“But…why…an English wife?”

“Let’s just say, a man I knew once, thought I would do better with one.”

“Do better?”

Let’s see, he thought cynically, is this where I mention my mother runs a brothel? No, must be time to confess I’m half Arapaho. Better yet, the best explanation would be that I’m a man pretending to be something I’m not. “I’m fulfilling a promise,” is all he said finally.

“I have a situation,” she admitted watching him even as he watched her. “My guardian, is a very powerful man, he and his sister. At the end of this season, he will force me into marriage. And I would rather die than wed him.”

“I’ve heard it’s the way here,” he said bluntly. “Though force sounds a tad dramatic.”

“Not where Lord Elliot and the duchess are concerned.” The music changed. “I cannot freely speak to you. I have very little time. Once I go inside, Lord Elliot will watch my every move.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She was obviously aware from his dry tone she wasn’t reaching him. “Could you overlook my lack of beauty, in favor of my fortune?”

“Looks don’t enter into it,” he lied.

“I am willing to come to your bed, or give myself to you anytime during this next week, if we attend the same functions. I have heard that men like to try their horses before purchasing them.”

He was stunned. All right, he was damned shocked and that showed too. She’d said it in that perfect clipped English, so precise and clear.

“Now why would you want to do that? I hear the virtue of a debutante is worth its weight in gold. To be blunt Lady, if I take it, there ain't no getting it back.”

Her face flushed. “I will depart with that gift, before the wedding, so that I can offer you something others will not. Though, if you should see me in better light and change your mind I shall understand. I am simply trying to bargain with the only thing I have at the moment. If you wed me, my money is yours. I only have a few conditions.”

“And they are?” He was half dazed by that admission. Here was an English woman, young at that, admitting to…what? That it was nothing to her?

“My father was a Scottish peer. He and my mother died in India. I had a younger brother who died also, Linden. But I should have come under the guardianship of my eldest brother, who would be the earl. Only, he never returned from a merchant voyage. Lord Elliot Southland, Earl of Ridgefield is some distant kin. He had my brother declared dead without any search for him, or inquiry. And fetched me from Briarwood, where I have been under his control since.”

“Go on,” he said when her eyes revealed a hint of apprehension.