And, as if conjured by her wayward introspections—or perhaps even by her acidic guilt—there he stood. Tall, more beautiful than any man ought to be, a knowing grin already on his lips. He moved with the lithe sophistication only a true rakehell could perfect. As if he knew every pair of feminine eyes within reach would devour the sight of him, from his well-muscled horseman’s thighs clad in those form-fitting breeches to his broad shoulders and the immaculate cut of his coat.
Because they were.
Because he was Lord Ashley Rawdon, and he was handsome as sin.
Tempting as the devil.
She sighed.
He bowed.
The door closed behind him, leaving the two of them perfectly, improperly, alone.
“Miss Winter,” he greeted. “How startled I am to find you here.”
The liar.
She rose and dipped into a curtsy because she knew she must, but as she did so, she hid the book carefully behind her back. For if anyone would knowThe Tale of Loveupon sight, surely it would be he.
“You are back to following me again, I see, Lord Ashley,” she observed coolly.
“On the contrary, my dear,” he returned, his tone smooth and unflappable as his mien, “I have never been following you. Fortune’s wheel has merely given me an excellent turn a time or two.”
“Or four,” she could not help but to point out, even if she was being rude.
“Ah, now the lady can count.” He winked at her and strode nearer in a casual fashion, as if he had all day to approach her. “What are you hiding behind your back, Miss Winter?”
Of course, he had noticed. She did not think there was a thing Lord Ashley Rawdon missed. The man was dreadfully observant for an indolent rakehell. But then again, she was beginning to think she had mistaken him. For though he was a charming rogue, there was nothing indolent about him.
“I am hiding nothing, my lord,” she said calmly, though her hands clenched the book in a tighter, more protective grip behind her back. “For I have nothing to hide.”
“Indeed?” He stopped when he was near enough to touch.
So close she could detect the odd striations of color in his irises. Violet and gray with a hint of sea green.
She would have taken a cautionary step backward, but the chair she had so recently vacated would not allow it.
“Indeed,” she bluffed, hating the way her voice emerged. Breathless. Affected.
Because hedidaffect her, and much to her dismay, the affliction he caused whenever she was in his presence was only growing worse.
He held out a hand. Ungloved. “Then you will not mind sharing your reading selection with me. I confess, I am curious as to what sort of book would cause Miss Prudence Winter to hide herself away in a far-flung salon.”
The sight of his bare hand should not make her heart race. Nor should the scent of him—lemon tinged with musk—send heat pooling between her thighs. The scent of his cologne was as bright and alluring as he was. It suited him, she thought.
But she was not giving him the book.
Not now.
Not ever.
“I fear you would find my choice of reading horridly boring,” she managed to say. “Why did you seek me out again today, my lord? Perhaps you are here for your lessons?”
“Lessons.”
The way he repeated the lone word was scandalous.
It echoed between her thighs in a wanton ache.
