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opportunity.’

      ‘I think I sprained my ankle a little in the last dance, ma’am, and would prefer to rest it for a while, but that would leave a gentleman without a partner, and besides, my brother would fuss so if he knew of it.’

      Lady Claydon was immediately full of sympathy. That made Molly feel a little guilty, but they exchanged places, Lady Claydon going off to join in the dancing, and Molly’s guilt eased a little when she saw how much the lady was enjoying herself.

      * * *

      She remained at the piano for two dances, then Miss Claydon suggested ‘Dancing Hearts’ and Molly was obliged to search through the sheet music. She had just found the piece when Beau Russington approached and that nervous flutter ran through her again.

      ‘Would you not prefer to dance, Mrs Morgan? I am sure one of the other ladies would play for us.’

      Without looking at him she waved her hand towards the music. ‘No, no, I am quite content, thank you. I am not familiar with the steps of this dance.’

      He leaned closer. ‘I could teach you.’

      Her mouth dried as, inexplicably, her mind filled with images that had nothing to do with dancing. It was his voice, she decided. It was too low, too deliciously seductive.

      ‘No. I—that is, I turned my ankle in that first dance and prefer not to dance again this evening.’

      ‘Ah, I see. So you do not trust yourself to dance? I quite understand.’

      His tone suggested he did not believe her and Molly felt guilty colour rushing to her cheeks. She busied herself with straightening the sheet music on the stand, trying to concentrate on the notes she would have to play, and after a moment he walked away.

      ‘Well, if he understands that I do not want to dance with him, then so much the better,’ she muttered, running her fingers over the keys. ‘And if he is offended enough to leave me alone then that is better still!’

      She played two more dances, which were very well received, then Sir Gerald announced that refreshments awaited everyone in the dining room. There was a general move towards the door and as Molly got up from the piano, she found Beau Russington beside her.

      ‘Allow me to give you my arm, ma’am.’ When she drew back he added, ‘It is best you do not put too much weight upon your foot.’

      ‘My—oh. Oh. Yes.’

      He offered his arm, and as her fingers went out he grasped them with his free hand and pulled them on to his sleeve.

      ‘I am perfectly capable of walking unaided,’ she told him, panicked by his firm grip.

      ‘But what of your ankle, Mrs Morgan?’

      ‘It is well rested now, thank you.’

      ‘I think you are afraid of me.’

      ‘And I think you are teasing me.’

      ‘Well, yes, I am. Your reluctance for my company is intriguing.’

      ‘It is not meant to be. A gentleman would be able to take the hint.’

      He sucked in a breath. ‘Cutting. You do not consider me a gentleman, then?’

      ‘Oh, no,’ she said with deceptive sweetness. ‘I know you for a rake, sir.’

      If she had hoped to offend him, she was disappointed.

      ‘Do you think you are being quite fair to me, madam?’

      ‘Oh, I think so. Your reputation, and that of your friends, precedes you. And it is not mere gossip, I assure you. The information comes on good authority and from more than one source.’

      Molly felt exhilarated by the exchange. She could not recall speaking so freely to any man before.

      ‘The devil it does!’

      She laughed and was immediately aware of the change in him. Through the fine woollen sleeve beneath her fingers she could feel the muscles tighten. And she suspected she had angered him. When he spoke his voice was soft, smooth as silk, cold as steel.

      ‘But all this is hearsay, madam—what do you really know of me?’ They had reached the hall and with practised ease he whisked her away from the crowd and into the shadowy space beneath the stairs. ‘Well, Mrs Morgan?’

      He had turned her to face him, his hands resting on her shoulders, very lightly, but she found it impossible to move. Even in the shadows, his dark eyes glowed with devilish mischief. She had the strangest feeling that invisible bonds were wrapping around them, tightening, forcing her closer. She could feel him, smell him, a musky, spicy, lemony scent that she wanted to breathe in, to close her eyes and give in to the desire burning in her core. She fought it, curling her hands until the nails dug into her palms, using the pain to stop her from reaching out and pulling him towards her. To stop herself surrendering, as she had done once before to a man. A rake who had taken everything and left her to suffer the consequences. Desire was replaced by panic and she fought it down, struggling to keep the terror from her voice.

      ‘You go too far, sir. I beg you will let me go.’

      His hands tightened. ‘Are you afraid I might kiss you?’

      I am afraid I might not be able to resist!

      ‘You would not dare.’

      * * *

      Russ felt her tremble, saw the uncertainty in her eyes and knew she was weakening.

      He murmured softly, ‘But you said yourself, madam, I am a rake and rakes are very daring.’

      Her eyes widened, he saw the pink tip of her tongue flicker nervously across her lips and for a moment he was tempted to carry out his threat. To pull her close, capture that luscious mouth and kiss her into submission. Then he saw the apprehension in her gaze and something more, a fear that was not warranted by the threat of a mere kiss. She was terrified.

      What the devil were you thinking of, Charles Russington? Are you such a cockscomb that you think no woman should be able to resist your charms?

      He took his hands from her shoulders and stepped away. This was no way to treat a lady.

      ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I beg your pardon for teasing you.’

      The look of terror had lasted only a moment and it was now replaced by anger. She glared at him.

      ‘I would expect nothing else from a libertine.’ Her voice was shaking with fury as she put up her hands to straighten the little puff sleeves of her gown that had been flattened by his grip. ‘Your disgraceful behaviour proves that the reports I have heard about you do not lie. The sooner you and your...your friends remove from Compton Parva, the better!’

      With a toss of her head she turned and hurried away. Russ watched her go, but he made no move to follow her back into the laughing, chattering throng that was slowly making its way into the dining room. He knew he had been wrong to tease her, but she had made him angry and he had forgotten himself. His lip curled in scorn. The great Beau Russington, famed for his sangfroid, his charming manners, had allowed his temper to get the better of him.

      He raked his fingers through his hair. Damn the woman, she should not have this effect on him. Why, she was not even his type—too small and dark for one thing, and a sanctimonious reformer to boot. No, his original instinct had been right. Leave well alone!

      * * *

      Two days of rain followed the dinner at Newlands and Molly was relieved that the bad weather deterred visitors. She thought—hoped—no one had seen that brief interchange with Beau Russington, but had no wish to discuss the evening with anyone, not yet, when she was still so unsettled.

      On Thursday she took the carriage to make her belated visit to Prospect House, thankful for the inclement weather. The house and its farm were situated on the opposite side of the valley to Newlands and she knew Sir Gerald and his guests rode

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