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Lisa Kleypas

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“Did I hurt you?" She managed to ask, recalling how she had inadvertently pushed on his wounded shoulder. "Does it ache this morning?" Leo hesitated before replying. "No it eventually eased after you left. But the devil knows it wouldn't take much to start up again." Catherine was overcome with remorse. "I'm sorry. Should we put poultice on it?" "A poultice?" he repeated blankly. "On my... oh. We're talking about my shoulder?" She blinked in confusion. "Of course we're talking about your shoulder. What else would we be discussing?" "Cat..." Leo looked away from her. To her surprise, there was a tremor of laughter in his voice. "When a man is aroused and left unsatisfied, he usually aches for a while afterward." "Where?" He gave her a speaking glance. "You mean..." a wild blush raced over her as she finally understood. "Well, I don't care if you ache there. I was only concerned about your wound!" "It's much better," Leo assured her, his eyes bright with amusement. "As for the other ache--" "That has nothing to do with me," she said hastily. "I be to differ.”

“Her drawers were pushed to her ankles, and his mouth wandered upward, his breath like puffs of steam against the tender skin of her leg. Evie made a low keening sound as he parted the private curls curls between her thighs. The two fingers he slipped inside her were immediately clasped and caressed, her inner muscles working as if to draw him deeper. Evie's eyes half closed, and a passion-blush swept over her body in uneven drifts of pink. "Sebastian." "Shhh..." His fingers pushed higher, and his mouth nudged past the swollen folds of her sex. He teased the straining little peak, licking in a sly counter-rhythm to the gentle thrust of his fingers. Evie arched against the door, her throat aching from the effort not to cry out. He did not pause or relent, did not allow her a single moment to catch her breath, only stroked and tormented her hot, twitching flesh, driving the sensation higher and higher until at last she choked back a scream and shuddered with rapture. His mouth stayed on her, drawing out every last ripple of fulfillment until she was finally still, her weary flesh emptied of sensation.”

“It had been too long since he had bedded a woman. Sir Ross Cannon could think of no other explanation for his reaction to Sophia Sydney... a response so powerful that he was forced to sit behind his desk to conceal a sudden, uncontrollable erection. Perplexed, he stared intently at the woman, wondering why her mere presence was enough to ignite such raging heat inside him. No one ever caught him off guard this way.”

“I am an ordinary man from an equally ordinary family." The statement should have reeked of false humility. After all, Sir Ross was a man of remarkable accomplishments and abilities. Surely he was aware of his own achievements, his keen mind, his good looks, his sterling reputation. However, Sophia realized that he did not consider himself superior to any other man. He demanded so much of himself that he could never live up to his own impossible standards. "You are not ordinary," she half whispered. "You are fascinating." There was no doubt that Sir Ross was often approached by women who had a personal interest in him. As a handsome widower with deep pockets and considerable social and political influence, he was probably the most eligible man in London. Yet Sophia's bold statement had clearly caught him off guard. He gave her a baffled stare, seeming unable to reply.”

“Sophia resumed her seat, the light sliding gently over her rich brown hair. "You don't look the way I expected, either," she informed him. Ross arched a brow in sardonic inquiry. "Oh?" "I thought you would be a portly old gentleman with a wig and a pipe." That drew a brief laugh from him, low and scratchy, and he realized that it had been a long time since he had made such a sound. For some reason he could not help asking, "Are you disappointed to find otherwise?" "No," she said, sounding a bit breathless. "No, I am not disappointed." The temperature in the office rose to a blistering degree. Ross could not help wondering if she found him attractive. He would soon be forty, and he looked his age. Threads of silver had begun to appear in his black hair. Years of relentless work and little sleep had left their mark, and the reckless pace of his life had left him almost rawboned.”

