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she was not fated to think of Bertram the moment a man approached her. As much as she enjoyed Bertram’s embraces before his betrayal, she could not remember ever feeling them so potently. She remembered Bertram’s own excitement, his endearments, and especially the feeling of power over him. And all of those had been lies. This was different. She was not even certain the earl enjoyed the kiss or whether for him it was merely curiosity and dominance.

      All she knew was that she remembered every second of it, every element of it. The sensation of his hair sliding between her fingers, silkier and warmer than those scarves, the scent of musk and soap and something far away but so familiar. Even with her eyes closed images filled her mind—the way his eyes narrowed and darkened as he bent over her, the strength of the long fingers bringing her skin to life, his mouth a breath away from hers... And then the scalding moment of contact and the kiss...

      She had been utterly present and utterly lost in the moment.

      Even now that he was gone she still felt...strong. Alive.

      Confused.

      She shivered and picked up his glass of brandy, watching the amber liquid pitch and sway. The packet of his father’s letters was right there, the handwriting on them still clear despite two decades having passed. He had looked right at them without a sign of recognition. Surely anyone...anyone normal would show some curiosity about letters from their deceased parent, no matter how much they disliked that parent? She wasn’t very fond of hers but she would definitely be curious if someone presented her with a packet of their lost letters, even if they were most likely about orchids and other rare flora.

      Too much about this man didn’t make sense.

      She sighed and sipped the brandy and stared at her wall. Then she pulled a sheet of paper towards her and dipped her quill into the inkpot. In her scrawled writing she wrote and underlined the title:

       Lord Sinclair. Characteristics...

       Chapter Six

      Lucas paid the hackney driver and continued on foot. He was a half-mile from Spinner Street, but he would do well to expend some of his excess energy along the way. He wasn’t accustomed to rebellions either from his libido or his conscience and to have both of them heading in the wrong direction was surely a good indication to retreat.

      And yet here he was. He couldn’t even completely blame it on his rebellious body. It had never ruled him in the past, whatever society chose to think, and he had no intention of allowing it to do so at his age. But he couldn’t shake the conflicting images of Olivia Silverdale that dogged his steps as he went about unearthing the identity of her mysterious Eldritch—the garish Madame Bulgari in her satins and silks, the coolly veiled woman issuing her demands, and especially the girl waiting to experiment with kissing, managing to look both lost and fiercely determined all at once.

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