LITMIR.BIZ

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given your colouring and name you are only too used to Raven and other fowl references.’

      He laughed, crossing the room to where she stood by a window overlooking a scrappy lawn already giving way to the weeds and the weather.

      ‘Especially foul. But I don’t mind. Here’s another quote for you: “Censure acquits the Raven but pursues the dove.” So are you certain you wish to be practically alone with me in an empty house? What if I am overpowered by licentious and lustful urges?’

      He didn’t really expect her to be shocked, nor was she.

      ‘I thought I was a vixen, hardly a dove, but in either case I at least am not so vain as to believe I am capable of evoking overpowering urges in anyone, let alone in someone as jaded as you, and certainly not under the watchful and censorious eyes of Mr Prosper and Greene.’

      ‘You are quite right you are no dove. Doves are soft and padded and coo when petted. What do you do when petted, Lily Wallace?’

      Finally a blush. But getting a rise out of her came at a cost of triggering an unwelcome reaction at the thought of petting her. First of peeling away those fashionable layers to the fine cotton muslin underneath. Such expensive fabrics would be near transparent once he stripped away the stays and chemise, a gauzy cobweb of a dress, like wearing the morning mist. Her hair would be a wavy tumble of warmth, a mass of shades, darker than her eyes. She might be no dove, but her body would still be soft...

      ‘Shall we see the other rooms, my lord?’ Mr Prosper asked from the doorway.

      Alan nodded.

      ‘Yes. Let’s start with the bedrooms.’

      * * *

      Within fifteen minutes of their arrival Alan knew the property wasn’t suitable. The only reason he didn’t call a halt to their exploration of the old house was Miss Wallace—her curiosity and her attempts to manoeuvre him into disclosing his agenda were too amusing to curtail. Curiosity seemed to work on her in the same way greed worked on some people. In that way she reminded him of his friend Stanton—he could never abandon a problem until he had cracked and subjugated it. But if she was like Stanton, once her curiosity was assuaged, she would be off in search of the next challenge and Alan was rather enjoying her persistence and the effect it had on her natural wariness.

      She still didn’t trust him an inch, but she was showing a surprising degree of faith in his honour merely by being with him for so long with only a timid solicitor as chaperon. There was an aura of dismissive superiority about her that was worthy of the most spoilt of heiresses and yet she had none of the calm ease of entitlement that women like Penny Marston had. She was no pampered house cat, but a prowling half-wild feline, used to fending for herself. Catherine must have misunderstood—there was no possible way someone like Philip Marston would contemplate marriage with a woman who would challenge his authority at every level, not even for a fortune.

      Mr Prosper opened the door into what had probably been an attempt at a library and stood back to allow them to enter. ‘This is the last of the rooms,’ he announced from the doorway, his eyes darting from them to the darkening window, where the sun was still battling with the clouds lying heavily on the trees. ‘We really should leave before it begins to rain in earnest. Shall I find your maid and have the landaulet ready for you, Miss Wallace?’

      ‘Thank you, Mr Prosper, that is very kind.’

      Alan waited until the solicitor left the room and went to stand by Lily, where she was inspecting the moulding on the fireplace, her long fingers tracing an elaborate engraving that had long since been worn down to runic incomprehensibility.

      ‘You should have fled while you could, Miss Wallace. I’m afraid your curiosity is about to be repaid with a soaking.’

      ‘I have survived worse.’

      ‘So have I. Even during the last hour.’

      She laughed and began pulling on the gloves she had removed while inspecting the carvings.

      ‘What, the house or my presence? Was it so very terrible?’

      ‘It could have been better.’

      ‘How?’

      ‘We could have been alone.’

      Finally there was a little surprise and even more wariness. But as he expected, she gathered herself and ploughed forward rather than succumb to the momentary confusion.

      ‘Is Keynsham proving so thin of female company, then, my lord?’

      ‘Not in the least. We are close enough to Bristol to provide for all matter of needs. But variety is the very spice of life and my fare has been somewhat bland recently.’

      ‘Oh, you poor, poor rakehell, are you bored? How simply awful for you.’

      Her tone dripped mock-concern, her eyes wide in a wonderful parody of tragic distress, and he tried and failed to restrain his grin. He kept playing into her hands and the worst was he didn’t mind it in the least. The only thing he minded was that this flirtation could not be carried to its natural conclusion. Society’s mores and rules might be hypocritical, a bore and a nuisance, but up to a point he abided by them simply because it was less of a bother to do so than flout them.

      It was rare that his mind parted company with his body so categorically, but as he watched her concentrate on securing the glossy pearl buttons of her glove, her lashes lowered, fanning shadows over the faint dusting of freckles on her cheeks, he felt the distinct separation of those two entities.

      She was not the kind of woman he enjoyed and she was not the kind of woman who enjoyed him, but his thumb very much wanted to brush over her long dark lashes and those freckles and down the soft rise of her cheek. He could almost feel it just watching the way those dark spikes, touched with gold at the tips, dipped and rose as she secured her gloves.

      The urge became a distinct ache as his gaze descended. Despite her humour, her lips were pressed together, betraying a tension he had sensed from the moment he met her. She might be an indulged heiress, but she was not some frothy confection one could sink a spoon into and taste with impunity. He had never liked syllabub anyway. He preferred spice and this girl was definitely on the spicier end of the female scale. He wondered what she would taste of...if he could coax those tightly held lips into relaxing...

      ‘I counted ten bedrooms and four larger rooms downstairs and two smaller parlours. Smaller than Hollywell House. Does that meet your needs?’

      He could almost see her mind working away at the problem, taking every piece of information he had dangled in front of her and trying to shove it into place to create some conclusive picture. It was so tempting to throw in a few red herrings and watch her grasp at them with that mix of puzzlement, suspicion and determination, like a kitten pursuing a dangled string as if it were a lifeline.

      ‘Do you know what you remind me of?’

      Her eyes narrowed.

      ‘I’m not going to like this, am I?’

      He laughed.

      ‘Probably not. Forget I said anything. What do you think of the gardens?’

      She looked out the window.

      ‘I wouldn’t precisely call that a garden. Would you need a garden?’

      ‘A ferret.’

      ‘You need the garden for a ferret?’

      ‘No, you remind me of a ferret.’

      He waited for the inevitable outrage to darken her eyes before he continued.

      ‘Not physically, of course, though ferrets can be quite elegant in appearance. It was a reflection on your tenacity and curiosity. Ferrets are also very hard to catch.’

      ‘They also bite. Hard.’ Her teeth snapped shut and steam practically rose off her in waves, her fingers unfastening and refastening the last few pearl buttons on her left glove like prayer beads. He removed her hand from

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