“Miss Sydney-" "Sir Ross," she interrupted, standing and bracing her hands on his desk. Her high-necked dress revealed nothing as she leaned toward him. However, if she had been wearing a low décolletage, her breasts would have been presented to him like two succulent apples on a tray. Stimulated unbearably by the thought, Ross forced himself to focus on her face. Her lips curled in a faint smile. "You have nothing to lose by letting me try," she pointed out. "Give me a month to prove my worth." Ross stared at her intently. There was something manufactured about her display of charm. She was trying to manipulate him into giving her something she wanted- and she was succeeding. But why in God's name did she want to work for him? He realized suddenly that he could not let her go without discovering her motives. "If I fail to please you," she added, "you can always hire someone else." Ross was known for being a supremely rational man. It would be impractical for him to hire this woman. Stupid, even. He knew exactly what the others at Bow Street would make of it. They would assume that he had hired her because of her sexual appeal. The uncomfortable truth was, they would be right. It had been a long time since he had been so strongly attracted to a woman. He wanted to keep her here, to enjoy her beauty and intelligence, and to discover if she returned his interest. His mind weighed the scruples of such a decision, but his thoughts were eclipsed by male urges that refused to be quelled. And for the first time in his magisterial career, he ignored reason in favor of desire.”

“But Sir Ross was handsome, as much as she hated to admit it. He was a man in his prime, tall and big-framed and a bit too lean. His features were strong and austere, with straight black brows shadowing the most extraordinary pair of eyes she had ever seen. They were light gray, so bright that it seemed as if the white-hot energy of lightning had been trapped inside the black-rimmed irises. He possessed a quality that had unnerved her, a tremendous volatility burning beneath his remote surface. And he wore his authority comfortably, a man who could make decisions and live with them no matter what the outcome.”

“Troubled, she nudged the frayed muslin curtain aside to gain a better view of his office window. As if he could somehow feel Sophia's gaze, Sir Ross turned and glanced directly at her. Although there was no lamp or candle burning in her room, the moonlight was sufficient to illuminate her. He could see that she was dressed only in the fragile night rail. Being a gentleman, Sir Ross should have turned away immediately. But he stared at her intently, as if he were a hungry wolf and she were a rabbit that had ventured too far from the warren.”

“Although Sophia had heard of the Chief Magistrate's well-known compassion for women and children, she was surprised by his willingness to interfere in a conflict between husband and wife. A wife was legally considered to be a man's property, and he could do as he pleased with her, short of actual murder. "that was very kind of you," she said. The frown remained on Sir Ross's face. "I'd like to make Fowler suffer in the same way his wife has. I can only keep him in Newgate for three days- not nearly long enough.”

“What if you married again?" Sophia asked, held prisoner by his vivid silver gaze. "Wouldn't you worry about your wife's fidelity?" "No." "Why not?" "Because I would keep her so busy in my bed that she would have neither the time nor the inclination to seek another man's company." The words caused an odd quiver to shoot through Sophia's belly. It was an admission of nothing less than an all-consuming sexual appetite. It conformed everything she had learned about him so far. Sir Ross was not a man to do anything by half measures. Before she could stop herself, Sophia imagined what it might be like to lie tangled with him in intimacy, his mouth at her breasts, his hands moving gently over her body. Her face flamed with a mixture of embarrassment and awareness. "Forgive me," he said softly. "I should not have spoken so frankly." Another surprise- Sophia had never encountered a man from any walk of life who would lower himself to apologize to an employee, much less to a female one. "It was my fault," she managed to say. "I should not have asked such personal questions. I don't know why I did." "Don't you?" His gaze snared hers again, and the hot flicker in his eyes made it difficult for her to breathe. Sophia had been trying to discover more about his character and the workings of his heart. It was all for the purpose of manipulation, of course. All part of her quest to make him fall in love with her. Unfortunately, she was finding it difficult to ignore a growing attraction to the man she planned to hurt. She wanted to remain cool and uninvolved when they finally shared a bed. However, there were so many seductive qualities about him: his intelligence, his compassion for vulnerable creatures, the raw need beneath his self-controlled facade.”

