"Forgive me, Miss Cresswell. Mr. Allensway seems to possess an alarming ability to rile my temper."

Her expression was impossible to read as she slowly rose to her feet.

"Perhaps I should join Lady Hartshore."

Unwilling to allow the rare moment alone with this maiden to come to an end, Cedric reached out to place a restraining hand on her arm.

"Hold a moment."

She instinctively stepped from his touch. "What?"

"I brought you a surprise."

He moved toward the mantel even as he heard her give a choked sound.

"No . . . you should not have," she stammered, then, as he picked up his trifling gift and turned to reveal it to her, she gave a faint gasp. "Oh."

Decidedly pleased by the sudden hint of color in her cheeks, Cedric retraced his steps so he could press the dusky pink rose into her slender fingers.

"Do you like it?"

She slowly lifted the flower to sniff its heady aroma. Cedric felt a sharp stir of desire as the soft petals brushed her mouth. Good heavens, where had the image of her laid upon his bed, covered in nothing more than rose petals, come from? All he knew was that the sudden image was doing very dangerous things to his lower body.

"It is beautiful," she murmured.

With an effort Cedric reined in his delicious but highly improper thoughts.

"It is my own hybrid."

His soft words appeared to catch her off guard.

"You created this?"

He smiled. "With a little help from God."

"How lovely."

"I have been seeking the perfect name," he confessed as he stepped even closer to her slender form. "This morning it at last came to me."

For once she did not scurry from his proximity.

"What is it?"

"Wood nymph."

Her breath caught. "Oh."

Pleased with her ill-concealed pleasure, Cedric gently brushed her cheek.

"Do you approve?"

For a breathless moment her features softened, and he realized he had slipped past her brittle facade. Then, with the most wretched timing, the door to the parlor was thrown open and his aunt stepped into the room.

"Fredrick told me that the vicar is here," she claimed in dramatic tones.

Muffling a frustrated curse, Cedric watched the stoic composure stiffen Miss Cresswell's features. Blast his deceased uncle. Why did he not rattle chains and float around the attic like other self-respecting ghosts? His habit of chattering like a magpie to his wife was creating all sorts of trouble.

With a faint sigh, Cedric turned toward his aunt, knowing whatever progress he had made with Miss Cresswell was now lost.

"Do not fear. I have already sent him on his way," he assured the older woman.

Lady Hartshore gave a shake of her head. "I wish he would not visit. It is very upsetting for Mrs. Borelli."

Cedric grimaced, knowing that while he had rid them of the vicar for the moment, it was only a temporary reprieve.

"I fear that we will be seeing a good deal of Mr. Allensway over the next several weeks. He has a visitor arriving whom he hopes to impress."

"Oh, dear." His aunt pressed a hand to her bosom. "I do hope that nothing untoward occurs."

"I will speak with Mrs. Borelli and request that she keep her knives sheathed," he promised.

"Yes, perhaps she will listen to you." Lady Hartshore smiled, but her expression was far from convinced. They both knew the flamboyant cook rarely accepted advice from anyone. If she desired to threaten a guest in the house with her cleaver, that was precisely what she would do.

"I should be on my way," Cedric murmured, realizing he had accomplished all he could for the moment.

"You will not stay for luncheon?" his aunt demanded in obvious disappointment.

"No, I must see to the thatching on old Peter's cottage. But I do hope that you and Miss Cresswell will agree to join me for luncheon tomorrow at Hartshore Park."

Cassie clapped her hands together. "What a lovely notion. We would be delighted, would we not, Miss Cresswell?"

Cedric turned to catch the ripple of dismay that crossed Miss Cresswell's delicate features before it was sternly dismissed.

"Delighted," she said in bland tones.

With a decidedly mocking smile he offered her an elegant bow.

"Until tomorrow, my dear."

Six.

Stepping into the vaulted foyer of Hartshore Park, Emma attempted to still the peculiar flutters in the pit of her stomach.

She was a fool to have come.

Why hadn't she feigned some illness? A headache. A sudden chill. A brain fever. Leprosy.

Anything to keep her safely in the privacy of her chamber.

Because that dratted Lord Hartshore would have instantly known the truth, a small voice answered in the back of her mind. He would have known she was being a coward. And that was something she couldn't bear.

