A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

She blinked, mentally shook free of their hold, and refocused on his eyes, his face.

Realized he was watching her intently.

Realized he hadn’t moved, that he’d made no attempt to set her on her feet.

The look in his eyes was blatantly predatory and frankly interested; he made not the slightest effort to screen it, to disguise it, to hide it from her. The image that popped into her mind was of a large, powerful, prowling beast contemplating his next meal.

But he made no move to seize her. He was waiting to see what she would do.

She knew better than to turn and flee.

Clearing her throat, she discovered her hands were pressed to his shoulders; she pushed back, and he let her go easily—smoothly—but still he watched her.

Chin rising, she met his gaze and reached for her hat, with her eyes dared him to make anything whatever of that accidental moment. “Thank you.”

Before she could grasp her hat and twitch it from his fingers, he lifted it and dropped it on her head.

And smiled. Slowly, intently. “It was entirely my pleasure.”

If she’d been a weak female, easily distracted by a handsome face, a warrior’s body, and a smile that promised experience beyond her wildest dreams, after the incident with her hat she would doubtless have preserved a safe silence all the way to the rectory.

Instead, in order to ensure Warnefleet understood she wasn’t susceptible, she felt compelled to make conversation—the sort of conversation to put him in his place and make clear her opinion of him, an opinion unaffected by their recent interactions.

“So, my lord, do you plan on remaining at Avening for long?” The old oak lay ahead, her discarded basket sitting in its shade.

He didn’t immediately reply, but eventually said, “Avening’s my home. I grew up here.”

“Yes, I know. But you’ve been absent for years—I understand your interests keep you in the capital.” She put subtle emphasis on “interests,” enough to let him know she had an excellent grasp of what interests kept gentlemen like him in London.

She ducked under the ends of the oak’s lower branches, walking into the cool shadows.

He followed. “Some interests are best dealt with in town, true enough.” His drawl was easy, but as he continued, she sensed steel beneath. “But no sensible man would let business tie him to London, and most other interests are portable, not tied to any location.”

He, too, put a similar subtle emphasis on “interests”; it was patently clear he was calling her bluff.

“Indeed?” She bent and picked up the basket, then straightened, turned and met his eyes. “However, I daresay you would find it difficult to transfer sufficient of your other interests here, to the manor or village. Consequently, after dealing with whatever estate matters brought you here, I imagine you’ll be off once more, hence my question. How long do you plan to stay?”

Jack held her gaze. After a moment, he quietly said, “You don’t look like a female given to disordered imaginings.”

Her dark eyes flared; her chin set. “I’m not!”

He nodded amenably. Reaching for the basket, he took it from her; she surrendered it with barely a thought, too distract

ed. Too incipiently incensed. “So I’d thought,” he agreed with unimpaired calm. “That’s why I listened to all you had to say about the accident that wasn’t any accident. You were right about that.”

“Naturally.” She frowned at him. “I don’t imagine things.”

“Is that so?” He caught her dark gaze, held it for a pregnant instant, then quietly asked, “So why, Lady Clarice, have you taken against me? What have you imagined about me?”

She saw the trap, recognized she’d stepped into it; faint color tinged her cheeks—anger and irritation, not embarrassment. Purest alabaster, her complexion reminded him of rich cream, smooth, luscious; his fingers itched to touch, to stroke. To feel.

To make her flush with something other than anger.

She must have seen some hint of his thoughts in his eyes; her chin rose, but there was defensiveness in the gesture. “In your case, my lord, no imagination was necessary. Your actions over the years speak clearly enough.”

He’d been right; for some mystical reason she held him in contempt, even though they’d never met, never set eyes on each other, let alone communicated in any way. “Which actions are those?”

His tone would have warned most men they were treading on extremely thin ice. He was quite sure she heard the warning, read it correctly, felt equally sure as her eyes flashed that she’d dismissed it out of hand.