“Miss Sophia says she will never love again." "She'll marry someday," Ross replied cynically. "It is only a matter of time." "Yes, Miss Sophia will probably marry," Eliza said pragmatically. "What I said was, she will never love again." He shrugged casually. "If one is to marry, it is best to do it for reasons other than love." "That is exactly what Miss Sophia says." Eliza took her leave, pausing at the door to add with a bit too much sincerity, "How sensible you both are!" She departed with a chuckle while Ross scowled after her.”

“Miss Sydney," Linley murmured, "hold this probe exactly as it is positioned, and do not alter the angle." "Yes, sir." She complied instantly, and he reached for a delicate two-pronged instrument that looked like a pair of pincers. "Steady hands," he remarked admiringly, resuming possession of the probe. Deftly he began to extract the bullet. "And a pretty countenance to boot. If you ever tire of working at Bow Street, Miss Sydney, I am going to hire you as my assistant." Before Sophia could reply, Sir Ross interceded. "No," he growled. "She's mine.”

“His aggravation was soothed by the sight of Sophia's serene face, the dark lashes screening her blue eyes as she concentrated on her task. Remembering the sweet fire of her response, Ross felt a glow of triumph. Despite her fears, she had been willing to let him make love to her. He would not press the issue now, not until he was well again. But then... oh, then...”

“I have a fortune, Sophia. I'm going to buy you a house somewhere... France or Italy... where you can live like a lady. I'll give you an account so that you'll never have to worry about money again." Her mouth hung open as she stared at him. "John... Nick... I don't want to live abroad! Everything that holds value for me is here." "Oh?" His voice became dangerously soft. "What would keep you here?”

“I haven't seen you for a while," she said. "Where have you been?" "I had to dispose of a rodent," he said lightly. "A rodent?" she repeated, perplexed. "Couldn't one of the servants have taken care of it? His white teeth gleamed as he laughed. "I wanted to take care of this one." "Oh." She looked across the polished drawing room floor with a frown of worry. "Do you think there might be others scurrying around? They like to run up ladies' skirts, you know." Still smiling, Ross slipped an arm around her waist. "My lady, the only creature that will nibble at your ankles tonight is me.”

“Now that we've come to an agreement, I'll take you back to your cell," Ross said pleasantly. "You'll be released tomorrow morning. In the meanwhile, I have some arrangements to make." "Ross," Sophia said anxiously, "must John go back in there tonight?" "Yes." His gaze dared her to protest. Prudently she kept her mouth closed, although it was clear that she longed to plead for her brother's sake. "It's all right, Sophia," Gentry murmured. "I've stayed in worse places than this." He slanted a baleful glance at Ross as he added, "Courtesy of your husband.”

“The dessert plates were arranged with delicate biscuits and pineapple cream served in cunning little glazed pots. Sir Ross introduced a new topic of conversation concerning some recently proposed amendments to the Poor Law, which both he and Gentry supported. Surprisingly, Sophia offered her own opinions on the subject, and the men listened attentively. Lottie tried to conceal her astonishment, for she had been taught for years that a proper woman should never express her opinions in mixed company. Certainly she should say nothing about politics, an inflammatory subject that only men were qualified to debate. And yet here was a man as distinguished as Sir Ross seeming to find nothing wrong in his wife's speaking her mind. Nor did Gentry seem displeased by his sister's outspokenness. Perhaps Gentry would allow her the same freedom. With that pleasant thought in her mind, Lottie consumed her pineapple cream, a rich, silky custard with a tangy flavor. Upon reaching the bottom of the pot, she thought longingly of how nice it would be to have another. However, good manners and the fear of appearing gluttonous made it unthinkable to request seconds. Noticing the wistful glance Lottie gave her empty dish, Gentry laughed softly and slid his own untouched dessert to her plate. "You have even more of a taste for sweets than little Amelia," he murmured in her ear. His warm breath caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise. "We didn't have desserts at school," she said with a sheepish smile. He took his napkin and dabbed gently at the corner of her mouth. "I can see that I'll have a devil of a time trying to compensate for all the things you were deprived of. I suppose you'll want sweets with every meal now." Pausing in the act of lifting her spoon, Lottie stared into the warm blue eyes so close to hers, and suddenly she felt wreathed in heat. Ridiculous, that all he had to do was speak with that caressing note in his voice, and she could be so thoroughly undone.”

