Clearly sensing his disbelief, she abruptly turned the conversation.

"What is your interest in Lady Hartshore's companion?"

"Lady Hartshore is my aunt."

Her eyes widened in startled disbelief. "You are Lord Hartshore?"

"Yes."

"Oh." A tiny tongue reached out to wet her lips, and Cedric was forced to battle the urge to once again taste their sweetness. "I did not realize."

He offered her a wicked smile. "No, I daresay that you did not, or else you would never have dared call me an arrogant beast."

She sucked in a sharp breath. "You should not have kissed me."

"Now that I refuse to apologize for. It was far too delectable. Indeed, I can hardly wait to do so again."

"My lord . . ."

"Here we are." He determinedly overrode her protests as he rounded the stables and a groom came hurrying forward. "Greenly, go fetch James from the carriage he has overturned and then send word to Lady Hartshore that I have her companion safely installed at Hartshore Park."

With a speculative glance at the maiden in his master's arms, the groom gave a sharp bow.

"At once, my lord."

Confident that his servant would do as he bid, Cedric continued across the courtyard and at last climbed the steps to his vast manor house. He had just reached the door, when it was pulled open by a uniformed butler.

"Ah, Winters, have Mrs. Freeman come to the library and tell her to bring a fresh pot of tea," he commanded as he swept through the foyer and up the wide staircase. He did not halt until they had passed the landing and he had entered the warmth of his library.

As he had expected, a large fire burned in the grate, casting an orange glow over the towering bookcases and comfortable furnishings.

Glancing down, he caught the maiden worriedly chewing her bottom lip.

"You see, warm and safe, just as I promised," he said softly.

"Please put me down."

"In a moment." He crossed the patterned carpet and carefully placed her on a mahogany sofa covered in pale yellow silk damask. Relieved of his delicate burden, he swiftly moved to the side bar to pour her a large shot of his finest brandy. Just as swiftly, he had returned to her side, and pressing the glass into her hand, he lowered his large frame onto the cushion. "Drink."

"No, I dislike brandy."

"It will bring a bit of warmth to your chilled body. Unless"-he deliberately lowered his gaze to her soft lips-"you prefer a more direct and delicious means of creating heat?"

Having no difficulty following the subtle reference to their kiss, she sharply raised the glass to her lips and downed the shot in one gulp.

"There," she gritted out, only to ruin her show of bravado by giving a gasping cough.

"Good girl." He chuckled, taking the glass and setting it aside.

"I should be on my way to Mayford," she at last managed to rasp.

"You will go nowhere until a doctor has seen to that ankle."

"Ridiculous. It is nothing more than twisted."

"We shall see."

Her gaze narrowed in an ominous fashion. "My lord . . ."

"I thought you were calm and reasonable?" he gently reminded her.

Her lips snapped together as she swallowed her fiery words.

"You are very aggravating."

"Actually, I am widely considered to be a most charming and gracious gentleman. Indeed, I am quite a favorite among the neighborhood."

She met his gaze squarely. "If you say."

Cedric gave a laugh as she deliberately threw his words back into his face. So the chit was intelligent as well as beautiful.

A most intoxicating combination.

"You know," he mused as he reached up to toy with an unruly curl. "I believe that I shall enjoy having a wood nymph in the neighborhood."

Two.

Nearly three hours later Emma discovered herself tucked in a pretty rose-and-ivory canopy bed as the doctor examined her ankle.

She was not at all certain how it had occurred.

One moment she had been battling against Lord Hartshore and the very queer sensations he created within her, and the next, a stout housekeeper had surged into the room to take firm command of the situation.

With dizzying speed Emma had been swept upstairs and plunged into a hot bath. A maid ruthlessly scrubbed her free of mud while the housekeeper searched her luggage that had miraculously been retrieved from the carriage to discover her heaviest nightgown. From there she was carried to the bed with grim orders to not so much as twitch a muscle.

It was all very disturbing for a young maiden who had always been in firm command of her life. She was the one who was efficient and capable. It was she who gave the orders. Even the Falwells, who had treated her with such scathing disrespect, had depended upon her to solve their endless problems.

It was therefore little wonder she found herself bemused and not in small measure aggravated to discover herself bullied and outmaneuvered at every turn.

Blast that drunken coachman, she seethed as she glared around the pretty chamber with its French lacquer cabinet and mahogany trellis-back chairs. If not for him, she would be safely installed at Mayford. She would not be stuck in this bed as the doctor poked at her ankle. Indeed, she would never have become lodged in the mud. She would never have encountered Lord Hartshore. And certainly she would never have been kissed in a fashion that had shaken her to the very center of her being.

Oh, yes, that coachman had a great deal to answer for, she told herself. And she sincerely hoped that he awoke with a wretchedly thick head.

"Well, it is not broken," the doctor at last concluded, straightening to regard Emma with a chiding glance. Almost as if he suspected that it was her own foolishness that had caused her injury. "But it is twisted."

"Then I can get up?" she demanded with a flare of hope.

"Certainly not," he briskly denied. "Not until the swelling has gone down."

"But I must get to Mayford."

"Tomorrow, perhaps."

Emma shuddered. Spend the night beneath Lord Hartshore's roof? The mere thought was enough to make her stomach twist in knots.

She wanted to be far away from the disturbing gentleman. She had already made enough of a fool of herself for one day.

"Impossible," she burst out before she could halt the word.

"I believe I know what is best for my patients, Miss Cresswell."

"Yes, of course. It is just . . ."

"Lady Hartshore will be quite understanding." He firmly overrode her protest, clearly as effective as Lord Hartshore and his housekeeper in having his way. She could only presume that stubborn tenacity was a trait common to those in Kent. "Especially since it was her coachman who caused your current discomfort. Now, I must speak with Lord Hartshore."

