A faint chuckle echoed through the air, but thankfully he remained silent as they turned a corner and headed down a narrow set of stairs.

Emma had lost all sense of direction as they traveled down one hall and then another until at last he pushed open a door to reveal a vast iron-and-glass conservatory.

She felt her breath catch at the beautiful flowers that were banked along the marble pathway. At the far end, a pretty fountain sparkled in the sunlight surrounded by wrought-iron benches that beckoned one to be seated and simply appreciate the beauty of nature.

"Oh," she breathed, fully appreciating the warm, musky scent of earth and roses.

"Come," he urged softly, leading her down the narrow path. "These are my English varieties," he explained as he pointed to the closest rose plants. "On the other side are the ones that I purchased in China, and farther along are those I have selected from Europe."

Emma gave a faint shake of her head. "It is amazing."

They continued toward the fountain, then Lord Hartshore halted beside a separate bank of blooming roses. Emma recognized the wood nymph the moment her gaze caught sight of the dusky pink buds, and her heart gave an odd twitch.

"These are the roses that I am crossbreeding," he said with a hint of satisfaction.

"Do you care for all of these?" she demanded in disbelief.

"With the help of my gardeners."

Briefly forgetting just how unnerving she found this man, she glanced up to meet his watchful gaze.

"Why roses?"

"I find them fascinating," he admitted without apology. "Did you know that both the Greeks and Romans used roses in their festivals? And the Egyptians called a particular bloom the Holy Rose?"

"No."

"And, of course, there is the long-held belief that the essence of the rose is medicinal as well as beautiful."

"It is rather an unusual occupation."

"Not that unusual," he denied. "It is said that Josephine is a keen rose-breeder and that she has collected dozens of varieties at her Palace of Malmaison." Abruptly leaning forward, he plucked one of the pink blooms and pressed it into her hand. "For you."

"Will you truly call it wood nymph?"

"I can think of no more perfect name," he said, reaching out to stroke a velvet petal. "Like any good wood nymph, it is beautiful in an unassuming manner, it has an enchanting allure, and while it is fragile to the touch, it possesses sharp thorns for the unwary."

Her lips gave a reneged twitch at his audacious words. "Very poetic."

"I have my moments," he murmured.

Oh, yes, he certainly had his moments, she acknowledged with a small shiver.

Dangerous moments . . . when he seemed able to make the very air crackle about her.

"Perhaps we should return to Lady Hartshore," she said in oddly breathless tones.

"I am certain my aunt is happily chatting with the servants. This was her home while married to my uncle, and she hired much of the staff. She considers them all a part of her family."

Emma did not doubt his words. Lady Hartshore had already proven to be a countess without pretensions. There was no one she did not halt to converse with, including servants, tenants, and, on unnerving occasions, her dead husband.

"I still think it best to return and await her."

With a bold disregard for propriety he lifted his hands to trace the line of her shoulders.

"There is no hurry."

She sucked in a shaky breath, willing herself not to become lost in the golden warmth of his eyes.

"My lord."

"I like seeing you among my roses," he said as he stepped close enough to bathe her in the heat of his body. "Such a combination of beauty is quite heady."

"What are you doing?"

He smiled as one hand moved to cup the back of her neck. "I am going to kiss you, Miss Cresswell."

She shivered as a delicious tension clutched at her stomach.

"Now?" she absurdly blurted out.

"Yes, now," he whispered, lowering his head to claim her lips in a kiss that sent a shock of poignant sweetness to the very tips of her curled toes.

Emma knew she should protest.

It was utterly improper to be kissing the nephew of her employer. Especially a nephew who had been a wretched nuisance since she first encountered him.

But the hands that rose to push him away instead smoothed over the chiseled muscles of his chest.

Her lashes fluttered downward as his free arm wrapped around her waist. With a slow insistence the kiss deepened, making Emma tremble with a building excitement.

Magic.

That was how Lord Hartshore described this fierce awareness that jolted to life when they were near each other.

And just for the moment Emma was willing to believe him.

What other explanation could there be for the manner her heart thundered in her chest? And how her body willingly arched toward the hardness of his frame?

She felt his tongue gently trace the outline of her trembling lips before he pulled back to gaze at her flushed face.

"What are you doing to me, Miss Cresswell?" he murmured in a husky voice. "You are a distraction I had not anticipated."

A shiver raced down her spine at the hunger that abruptly blazed in the golden eyes.

"We should not be doing this," she whispered in uneven tones.

A sudden hint of amusement softened the male features. "Quite possibly not."

"My lord." With an effort she forced her hands to push at the hard strength of his chest.

For a moment he gazed down into her wide eyes, and Emma trembled with the effort to not sway forward. A traitorous part of her longed for him to ignore her protest. To simply sweep her back against him and to drown all common sense in the heat of his kisses. Slowly his gaze lowered to her parted lips, and Emma caught her breath as she waited for his dark head to swoop downward.

But instead, he heaved a rueful sigh and with obvious reluctance allowed his hands to drop.

"Very well. As much as I would prefer to linger, I suppose we should return to the library."

