The older woman smiled. ‘You’re a good girl, my dear. Just what His Grace needs – someone to take him in hand.’ Finley didn’t think that meant quite what came to mind.

You’re not a mistake. Don’t you ever think of yourself that way. You’re exactly as you ought to be.

Please, don’t let him be naked, she prayed. She might have to gouge out her own eyes if Lord Vincent was prancing about in his flesh pajamas on the other side of the door.

Her heart kicked hard against her ribs, seized by a terrible fear that refused to let go no matter how hard she pushed.

Cretin? If only he had a quid for every time he’d been called that. Oh, right. He did.

It was a little disappointing, really. As an inventor he could at least have had a hunchback assistant, or perhaps a metal one.

Wasn’t living your life based around what people thought and expected of you a little... well, stupid?

I cannot tell my heart what to feel.

So Finley did what so many rich girls did when confronted with a situation they did not want to face. She rolled her eyes back into her head and pretended to faint.

Miss her a little? God, was she daft? He was going to miss her more than a little. No, he wasn’t. He leaped to his feet and practically ran to the door. He wasn’t going to miss her at all. He was going to find her and bring her home.