“The other four in the gang were hanged in short order, but because of my age, the magistrate handed me a lesser sentence. Ten months on the Scarborough." "Sir Ross was the magistrate who sentenced you," Lottie murmured, remembering what Sophia had told her. A bitter smile twisted Nick's mouth. "Little did either of us know that we would someday be brothers-in-law.”

“Harry paused with his fork held in midair, mesmerized by the sight of her slim fingers twirling the honey stick, meticulously filling each hole with thick umber liquid. Realizing that he was staring, Harry took a bite of his breakfast. Poppy replaced the honey stick in a small silver pot. Discovering a stray drop of sweetness on the tip of her thumb, she lifted it to her lips and sucked it clean. Harry choked a little, reached for his tea, and took a swallow. The beverage scalded his tongue, causing him to flinch and curse. Poppy gave him an odd look. "Is there anything the matter?" Nothing. Except that watching his wife eating breakfast was the most erotic act he had ever seen. "Nothing at all," Harry said scratchily. "Tea's hot." When he dared to look at Poppy again, she was consuming a fresh strawberry, holding it by the green stem. Her lips rounded in a luscious pucker as she bit neatly into the ripe flesh of the fruit. Christ. He moved uncomfortably in his chair, while all the unsatisfied desire of the previous night reawakened with a vengeance. Poppy ate two more strawberries, nibbling slowly, while Harry tried to ignore her. Heat collected beneath his clothing, and he used a napkin to blot his forehead. Poppy lifted a bite of honey-soaked crumpet to her mouth, and gave him a perplexed glance. "Are you feeling well?" "It's too warm in here," Harry said irritably, while lurid thoughts went through his mind. Thoughts involving honey, and soft feminine skin, and moist pink-”

“Do you like novels?" He shook his head. "I usually read for information, not entertainment." "You disapprove of reading for pleasure?" "No, it's just that I don't often manage to find the time for it." "Perhaps that's why you don't sleep well. You need an interlude between work and bedtime." There was a dry, perfectly timed pause before Harry asked, "What would you suggest?" Aware of his meaning, Poppy felt a bloom of color emerge from head to toe. Harry seemed to enjoy her discomfiture, not in a mocking way, but as if he found her charming.”

“Cicadas," Poppy said. "This is the only place you'll see them in England. They're usually found only in the tropics. Only a male cicada makes that noise- it's said to be a mating song." "How do you know he's not commenting on the weather?" Sending him a provocative sideways glance, Poppy murmured, "Well, mating is rather a male preoccupation, isn't it?" Harry smiled. "If there's a more interesting subject," he said, "I have yet to discover it.”

“Poppy," she murmured, "no matter how Miss Marks tries to civilize me- and I do try to listen to her- I still have my own way of looking at the world. To me, people are scarcely different from animals. We're all God's creatures, aren't we? When I meet someone, I know immediately what animal they would be. When we first met Cam, for example, I knew he was a fox." "I suppose Cam is somewhat fox-like," Poppy said, amused. "What is Merripen? A bear?" "No, unquestionably a horse. And Amelia is a hen." "I would say an owl." "Yes, but don't you remember when one of our hens in Hampshire chased after a cow that had strayed too close to the nest? That's Amelia." Poppy grinned. "You're right." "And Win is a swan." "Am I also a bird? A lark? A robin?" "No, you're a rabbit." "A rabbit?" Poppy made a face. "I don't like that. Why am I a rabbit?" "Oh, rabbits are beautiful soft animals who love to be cuddled. They're very sociable, but they're happiest in pairs." "But their timid," Poppy protested. "Not always. They're brave enough to be companions to many other creatures. Even cats and dogs." "Well," Poppy said in resignation, "it's better than being a hedgehog, I suppose." "Miss Marks is a hedgehog," Beatrix said in a matter-of-fact tone that made Poppy grin. "And you're a ferret, aren't you, Bea?" "Yes. But I was leading to a point." "Sorry, go on." "I was going to say that Mr. Rutledge is a cat. A solitary hunter. With an apparent taste for rabbit.”