The sharp pang of regret was sternly smothered as Emma ran shaking hands over the folds of her skirt. Dear heavens, she could not be disappointed that she wasn't about to be seduced in the rose-scented conservatory, could she?

No, of course not, she chastised her foolishness.

Lord Hartshore was a handsome, extraordinarily charming gentleman who was clearly a master at pleasing a woman. While she . . . well, there was no denying that she was more innocent than most schoolgirls.

It was little wonder she had been briefly carried away.

The danger lay in presuming it was anything more than a passing incident that should be dismissed from her mind with all possible speed.

"Yes," Emma said firmly, hoping she did not appear as flustered as she felt.

With a brisk movement she turned around to head back up the pathway. She would not press a hand to her tingling lips, she told herself over and over. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing she felt thoroughly and satisfyingly kissed.

Intent on maintaining a cool demeanor, Emma barely noted the faint sounds of scratching that could be heard in the distance. It was not until a small, tawny ball of fluff hurtled through the doorway that she realized the sound came from puppy paws upon the slick marble. All sense of tension fled from her as the puppy attempted to halt its headlong flight, only to awkwardly slide into her skirts.

Bending downward, she freed the struggling puppy from her skirts, giving an unconscious laugh as the dog promptly rewarded her efforts by placing its paws upon her knees and lavishing her face with wet kisses.

"Pudge, down," Lord Hartshore commanded in firm tones, only to sigh in fond exasperation as the puppy blithely ignored him. "You must forgive the scoundrel, Miss Cresswell. His manners are deplorable and he is hopelessly spoiled."

She lifted her head to meet his amused gaze. "Pudge?"

"Well, his true name is Hannibal, but he is far too lazy and fat for a great commander, so he has become Pudge," he explained, an odd stillness settling around him as he studied her unguarded expression. "I fear that he is as fond of kisses as myself."

Her heart gave a far too pleasurable flop, and she ducked her head back toward Pudge. Puppy kisses were infinitely less dangerous than those of a rogue.

"I do not mind," she murmured.

"Do you know," he said in low tones, "that this is the first time I have ever seen you genuinely smile?"

She refused to glance up, afraid of becoming lost in that compelling golden gaze.

"I like dogs."

"Egads, a killing thrust, Miss Cresswell," he retorted at her unwitting words. "Shall we return to the library before my pride is fatally wounded?"

It was with a great deal of stealth that Cedric managed to enter Mayford the following afternoon without being detected. Although he supposed it was not precisely proper to be seeking out Miss Cresswell when he knew his aunt would be in her chambers resting, it did not halt him from slipping through a side entrance and toward the back parlor, where he expected to find the young maiden.

He had not lied when he said he cared very little for propriety. To his mind, it was all a great deal of nonsense. What did it matter if a person looked and pretended to be all that was respectable when their heart was as black as sin? Besides, among Society, propriety meant only that one wasn't supposed to get caught being improper.

He intended no harm to Miss Cresswell. He wished only to speak with her without the kindly but inquisitive interest of his aunt.

A tiny smile curved his lips as he recalled their last occasion alone.

Good Lord, he had told himself that nothing could compare to the fierce pleasure he had experienced during their first kiss. After all, the first kiss with any woman was always special. But the moment their lips had met, he realized his mistake. The same consuming heat had flooded through his body, combined with the strangest flare of tenderness that had tugged at his heart.

He wanted to lay her onto the moist soil and plunder her innocence at the same moment he wanted to sweep her in his arms and protect her from the world.

It was all vastly confusing.

And not only for himself.

He was well aware that after a few days to ponder what had occurred between them, Miss Cresswell would have possessed ample opportunity to deeply regret her momentary weakness. He wanted to ensure that she did not manage to create an impenetrable barrier between them.

And he had brought with him the perfect weapon, he told himself, halting beside the door to lay down his bundle.

Pausing to adjust his coat, Cedric pushed open the door and stepped into the long room. As he suspected, Miss Cresswell was seated near the fire, stitching upon a piece of linen. At his entrance, however, she jerkily rose to her feet and regarded him in a wary fashion.

"My lord."

"Miss Cresswell." He offered a bow.

"I fear your aunt has gone to her chambers. I will let her know that you have called."

He held up a hand as she prepared to flee, no doubt intending to disappear to her own chambers the moment she was out of sight.

"Actually, I have come to see you, and I have brought you a visitor."

A frown marred her wide brow, but at his low whistle her eyes widened in sudden pleasure.

"Pudge." She readily lowered herself as the puppy scrambled into the room and promptly raced to her feet.

Ruefully smiling at the knowledge that the dog had proved to be a more effective enticement than his own charms, Cedric stepped farther into the room.

"I hoped you would be pleased. We have been working very hard these past few days."

She reluctantly straightened to meet his smile. "Oh?"

"Yes, and Pudge wished to show you how very clever he has become."

"I see."

Assuming a stern manner, he moved to steer her into the center of the room. He considered it a decided miracle when she did not instantly cringe from his touch.

"Stand here," he ordered, then, turning to the puppy, he snapped his fingers. "Sit, Pudge, sit."

Wagging his tail the dog promptly barked at Cedric with unbridled enthusiasm.

At his side he heard the minx choke back a laugh. "Very clever," she commended.