"A play should correct vices, not celebrate them. We might as well be putting on one of those foolish bits of fluff called Love in a Hollow Tree."

"Man of Mode does not precisely celebrate vice. It laughs at the vanities of men like Dorimant," Gillian pointed out. "One never truly admires the person who is the subject of humor."

"But the author gives him excellent lines," Mr. Spenser said. He took the book from her hands and turned back a few pages. "Here he defends himself: Should I have set up my rest at the first inn I lodged at, I should never have arrived at the happiness I now enjoy!"

"That proves my point!" Gillian said triumphantly. "No one could be expected to admire such a man. He's treating women as little more than a rest at an inn. Why, he might as well say that Mrs. Loveit is nothing more than a bed to him." Gillian colored.

Mr. Spenser looked down at her, his gray-blue eyes amused. "A descriptive turn of phrase, Miss Pythian-Adams."

But Gillian could feel her backbone stiffening. She was not going to be condescended to by this man, who was practically worse than Dorimant himself. For all Dori-mant was a rake, he didn't claim to be a divinity professor. "And yet," she said, looking him straight in the eyes, "when is a woman truly more than a mere temporary inn for a man? Your sex decides to marry with as much prudence as if they had decided to visit a spa and take the waters: in fact, with precisely the same combination of disenchantment and carelessness."

He had a small crooked smile that might soften a woman who was more inclined to be softened. "We see marriage quite differently, Miss Pythian-Adams. Marriage seems to me the most fascinating of states."

"Why on earth would you say that?" Gillian asked with genuine surprise.

"Love can be a fleeting thing. But once married, a man and woman are bound to live for each other, not for pleasure."

"Dorimant, married, will continue to live for pleasure," Gillian said. For some reason her heart was beating extremely quickly.

"That may, of course, be true," Mr. Spenser said thoughtfully. "But I think that Harriet will tame him, don't you?"

"I think she will learn to tolerate him. And that is quite different from taming."

"In fact, she says that she will learn to endure her husband."

"The fate of many women." For some reason, all Gillian could think about was how empty the library was, and how silent the large house felt around them. It was as if there were only the two of them in the whole building. Mr. Spenser's eyes were so—so thoughtful. It was enthralling to have his fixed attention.

"Do you believe that?" He looked genuinely curious.

"How can one love such a creature?" Gillian asked, speaking the truth as she never had before. "You must forgive me the libel to your sex, sir, but men are dictatorial, frequently tedious, and almost always inconstant, as we noted when this conversation began. They—" And then she suddenly had the horrified thought that he was the child of an adulterous union and would likely feel quite mortified by the topic.

He didn't look mortified.

"They?" he prompted.

"This is an unseemly subject for conversation," Gillian said. "You must forgive me." She turned back to her foolscap, noticing with irritation that her fingers were trembling slightly.

"Why don't I read?" Mr. Spenser asked. "While I do not care particularly for the play, there is an enchanting scene between Harriet and Young Bellair."

"When she instructs him in how to woo?"

"You have dimples when you smile," Mr. Spenser said, and a look of near horror crossed his face.

For goodness sake, Gillian thought to herself rather crossly. He needn't act as if she were unavailable, given that no other woman in the house seemed to be.

He cleared his throat. "Forgive me for not having thought of this before, but is there a chance that your reputation will be dented by being alone with me? Shall we ring for your maid, or your mother, or some other person to join us?"

"I very much doubt it," she said.

"I was under the impression that young ladies were not to entertain gentlemen in private."

"My mother is an extremely sensible woman," she said. "In my experience, claims of compromised female reputations follow young women who are ardently interested in the state of marriage. I assure you that I have not the least wish nor need to force a man into marriage."

"In that case, why don't I read aloud from this scene, and you write down Harriet's words?" His voice was as even as ever.

She poised her pen obediently.

"This is Young Bellair," he said. "Now for a look and gestures that may persuade them I am saying all the passionate things imaginable."

"Oh, I know this part," Gillian said. "Harriet tells him to put his head to one side and tap his toes."

"Your head a little more on one side, ease yourself on your left leg, and play with your right hand."

Gabe was furious. Absolutely furious. The more he thought about it, watching Miss Pythian-Adams's pen move across the page, the angrier he felt. True, he was illegitimate. But that didn't make him a eunuch. She should be worried about being in a room alone with him. Perhaps not because her mother would consider them compromised, given that he was apparently about as marriageable as a spoiled chicken. But because—

"The next line?" she asked. And then when he looked at her, "Harriet's next line?"

"Now set your right leg firm on the ground, adjust your belt, then look about you." She had beautiful hands, slim hands that looked as intelligent and ladylike as she was.

"Turn your face to me, smile, and look to me," he said, watching her hands. They were like her lips, sweet, innocent and clean. Ladylike.

"Oh, but I don't think that line—"

But he caught her face, that ladylike sweet triangle in his hands, and pressed his lips to hers. She tasted startled, but not outraged, although of course in a moment she'd be beating him about the head and screaming. But she was startled into silence, and he meant to make the moment last as long as he could.

Gillian tasted like everything he'd ever wanted in his life. She smelled clean, and sweet, with just the faintest hint of something—a perfume that smelled like peaches, not like the lush heavy scent of roses. There was no oily red color on her lips either. He ran his tongue over her plump lower lip, and she made a startled little noise in the back of her throat.

The little bird he'd caught had never been kissed, per-haps. Gabe was having the oddest sensations. As if he were Dorimant himself, the rake called the worst man breathing. Dorimant wouldn't hesitate to kiss an innocent in the library, and take advantage of her inexperience… The thought slipped away because Gillian hadn't fled yet. She must be so startled that she'd gone into shock, like a rabbit afraid to move. He'd be a fool to waste time.

So he nibbled on her full lower lip, but of course she wasn't like Loretta, or the other women he'd bedded— not that there'd been that many. Gillian had no idea what he wanted, he could tell that. So he just slid into her mouth between one breath and another, a sweet, deep stroke into her mouth.

He felt her astonishment as if it were his own body. And yet… still she didn't begin to scream for help.