“... Mr. Rutledge, I've just been through a very difficult experience. This is too soon." "You were courted by a boy, who had to do as he was told." His hot breath feathered against her lips as he whispered, "You should try it with a man, who needs no one's permission." A man. Well, he certainly was that. "I don't have the luxury of waiting," Harry continued. "Not when you're so hell-bent on going back to Hampshire. You're the reason I'm here tonight, Poppy. Believe me, I wouldn't have come otherwise.”

“It's one of the things Cam and I discussed last evening- he said it's characteristic of Hathaway women, this need for demonstrations of affection." Amused and fascinated, Poppy made a face. "What else did he say?" Harry's mood altered with quicksilver speed. He threw her a dazzling grin. "He compared it to working with Arabian horses... they're responsive, quick, but they need their freedom. You never master an Arabian... you become its companion." He paused. "At least, I think that's what he said. I was half dead from exhaustion, and we were drinking brandy." "That sounds like Cam." Poppy raised her gaze heavenward. "And after dispensing this advice, he sent you to me, the horse." Harry stopped and pulled her against him, nudging her braid aside to kiss her neck. "Yes," he whispered. "And what a nice ride it was.”

“Let me be your big brother, Harry had told Catherine at their last meeting in Hampshire, making it clear that he wanted to attempt the kind of familial relationship they had never been capable of before. With no small amount of unease. Catherine reflected that she was about to test his claim far sooner than either of them could have expected. And they were still practically strangers. But Harry had altered greatly during the short time of his marriage to Poppy. He was far kinder and warmer now, and certainly willing to think of Catherine as something more than an inconvenient half sister who didn't belong anywhere.”

“The stranger contemplated her for a moment. "Shall I send for a housemaid to accompany you?" Poppy's first inclination was to agree. But she didn't want to wait here with him, even for a few minutes. She didn't trust him in the least. As he saw her indecision, his mouth twisted sardonically. "If I were going to molest you," he pointed out, "I would have done so by now." Her flush deepened at his bluntness. "So you say. But for all I know, you could be a very slow molester." He looked away for a moment, and when he glanced back at her, his eyes were bright with amusement. "You're safe, Miss Hathaway." His voice was rich with unspent laughter. "Really. Let me send for a maid." The glow of humor changed his voice, imparting such warmth and charm that Poppy was almost startled. She felt her heart begin to pump some new and agreeable feeling through her body.”

“I have questions," she said. "Ask away." Poppy decided to be blunt. "Are you dangerous? Everyone says you are." "To you? No." "To others?" Harry shrugged innocently. "I'm a hotelier. How dangerous could I be?" Poppy gave him a dubious glance, not at all deceived. "I may be gullible, Harry, but I'm not brainless. You know the rumors... you're well aware of your reputation. Are you as unscrupulous as you're made out to be?" Harry was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on a distant cluster of blossoms. The sun threw its light into the filter of branches, scattering leaf shadows over the pair in the arbor. Eventually he lifted his head and looked at her directly, his eyes greener than the sun struck rose leaves. "I'm not a gentleman," he said. "Not by birth, and not by character. Very few men can afford to be honorable while trying to make a success of themselves. I don't lie, but I rarely tell everything I know. I'm not a religious man, nor a spiritual one. I act in my own interests, and I make no secret of it. However, I always keep my side of a bargain, I don't cheat, and I pay my debts." Pausing, Harry fished in his coat pocket, pulled out a penknife, and reached up to cut a rose in full bloom. After neatly severing the stem, he occupied himself with stripping the thorns with the sharp little blade. "I would never use physical force against a woman, or anyone weaker than myself. I don't smoke, take snuff, or chew tobacco. I always hold my liquor. I don't sleep well. And I can make a clock from scratch." Removing the last thorn, he handed the rose to her, and slipped the knife back into his pocket. Poppy concentrated on the satiny pink rose, running her fingers along the top edges of the petals.”