Why could he not be like other gentlemen? she seethed.

She was accustomed to polite indifference, cool dismissal, or even the cut direct. She was unprepared for his determined effort to ruffle her hard-won composure.

How did a lady ignore a gentleman who defied all normal conventions?

He laughed at her impervious demeanor, mocked her desire to be treated as a servant, deliberately stirred the embers of her anger, and caressed her without warning. Good heavens, he kissed her without warning.

It was utterly frustrating.

And yet ...

And yet, when she had gone to sleep last night, it had been with a pink rose on her pillow.

Emma gave a sharp shake of her head.

Clearly, her short time in Kent had already addled her once nicely predictable wits. The sooner she returned to London, the better.

Stepping into the foyer, the butler performed a dignified bow.

"Welcome, Lady Hartshore," he murmured.

"Winters." Lady Hartshore smiled warmly at the elderly servant. "How well you are looking."

There was a faint softening of the dignified expression. "Thank you, my lady."

"I hope your family is in good health?"

"Quite good," he assured her, then waved an arm toward the staircase. "Lord Hartshore is in the library."

"We will show ourselves in."

"Very good." With another bow the butler silently disappeared into the shadows.

Emma took a step toward the stairs, only to be halted as Lady Hartshore laid a hand on her arm.

"Oh, I have just recalled, I must have a word with Mrs. Freeman," she stated in firm tones. "The library is the first door on the right, my dear."

Emma's eyes widened with dismay. She had no need for directions. For goodness' sake, she had been carried to the room in the arms of Lord Hartshore mere days ago. She could no doubt find it with her eyes closed. She had no desire, however, to arrive without the presence of Lady Hartshore.

"Oh, but . . ."

Unfortunately the older woman did not remain to hear her protests as she bustled down the hall with determined steps.

Drat.

How did she keep being forced into situations where she was alone with Lord Hartshore?

Not even engaged maidens were allowed to spend such time alone with their fiances.

With decidedly reluctant steps she climbed the sweeping stairs. She even halted on several occasions to study the framed oil paintings that lined the paneled walls.

Not a difficult task, she acknowledged as she peered at a stunning Raphael. Trained by her father, she could easily discern that it was a true masterpiece. The colors were vibrant and the strokes possessed a bold genius.

With a tiny sigh of appreciation Emma forced herself to continue up the steps and toward the open door of the library.

She could delay the inevitable no longer, she acknowledged. Lord Hartshore had no doubt already heard her hesitant steps and was wondering what the devil could take so long to traverse such a short distance.

As if to prove her point, Lord Hartshore abruptly stepped into the hallway, bringing with him a powerful force that filled the very air.

Sunlight filtered from the library to slant across his dark features and shimmered in his golden eyes. His broad frame was outlined with faithful precision in a sapphire-blue coat and buff breeches. And, as always, a smile that could melt the most frigid heart curved his lips.

Really, she silently told herself, that smile was beyond the bounds of decency. No gentleman should be allowed to trot about, flashing it indiscriminately at unsuspecting females.

Perhaps sensing her dark thoughts, Lord Hartshore allowed that bothersome smile to widen.

"Welcome to my home, Miss Cresswell," he said in smoky tones.

Quite without warning Emma felt the palms of her hands begin to sweat.

It was the most peculiar thing.

"Lady Hartshore is with Mrs. Freeman," she said abruptly, as much to remind herself her time alone with this gentleman would be short-lived as to explain the woman's absence to Lord Hartshore.

"Good," he said firmly.

"Excuse me?"

"This gives me the perfect opportunity to show you my home." He held out his arm in invitation. "Shall we?"

There were no doubt a dozen perfectly legitimate reasons for her to decline his invitation. Unfortunately at the moment Emma could not think of a single one.

Cursing Lady Hartshore for abandoning her, Emma stiffly moved forward to place her hand on his arm.

"Where are we going?" she asked as he led her down the long corridor.

The golden eyes held a distinct twinkle as he glanced down at her set features.

"To my very favorite room, Miss Cresswell."

She did not doubt that he intended to bring a blush to her cheeks, and she hastily averted her face to study the pretty pier tables and satinwood chairs that lined the hall.