Predictably, the man paid no heed to Emma's protest that she was perfectly capable of traveling to Mayford, and merely collected his bag and left the chamber without so much as a backward glance.

Frustrated beyond measure, Emma briefly considered rising from the bed and sneaking off to Mayford on her own. She was no silly chit that must be told what she could or could not do. And she could not deny a rather childish desire to outwit Lord Hartshore at his own game.

But the delightful scheme was swiftly dismissed. Not only was her ankle far too tender for another prolonged walk, she hadn't the least notion where Mayford might be located. It would be the height of folly to be blundering around in the cold night with nothing more than overweening pride to guide her. And, of course, she could not ask for help from the servants without arousing the suspicion of Lord Hartshore.

It appeared that she was well and truly trapped.

A burst of unease flared through her body at the realization before she sternly attempted to dismiss it. She was being absurd. Certainly Lord Hartshore was a rogue, and his kiss had been highly improper, but he had proven he was a gentleman. Not only by carrying her to his home, but ensuring a doctor was fetched to care for her ankle. Hardly the actions of a gentleman planning to force himself upon her. That he could have accomplished in the woods with no one the wiser.

The sensible thing would obviously be to accept her quandary with as much grace as possible. It was only one night. And whether she liked the notion or not, Lord Hartshore was the nephew of her employer. Only a nodcock would deliberately court his ill will.

But for all her sensible reasoning, that ball of unease refused to be banished.

Perhaps because she had never encountered anyone like Lord Hartshore, she was forced to concede. Oh, she had met any number of handsome gentlemen. Lord Chance, who was soon to marry her elder sister, was undoubtedly fine of form. And, of course, her younger sister, Rachel, was inevitably surrounded by a bevy of charming gentlemen. But none of them had ever managed to disrupt her rigid composure.

So why had she reacted with such force to his teasing? Before today she had always shrugged aside such nonsense. But for some reason, her aloof manner had been embarrassingly absent in the force of his irrepressible amusement. She had been impulsive, unreasonable, and, yes, fiery. All the qualities she had struggled her entire life to suppress. Qualities that were far too reminiscent of the Devilish Dandy.

And as for that kiss . . .

She unconsciously bit her lower lip in an effort to stem the renegade tingles that assaulted her whenever she thought of his bold caresses. No amount of reasoning could explain such unwelcome sensations. It was all quite vexing.

A faint sound from the corridor had her instinctively thrusting aside her unprofitable musings, and gathering the covers up to her chin, she prepared herself for the arrival of Lord Hartshore.

She had no doubt that he would be her visitor. The notion that it was utterly improper to visit a maiden in her bedchamber would not deter him. Indeed, he would no doubt think it a grand jest if she were to point out his wanton lack of conduct.

Determined to maintain her composure on this occasion, Emma calmly watched the door slide open and Lord Hartshore step into the room. Her stern determination, however, was swiftly undermined as her traitorous heart gave a distinct flop at the sight of his tall, leanly muscular frame.

During their time apart he had bathed and changed into a cinnamon coat and buff breeches. Suddenly he appeared every inch the lord of the manor with his lean face freshly shaved and his midnight hair gleaming in the flickering candlelight. Only the golden eyes with their lazy amusement remained unaltered.

With a casual ease he crossed to tower over the bed. She gave a tiny shiver as he openly surveyed her pale countenance and tumble of damp curls.

"I have been warned that you intend to be a difficult patient," he drawled, clearly having spoken with the doctor.

Emma felt a faint flare of impatience with the talebearing man. Traitor.

"Not difficult, my lord, merely determined to be on my way to Mayford."

"In such a hurry to leave?"

"I would not wish to be a burden."

His lips twitched as if he were well aware of her true reasons for wishing to flee.

"I assure you that you could never be a burden. Indeed, I have never been more pleased to have a houseguest."

Such perfectly polite words, and yet, that frisson of unease raced down her spine.

"Thank you, but I really would prefer to be with Lady Hartshore so that I can begin my duties."

"How very conscientious of you, my dear," he commended even as the golden eyes sparkled with amusement. "However, tomorrow will be soon enough to begin your position. For tonight you shall be my guest."

Short of dragging herself from the bed, it appeared that she had little choice, she thought darkly.

"That is very kind."

He chuckled at the stiffness of her tone, then audaciously moved to perch on the edge of the bed.

"Not at all. This will give us the perfect opportunity to become better acquainted. I must admit to being very curious about you."

Emma sucked in a sharp breath. Not only at his daring proximity, but at the mere mention of becoming better acquainted. Under the best of circumstances she would never encourage this gentleman. He was far too disturbing for her peace of mind. With the secrets she was determined to keep hidden, it would be utter ruin.

Still, she was wise enough to realize that any overt refusal to discuss herself was bound to create precisely the sort of suspicion she was hoping to avoid. Far better to give sway and hope his interest was as fleeting as most gentlemen's.

"What is it that you wish to know?"

He studied her deliberately bland countenance with a probing gaze.

"What made you chose to come to Kent?"

"I was in need of employment," she retorted simply.

Almost imperceptively, that disturbing gaze flicked to the large emerald that hung around her neck before returning to her countenance. Not for the first time Emma cursed the brilliant gem that had been given to her by her father. More than once she had considered giving it to a charity or simply tossing it in the rubbish. Certainly no mere companion would have need for such a stone.

But for reasons she never sought to pursue, the emerald remained around her neck. Now she wished she had at least kept it locked in her luggage.

Oddly, however, Lord Hartshore made no comment on the priceless fortune sparkling upon her bosom.