“She twisted her betrothal ring around her finger. Although the current fashion was for diamond clusters, or colored stones, Harry had bought her a single rose-cut diamond, shaped at the top with facets that mimicked the inner spiral of a rose. "I asked for something small and simple," she had told Harry when he had given it to her. "It's simple," he countered. "But not small." "Poppy," he had told her with a smile, "I never do anything in a small way.”

“Her stomach dropped as she heard someone entering the apartments. She took a deep breath, and another, and waited until Harry's broad-shouldered form appeared in the doorway. He paused, watching her, his features impassive. His cravat had been removed, the shirt opened to reveal the strong line of his throat. Poppy steeled herself not to move as Harry approached her. He reached out to touch her shining hair, letting it slide through his fingers like liquid fire. "I've never seen it down before," he said. He was close enough that she could smell a hint of shaving soap, and the tang of champagne on his breath. His fingers smoothed over her cheek, detecting the trembling within her stillness. "Afraid?" he asked softly. Poppy forced herself to meet his gaze. "No." "Maybe you should be. I'm much nicer to people who are afraid of me." "I doubt that," she said. "I think the opposite is true." A smile touched his lips.”

“Why did you go through with it?" she heard him ask quietly. "I thought it best for Michael." She felt a twinge of satisfaction as she saw how that had annoyed him. Harry half sat on the bed, his posture informal. His gaze didn't stray from her. "Had there been a choice, I would have done all this the ordinary way. I would have courted you openly, won you fairly. But you'd already decided on Bayning. This was the only alternative." "No, it wasn't. You could have let me be with Michael." "It's doubtful he ever would have offered for you. He deceived you, and himself, by assuming he could persuade his father to accept the match. You should have seen the old man when I showed him the letter- he was mortally offended by the notion of his son taking a wife so far beneath him." That hurt, as perhaps Harry had intended, and Poppy stiffened.”

“She was distracted from her thoughts as he pulled something from one of his coat pockets, a flat rectangular leather case. "A present," Harry said, giving it to her. Her eyes rounded with surprise. "You didn't need to give me anything. Thank you. I didn't expect.. oh." This last as she opened the case and beheld a diamond necklace arranged on the velvet lining like a pool of glittering fire. It was a heavy garland of sparkling flowers and quatrefoil links. "Do you like it?" Harry asked casually. "Yes, of course, it's... breathtaking." Poppy had never imagined owning such jewelry. The only necklace she possessed was a single pearl on a chain. "Shall I... shall I wear it tonight?" "I think it would be appropriate with that gown." Harry took the necklace from the case, stood behind Poppy, and fastened it gently around her neck. The cold weight of the diamonds and the warm brush of his fingers at her nape elicited a shiver. He remained behind her, his hands settling lightly on the curves of her neck, moving in a warm stroke to the tops of her shoulders. "Lovely," he murmured. "Although nothing is as beautiful as your bare skin.”

“She turned to face him, refusal stamped on her expression. The evasion seemed to have stunned Harry. Sparks of wrath kindled in his eyes, as if she had been vastly unfair. "It seems the ban on virginal theatrics has been lifted." Poppy replied with stilted dignity. "I don't think it's theatrical to pull away when I don't want to be kissed." "A diamond necklace for one kiss. Is that such a bad bargain?" Her cheeks went scarlet. "I appreciate your generosity. But you're wrong to think that you can buy or bargain for my favors. I'm not a mistress, Harry." "Obviously. Because in return for such a necklace, a mistress would go to that bed, lie there willingly and offer to do whatever I wanted." "I've never denied you your marital rights," she said. "If you wish, I'll go to that bed willingly and do whatever you want, this very moment. But not because you gave me a necklace, as if it were part of some transaction." Far from being appeased, Harry regarded her with gathering outrage. "The thought of you laid out like a martyr on the sacrificial altar is not what I had in mind." "Why isn't it enough that I'm willing to submit to you?" Poppy asked, her own temper flaring. "Why must I be eager to lie with you, when you're not the husband I wanted?”

