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Aha. There it was, a trace of the spark he’d seen before. She hadn’t invited him to sit, and now Theodore was glad he hadn’t seated himself without being asked because it allowed him to close the distance between them in two paces until he was almost nose-to-nose with the woman.

Her eyes almost crossed, trying to keep him in focus. His fingers itched to touch her chin—he knew from experience her skin wassoft and smooth and warm to the touch—but he kept his hands firmly by his sides.

“I do not intend to make you mine in a dress made for another man,” he said, his voice low but steady.

This close, he couldhearher swallow. She did not step back and even tilted her chin up so that she could meet his eyes more steadily. The familiar stab of desire coiled deep in Theodore’s gut, and he felt blood begin to rush to places it should probably leave alone for now.

“I am notyours,” she responded, her voice almost a hiss. “Make no mistake about that.”

“Aren’t you? I’ll stick to my end of the bargain if you stick to yours, my dear.”

“I am not yourdear.”

Unbidden, his gaze dropped to her lips, pink and perfectly shaped, forming themselves around the worddear. There was something so thrilling about that, and he could almost feel the warm smoothness of her lower lip beneath the pad of his thumb.

Her breath was coming a little hard, and she did not blink and did not back away. It would be the easiest thing in the world to reach out and touch her now. Just a touch, just the trailing of a fingertip over the side of her neck, to feel her pulse…

And then there were footsteps and voices approaching from the hallway, and Miss Belmont jerked backward so suddenly that Theodore was almost left unbalanced.

He cleared his throat, fervently wishing the insistent desire away, and turned to face the door.

The Dowager Viscountess came in first, her eyes darting warily around the room. Daphne and Emily came behind her, one bearing a tray of tea and the other carrying a plate of cakes.

“Miss Daphne, Miss Emily, you’ll also be receiving new gowns for the wedding,” he said brusquely, not looking at Miss Belmont. “The modiste will come over later today to take your measurements. Lady St. Maur, you might as well have a new dress.”

The Dowager Viscountess flushed. “Your Grace, I really cannot?—”

He held up a hand. “I insist. The modiste will have her instructions. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be off.”

The poor Dowager Viscountess blinked, glancing down at the tray. “But… but the tea.”

“No, thank you,” he answered, suddenly keen to get out of the house and away from Miss Belmont’s intense, unblinking stare. “Good day to you all. I suppose I’ll see you at the wedding.”

CHAPTER 7

It seemed typical that while the worst day of Anna’s life, the day of her father’s funeral, had been bright and sunny and cheerful, her wedding day was gloomy and miserable.

It could be argued that both days were equally awful.

It wasn’t raining,actually,but it was threatening to begin at any moment. The house was a flurry of activity—even though the wedding breakfast wasn’t to be held at their home, there was still a lot of things to be done—and Anna felt strangely removed from all the chaos. She was ready, and there was nothing to be done but sit in her room, stare at her reflection, and wait for the carriage to arrive.

Everything is arranged. They don’t need me.

Part of her had been so sure that the wedding would never happen, that the Duke would be talked out of it by wiser friendsor simply change his mind, or perhaps it really had been a joke all along.

She stared at her reflection, not entirely recognizing the woman inside the glass.

The dress fit her perfectly—which was a surprise, considering it had arrived out of the blue, with no measurements taken. It was a sharp contrast to the simple gown she’d worn for her first wedding. This gown was layered and ruffled, stiff with embroidery and thick with lace, covered in beads and pearls and little sparkling gems, the cut simple but entirely overshadowed by the decorations.

What was worse, she loved it.

Of course, it would be nicer if the fabric was a good, strong color, like dark green or perhaps a blue or red, rather than a dainty cream, but that was hardly the point.

Every time the beads on the skirt of the gown clicked together, she found herself back in the drawing room, with the Duke looming over her, his eyes intense.

Swallowing hard, she fisted the fabric in her hands. He’d been so close, close enough for her to feel the heat of his body, smell that pleasantly rich scent of his—earth after rain—and sense the changes in her own body. She had thought, almost beyond doubt, that he was going to kiss her.

And worse, she’dwantedhim to kiss her. What would it feel like to have a man like that kiss her?