"There’s another reason." She looked mischievous. "What do you know about Sir Jonathan Ambrose?" Geraint puckered his lips as a sensation of relief passed through his body, relaxing the tension he’d begun to feel. This was familiar territory. "He’s an absolute dweeb, my dear. Ancient noble heritage, pots of money, degree from Oxford, and absolutely no chin at all. He’d be as much use in bed as a Fuchi Sensation without the batteries. Why do you have such appalling taste in men?"