How to Catch a Wild Viscount

by Tessa Dare

The man possessed a cutting wit, and used it to draw blood. Some gentlemen angled trout while on holiday; others shot game. Arthur Brooke made it a sport to disenchant—as though it were his personal mission to drive fancy and naiveté to extinction.

She’d always worn melancholy well. She was rather like the moon that way: a fixture of bright, alluring sadness that kept watch with him each night.

“I’m out here chasing you, you idiot!” She buffeted his shoulder with her fist. “You’re the one I love.”

“And what do you mean, you can’t love me? Love isn’t a matter of can or can’t.”