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my lady,’ he said. ‘More brandy?’ He proffered the decanter and waited, brows raised.

      ‘Thank you.’ Eleanor held her glass out and he poured her another measure of the amber spirit. ‘It is very nice. I can understand why Aunt Lucy thought it would help her sleep.’

      Matthew watched her sip again at the brandy, eyes crinkling. ‘Is this the first time you’ve tasted brandy?’

      ‘Oh, yes. Now, what was it I said?’

      ‘You asked how I will make my living now I am back in England. I warn you, this is the last question and then it is your turn to be interrogated. I shall make my living the same way I always have—in trade. We import tea, rugs, cloth, porcelain, anything really, from India and, sometimes, China. If there’s a market for it, we import it.’

      ‘We?’

      ‘My business partner, Benedict Poole, and I. He is, as we speak, sailing back to England with two more cargoes.

      ‘And that is more than enough about me... You told me you have you not been to London for seven years. Was that your come-out? Why have you never been back?’

      The swift change of subject had Eleanor replying before she could consider her words. ‘It was my come-out, yes, but I hated it.’

      ‘Hated? That is a strong reaction to something that is meant to be pleasurable.’

      ‘What do you know about come-outs and Seasons?’

      ‘Oh, I hear talk,’ he replied. ‘I thought it was compulsory for every young lady to adore their come-out.’

      She couldn’t help giggling. ‘Not me. I was shy and, looking back, too immature.’

      ‘That doesn’t explain why you have not been back since. You are far from shy now.’

      Heat rose to burn her cheeks as their kiss loomed large in her thoughts. Matthew’s suddenly intense expression suggested he, too, was thinking of it. She gulped her remaining drink, then held out her glass for more, ignoring Matthew’s raised brows as he poured a little...a very little...brandy into her goblet.

      As she opened her mouth to ask for more, Matthew said, ‘Why are you so wary of scandal?’

      The breath whooshed from Eleanor’s lungs. ‘What...what do you mean? I am not—’

      ‘Uh-uh.’ Matthew shook his head at her, eyes brimming with amusement. ‘I answered all your questions...no avoiding the awkward ones.’

      ‘Yes, but—’

      ‘Your aunt gave me the clue. You were full of indignation and she stopped you with that one phrase—“Think of the scandal.”’

      Eleanor forced a light laugh even as she registered—somewhere deep down—that her mind was a touch fuddled. She concentrated fiercely on her words. ‘You show me anyone who relishes their own scandal, Mr Thomas. It seems quite reasonable to me that I should not wish to be tainted.’

      ‘Entirely reasonable, yes. But her words and your reaction suggest something more than the normal desire to avoid scandal. As if, maybe, there is something in your past? Come now, how bad can it be? A few stolen kisses?’

      Eleanor stiffened. She could hardly blame him for believing such a possibility.

      His lips twitched. ‘I promise I will not hold your scandal against you.’

      ‘It is not my scandal. It was my mother’s. And I do not wish to talk about it.’ She put her glass on the mantelshelf. ‘I am going to bed.’

      Matthew caught her hand. ‘No, don’t go. I didn’t mean to offend your sensibilities.’ He smiled, ruefully. ‘I fear I am out of practice in how to treat a lady. I promise to pry no further.’

      His touch sent a tremor racing through her and she snatched her hand from his. For some reason, his assumption that she needed protection from the truth—that her female sensibilities somehow precluded her from facing up to the harsh realities of life—irritated her. She was an independent woman. She flattered herself she was strong. She was capable of facing up to reality. She did not need a man’s protection from that.

      ‘My mother left my father and me when I was eleven,’ she said. ‘She lived openly in London with another man. That was the scandal. I never saw her after she left and she died in childbirth a few years later. You asked why I hated my come-out and that was why—the whispers, everywhere I went. The eyes that followed my every move. The gentlemen who seemed to believe “like mother, like daughter”.’ The memory of that horrible time choked her voice. She paused; shook her head; huffed a short, bitter laugh. ‘This time I vow I shall be the perfect lady. My behaviour will be beyond reproach and I will have vouchers for Almack’s. You see if I don’t.’

      She stared belligerently at Matthew.

      ‘I have no doubt you will be a complete success,’ he said, soothingly, as he grasped her arm and turned her towards the door. ‘Now, however, it is time you went to bed. Come.’

      He guided her to the door, his hand at the small of her back. Warm. Comforting. His scent was in her nostrils—musky, male, a hint of citrus. She spun to face him and had to steady herself with a hand on his chest.

      ‘Whoops. That brandy was stronger than I thought.’ And it’s loosened your tongue, Eleanor. Take care. She focused her gaze on Matthew’s neckcloth.

      Matthew removed her hand from his chest and reached for the door latch.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I must be quiet, mustn’t I? Can you imagine what Aunt Lucy would say were she to see us here like this? She would, quite rightly, wash her hands of me.’

      She lifted her gaze to his face as she spoke. Swayed towards him. His eyes caressed her, warming her as the brandy had done. He lifted one hand, trailing a long finger down her cheek, before tracing the outline of her lips, which parted as she drew in a shaky breath. She closed her eyes, revelling in the swirl of need burgeoning inside her.

      ‘You are very beautiful, Eleanor,’ he murmured. ‘So hard to resist.’

      Her soul blossomed at his words. She was standing so close she could feel his coat brush the tips of her breasts. Her nipples tingled and tightened and her bones felt like they were melting.

      Matthew brushed her lips—hardly even touching them—with his own. ‘Goodnight.’

      Her hands lifted of their own volition and clutched his lapels. She rose on tiptoe. Her kiss was no fleeting flirtation of the lips, but a warm, moist pressure as she angled her mouth to his. Matthew responded with a groan, his arms enfolding her, pulling her against the full length of his hard body. One splayed hand supported her back and the other cradled her head as he returned the pressure of her lips and increased the intensity of the kiss. Warm, brandy-flavoured lips parted and she opened in response. He captured her breath as his tongue caressed and explored. She followed his lead, surrendering to a deeper, darker, more wanton kiss than she had ever imagined possible. She never wanted that kiss to end.

      She threaded her fingers through his hair as he gathered her closer, his hand tracing the curve of her spine to her bottom. She lost track of time. The only reality was in their kiss—a wicked, glorious promise of greater delights to come. She clung ever closer, her hands exploring the width of his shoulders and the long line of his back until she reached his taut buttocks, so very different to the soft roundness of her own.

      He gasped into her mouth and, with another groan, tore his lips from hers, taking her by the shoulders and holding her away from him, steadying her as her knees threatened to buckle. Bemused, she studied his features, reading his regret and his resolve.

      ‘I think,’ he said, his voice husky with desire, ‘you should go. This is not wise. It can never be.’

      His words brought her back to reality. Heavens! What was she doing? She searched

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