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wasn’t the only one to have settled on her.
    “My word, Somerville, your sister is looking temptingly stunning this evening,” the Marquis commented.
    Although Garren’s own thoughts were running the same course, it irked him that a possible murderer had spoken the words, and he felt his muscles twitched.
    Nyle raised a threatening brow. “My sister does look lovely this evening but do remember that Thora is my sister, Brightington. And like most brothers, my instincts to protect her border on the irrational.”
    “As it should be, Somerville,” Mr. Leedworthy agreed while Brightington mumbled a weak apology. “And I imagine it is none too easy a pastime to safeguard one with such a strong will as your sister possesses.”
    Though he understood a brother’s impulse to express a warning should one of the two men in their company be the killer, Garren needed Nyle to remain outwardly calm. Seeing Nyle’s jaw tightening at the further mention of his sister and wishing to lighten the mood, Garren added jokingly, “And not when the lovely creatures have a habit of changing their minds every five minutes.”
    Luckily, his joke succeeded and the men chuckled. He then quickly changed the subject by seeking their opinions on New Zealand becoming a colony.
    As the men debated, a more sedate Nyle checked his pocket watch and discreetly motioned to his sister that the procession of guests to the dining room should begin.
    Noticing, Garren watched as Thora, accompanied by the overly attentive Viscount Simon-North, moved gracefully across the room to her brother. He stood spellbound, absorbing her every movement, from the soft, swishing sound of her silk skirts as her hips gently swayed, to the bodice of her gown—though modestly cut, it did not disguise the fullness of her breasts—to lips so delicately pink and enticing that the thought of kissing them was making his mouth water.
    Joining the group, Thora introduced Viscount Simon-North to Garren, who strained to mask his distaste for the man. In passing him to take her brother’s arm, a whiff of her scent drifted up to Garren’s nostrils. As soft and sweet as a field of flowers. Infused with her smell, he studied her profile as she stepped by, noticing her skin was as flawless as a white rose petal. Inwardly, he struggled to suppress the lurid images flashing in his mind of sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her upstairs to his bedroom, throwing her across his bed, and doing wicked things to her with his lips and tongue.
    Good God! What had come over him? He was fantasizing like an untried lad. Trying to rationalize his licentious craving for Thora, he inwardly reasoned the motive was not because she was exceptionally lovely but that he had been held hostage in a hospital bed for weeks, recovering from a gunshot wound, where the only female to tend him was a thickly made nurse who could probably go more rounds in the ring with Lord Avery Flemington than any man in the room. His long days of convalescence must have heightened his needs. Yes, that was it, he assured himself as he followed behind brother and sister but found himself focusing on a loose curl at the nape of Thora’s neck that rhythmically bounced with her every step.
    The hosts led their guests into the dining room, taking their places at each end of the long table while the guests filled in the chairs along each side.
    While numerous courses of game, poultry, and fish would eventually be served, dinner began with a parsnip and pear soup, broiled salmon drizzled with parsley sauce, and baked trout lying on a bed of creamed cucumbers.
    The vicar’s wife sat on Thora’s left, giving her a sympathetic glance. “How are you, dear?” she whispered. The vicar’s wife knew first-hand how deeply Ivey’s loss had affected her. Many times the kindly woman came out of the church office to help her arrange the flowers on Ivey’s resting place in the church’s cemetery. Later, when they were done, she would