LITMIR.BIZ

       Chetwell House, London, February 1828

      Harry marked the moment that Sophie slipped from the crowded ballroom. Hardly surprising when he’d observed her every move.

      All week, he’d waited impatiently to catch her alone. The burning need to speak about something more significant than the weather had built until it threatened to explode.

      The night they’d met, he’d obtained a formal introduction. He’d managed a country dance and a schottische with her since—quite a feat when she rapidly became the toast of London. During their dances, he’d confined himself to platitudes. He’d had to be satisfied with touching her hand and delighting in the shy attraction glittering in her blue eyes.

      Tonight, neither the watchful marquess nor Lord Desborough attended. Under other circumstances, Harry might admire Leath’s protectiveness. In worldly terms, an undistinguished younger son from a ramshackle family was no fit match for the Marquess of Leath’s sister. But surely Sophie should marry a man who adored her, rather than one who treated her as Desborough did, like a pretty pet to fuss over or ignore at his whim.

      Harry didn’t move in Desborough’s exalted circles. But he had eyes and a brain, however rarely he’d exerted it. While he discerned no dislike between Sophie and the man touted as her husband, he discerned no genuine attraction either.

      Damn it, she deserved better.

      Whether she deserved Harry Thorne, well, that was her choice.

      Harry tracked Sophie into the gallery. The long room faced the gardens with doors open onto the terrace. Fortunately, for February, it was a mild night, but even so, away from the crush, he shivered in the chill air. At the far end of the room, a couple he didn’t know bent their heads toward each other.

      Sophie paused before a portrait of a bewigged, double-chinned gentleman. She looked beautiful tonight in rose silk and with pearls tangled in her upswept hair. Harry stopped a few feet away, waiting until the couple wandered into the garden without sparing him a glance.

      “You followed me,” Sophie said, without turning.

      What point prevaricating? “Yes.”

      As he’d stalk a skittish animal, he edged closer. He stared at her vulnerable nape, wanting desperately to kiss her there. Wanting to kiss her everywhere.

      It was too soon.

      Still she didn’t glance back. “My brother warned me against you.”

      Did the bastard, by God? “What did he say?” Harry kept his voice soft. He and Sophie might be alone, but they were still in public.

      “That you’re a fortune hunter.”

      He laughed dismissively. “You know I’m not interested in your money.” While he’d love to see her face, there was a delicious suspense in standing so near, catching the soft drift of her fragrance, flowers and beautiful girl.

      “That’s what a fortune hunter would say.”

      “Probably. But in my case it’s true.” He paused. “That wasn’t all he said.”

      She shifted and spoke reluctantly. “He said your family was—”

      “Shady?”

      Finally she turned. She didn’t look annoyed or flustered. She looked curious. “After Uncle Neville’s villainy, our family can’t boast.”

      He was impressed that she broached the scandal. Harry had always sensed that Sophie Fairbrother was made of stronger stuff than society suspected. Which meant that something more important than a petty disappointment had made her sob her heart out in the Oldhavens’ garden.

      Despite his determination to remain within the bounds of propriety—just—he took her arm. She gasped in surprise without pulling away. Beneath his touch, her skin was smooth and cool. A bolt of heat sizzled through him, startling him with its power.

      “If I drag you into a private room, will you scream?” he murmured.

      He wasn’t sure what reaction he expected. Certainly not a soft giggle. “That depends on what you intend to do.”

      For a beat, shock held him silent. She wasn’t afraid. Instead she looked interested and eager. Heaven help him. Clasping her slender arm and drowning in eyes as blue as a summer sky, he didn’t feel like a gentleman. He felt like a starving man presented with a table groaning under lashings of food.

      “Not as much as I want to,” he admitted.

      He whisked her behind the nearest door. The latch’s click sounded like thunder. His heart thudded with excitement and uneasiness. If they were discovered, there would be the devil to pay.

      “This is dangerous.” His grip softened to a caress and instinct alone led his hand to her other arm. This room was as dark as a coalmine.

      “It is. My brother is a famous shot.”

      The warmth of her skin under his hands set him trembling. “For a few minutes alone with you, I’ll take any risk.”

      “Will you think that when he puts a bullet into you?” In the quiet gloom, the rasp of her breathing was audible. She was more nervous than she pretended. That hint of vulnerability contained Harry’s rocketing desire as nothing else could.

      “Even then, it’s worth it.”

      “Such a flatterer.”

      He knew he deserved the mockery, but he couldn’t like it. How to explain that this time everything was different? Sophie wasn’t one of his women. She was the woman.

      “I’ll be missed if I stay too long.”

      He smiled. “That sounds promising.”

      “How so?”

      “That you mean to stay at all.”

      She offered no coy protests. The more he saw of her, the more he liked her. “Are you a fortune hunter?”

      He breathed unsteadily too. Not because of fear, but because her nearness set his heart galloping like a wild horse across the moors. Her scent tinged the air. Something fresh like running water. “What do you think?”

      “I think I’ve spent far too long thinking about you.”

      Triumph flooded him. He exhaled and cupped her face, feeling her silky cheeks beneath his palms. “I can’t stop thinking about you either. Are you going to marry Desborough?”

      She started, but didn’t move away. “My brother wants me to.”

      “Do you?”

      “It’s a good match,” she said unenthusiastically.

      He released her. “So good it makes you hide away and cry.”

      “That wasn’t—”

      “Don’t lie, Sophie. Not to me.”

      “You can’t call me Sophie.”

      He laughed softly. “I can’t address the woman who shares my cupboard by her title. It’s a rule of society.”

      Her gurgle of amusement made his blood fizz with happiness. “You don’t strike me as a man who follows rules, Mr. Thorne.”

      The need to kiss her surged, but despite her unexpected if hesitant cooperation, he didn’t want to frighten her away. “You’ve listened to too much gossip. And my name is Harry.”

      The pause that followed vibrated with significance.

      “Harry

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