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there's quite a demand for your company."
    Gyles narrowed his gaze on the back of her curly black head. Without seeing her face, he couldn't be sure, but… surely she wouldn't dare. "I am in demand among the ton's hostesses." Let her make of that what she would.
    "Indeed? And are there any specific commitments, to any specific hostesses, that you presently have?" The brazen witch was asking if he had a mistress. Reaching the stable yard, she stepped onto the cobbles and turned—the green eyes that met his aggravated gaze held a power all their own. Halting before her, he regarded her. After a fraught moment, he slowly and clearly stated, "Not at present." The fact that he was considering altering that situation heavily underscored the words. Holding his gaze, Francesca found it easy not to smile. His grey eyes conveyed a meaning she wasn't sure she understood. Was he challenging her to be good enough, fascinating enough, to keep him from other ladies' beds? Was he telling her that whether he kept a mistress or not was up to her? There was a certain temptation in the thought, but she had her pride. Drawing herself up, she let her eyes flash censoriously, then haughtily nodded. "I must get these kittens inside. If you'll give Sultan to Josh…" Head regally high, she swept around and headed for the kitchens.
    Gyles very nearly reached out and spun her back; his hands fisted as he fought the urge.
    "Ruggles!" she called. A ginger-and-black tabby came running. It stood to sniff the basket, then mewed and ran along beside her.
    Gyles drew in his temper; the effort left him seething. That final look of hers had been the last straw. He'd been about to demand to be told precisely who she was and in what relation she stood to Francesca Rawlings when the damned witch had summarily dismissed him!
    He couldn't recall the last time any lady had dared dismiss him, not like that. Through narrowed eyes, he watched her disappear into the kitchen garden, crooning to the kittens and their mother. Unless he much mistook the matter, the gypsy had just put him firmly in his place.

    Chapter 3
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    He couldn't get her out of his mind. Couldn't get the taste of her—so wildly passionate—out of his mouth, couldn't free his senses from her spell.
    It was the next morning, and he was still ensnared.
    Trotting through the forest, Gyles snorted disgustedly. With a little more persuasion, he could have had her under that damned apple tree. Why the fact so irritated him he couldn't decide—because seducing her had proved so easy? Or because he hadn't had the sense to press his advantage? If he had, she might not be tormenting him still, a thorn in his flesh, an itch he'd yet to scratch. On the other hand…
    He pushed the niggling thought aside. She didn't mean that much to him—she was simply a resistant witch issuing a blatant, flagrant challenge, and he'd never been able to turn his back on a challenge. That was all. He was not obsessed with her.
    Not yet.
    He let the warning slide from his mind. He was too old, too experienced to get caught. That was why he was here, organizing his marriage to a meek, mild-mannered cipher. Recalling that fact, he checked his position, then took the next bridle path toward Rawlings Hall.
    He was earlier than he'd been the day before; he caught her as she was setting out from the kennels. She welcomed him with a sunny smile and a "Good morning, Mr. Rawlings. About again?" He replied with a smile, but watched her closely. He'd assumed after yesterday and the report no doubt made by the gypsy that Francesca would have realized who he was.
    If she had, she was a better actress than Sarah Siddons; no trace of awareness showed in her eyes, her expression or her attitude. With an inwardly raised brow, he accepted it. After mulling the situation over, he saw no reason to inform her of his identity—not now. He'd only fluster her. As before, he found it easy to stroll beside her. Only when they'd