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“I’ll meet you in five minutes.” She curtsied, a rushed and wobbly dip that would never pass muster at Almacks but was endearingly Corinna.

Did she adhere to any strictures with propriety?

Caspian rather hoped not.

“I just have to contrive a viable excuse for my brother and sister-in-law.” She grinned, revealing a row of small white teeth. “I believe I shall be overcome by the unfortunate incident earlier and need a lie-down to recover.”

The incorrigible minx.

“Corinna…”

Blister and blast.

A swift glance around revealed no one had heard Caspian’s slip of the tongue.

“Miss Brockman, don’t do anything rash or reckless,” he said in a fierce undertone as Brockman approached, no doubt to collect his sister lest the rumormongers start flapping their forked tongues and tails. “Think of your reputation.”

Even friendship had limits. Brockman would not forgive him if Corinna’s reputation was comprised by a blackguard such as Caspian.

All he needed was another scandal.

“I’m rarely impulsive, my lord.”

The impish glint in those remarkable blue eyes and tipping the pink petals of her full mouth upward shouted otherwise.

“Why do I find that difficult to believe?” he asked dryly.

Corinna slanted her head. “You shouldn’t believe what you hear, my lord. Far wiser, I think, to form one’s own opinions.”

“Touché.”

Caspian couldn’t fault her wisdom. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t meet with her.

To do so would be the epitome of impetuousness.

Insane. Foolhardy. Heedless.

Caspian was none of those.

Corinna’s madcap scheme was certain to end in disaster, no matter how tempted he was to spend time alone with the fascinating minx. Because the truth was, he could offer her nothing more than friendship, and every primal instinct in him shouted friendship with her would never be enough.

He wasn’t interested in marriage. Should he and Corinna be found unchaperoned, Brockman, his fusty-to-his-starched-neckcloth brother, the Earl of Renshaw, and their father, the Marquess of Trentholm, would have Caspian bound, gagged, and standing before a cleric before the sun set on another day.

Likely with a gun, or three, pointed at his person.

Intent on finding that bottle of scotch and putting the enchanting not-for-him Miss Corinna Brockman from his mind, Caspian strode across the floor.

“Strathmore?” Voice just short of a screech, Lady Sewell scooted into his path, forcing him to halt lest he trample her. Disapproval pinched her face so tightly that it rivaled a goose’s hind end.

“What are your intentions toward Miss Brockman?” she demanded.

What in the blazes?

One dance did not warrant such intrusiveness.

Caspian gave her a frigid stare. “How, pray tell, is that any of your concern?”

In his eight and twenty years, he’d never met a more invasive tabby.

Giving a disdainful sniff, Lady Sewell jutted her long, imperious nose upward. In a tone dripping with condescension and censure she declared, “I cannot begin to imagine why my cousin invited you.”

“Probably the same benevolent reason she invited you.” Leaning down, he winked. “Obligation…or pity.”