“Poppy paused to look down at the large, unshaven man in her bed. Even in his unkempt state, his dark-angel handsomeness was breathtaking. His lids trembled infinitesimally as he succumbed to encroaching dreams. Complex, remarkable, driven man. Not incapable of love... not at all. He merely needed to be shown how. And just as she had a few days earlier, Poppy thought, this is the man I'm married to. Except that now, she felt a stirring of gladness.”

“Watching a delicate tide of pink rise in her face, he said in a low voice, "Put the book aside." Poppy's toes curled beneath the bed linens. "But I've reached a very interesting part," she said demurely, teasing him. "Not half so interesting as what's about to happen to you." Drawing the covers back with a deliberate sweep that left her gasping, Harry lowered his body over hers... and the book dropped to the floor, forgotten.”

“Suddenly she was distracted by the feel of a strange object underneath her palm, pressed flat against his chest. There was a hard lump in the inside pocket of his coat. She frowned curiously. Before Derek realized what she was doing, she reached inside the garment to investigate. "No," he said swiftly, his large hand gripping her wrist to stop her. But it was too late; her fingers had already encountered the object and identified it. With a disbelieving look on her face, Sara pulled out the tiny pair of spectacles she thought she had lost at the club. "Why?" she whispered, amazed that he was carrying them in his breast pocket. He met her gaze defiantly, his jaw set. A small muscle twitched his cheek. Then she understood. "Are you having problems with your sight, Mr. Craven?" she asked softly. "Or is it your heart?”

“Why won't you be friends with me?" To Cassandra's chagrin, the question came out plaintive, almost childish. She looked down and rearranged the folds of her skirts, fidgeting with the crystal beads. "My lady," he murmured, but she refused to look at him. One of his hands came to the side of her face to angle it upward. It was the first time he'd ever touched her. His fingers were strong but gentle, slightly cool against her hot cheek, and it felt so amazingly good that she trembled. She couldn't move or speak, only stared up into his lean, slightly wolfish face. A trick of moonlight had turned his blue-green eyes iridescent. "That you'd even ask..." His thumb brushed over her skin in a slow stroke, and her breath stopped and started too fast, sounding like a tiny hiccup. There was no mistaking the experience in his touch, sending pleasure-chills down the back of her neck and all along her spine. "Do you really want to be friends?" His voice had softened into dark velvet. "Yes," she managed to say. "No, you don't.”

“He said rich fare might be difficult for you to manage." Keir snorted at the thought. "Difficult for an Englishman, maybe. But I'm after having for a full Scottish breakfast." Her dark eyes twinkled. "What does that consist of?" Unfolding his arms, he settled back against the pillows with a nostalgic sigh. "Bacon, sausage patties, ham, fried eggs, beans, potatoes, scones... and maybe a bit of sweet, like clootie pudding." Her brows lifted. "All that on one plate?" "You have to build a mountain of the meat," he explained, "and arrange the rest around it.”

“Two years ago, Rhys Winterborne had hired Dr. Garrett Gibson to serve on the clinic's medical staff, despite people's suspicions that a woman wasn't suited for such a demanding profession. Garrett had dedicated herself to proving them wrong, and in a short time had distinguished herself as an unusually skilled and talented surgeon as well as physician. She was still regarded as something of a novelty, of course, but her reputation and practice had grown steadily.”

“With Naomi's help, Lara bathed leisurely in hot lavender-scented water and smoothed perfumed cream over her shoulders, arms, and throat. A faint dusting of pearl powder gave a translucent gleam to her face, while an application of rose-tinted salve made her lips dewy and pink. Naomi pulled Lara's hair into a braided coil atop her head, giving the effect of a sable crown, and adorned it with individual pearls sewn onto pins. Lara's gown was simple yet beautiful, a delicate sheath of white overlaid with silvery gauze. The neckline swooped dramatically low, while the sleeves were nothing more than transparent bands of silver lace.”