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it from you.” Again his eyes drifted down, his long eyelashes dark against his cheeks. His gaze seemed to sweep over her figure like a cool breeze, and she fought off a shiver. “No,” he murmured. “I’d much rather you give it to me.”
    “Not as long as you live, Lord Burke.” Her dratted voice broke on his name, so it came out breathy and soft. “Besides,” she quickly added to cover it, “the ball is tomorrow night. If it means so much to you, I shall send it to you the day after next, done up with a bright pink bow.”
    His mouth curved again. “I imagine you have quite a lot of pink ribbon. Pink isn’t your color at all, though.”
    “That is none of your concern,” she said coolly.
    “Well, I must confess it made you easier to track just now. I could see those stripes from two streets away.”
    Joan knew she wasn’t pretty. Her dress had looked so fetching in the dressmaker’s sketches, and then somehow so ordinary on her, no matter what her mother said. But it was the height of indignity to have him point that out. Never mind her previous fascination with his bare chest, or the way he loomed over her like a lover. He was an ass. Even worse, he had spoiled all her joy at being free for a few stolen moments. The shopkeeper had vanished, and not even 50 Ways to Sin was worth spending another moment with Lord Boor—and for costing her that, she could have smacked him. “Thank you for that unsolicited and unwanted observation,” she said through her teeth. “I hope you and Douglas drive each other mad. And you may tell him I will see him at the Malcolm ball tomorrow evening.” She turned on her heel and stalked out the door, pulling it shut with a slam behind her.
    Tristan scowled as she marched away from him for the second time that day. Bennet had obviously gone wrong decades ago with her; his sister was clearly set in her willful ways. Worse, the way her eyes sparkled when she defied him conveyed a gleeful pride in her obstinacy. His first thought about her was absolutely correct. She was a Fury and should be avoided.
    He tried not to wonder what she would have done if he’d attempted to persuade her in earnest.
    His gaze fell to the book in his hand. What had brought Miss Bennet into this shop? he wondered. It was a far cry from Hatchard’s selection of dry improving works and silly Gothic novels. He decided she’d probably had no idea and wandered in by chance, and turned to replace the book of very prurient poetry on the shelf. For a moment there, he’d been dangerously tempted to read her a selection, just to see how brightly pink her fine complexion could turn.
    “Here you are, madam.” A short, balding man in a shopkeeper’s apron came from the office behind the counter, a package in his hand. He stopped short and glanced about. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
    “The lady had to leave,” Tristan said.
    “Indeed!” The fellow looked surprised. “Well, I daresay someone else will want it.” He put down the package. “May I help you, sir?”
    Tristan’s eyes rested on the package. So she hadn’t come by chance, but for something particular. It was flat and thin, tied in string. What had she been after? “I’ll take it for the lady.” He held out the book he’d been about to replace. “And this.”
    The shopkeeper took the book with a knowing look. “Yes, sir. Very good. Shall I wrap it?”
    “No need.”
    The man bowed his head and Tristan counted out the coins. He took both books and went back into Bond Street, wondering where Miss Bennet might have gone. He strolled the length of the street rather aimlessly, scanning each shop for a flash of pink stripes, but never saw it.
    He didn’t want to admit that he felt a touch of guilt for making her storm off without her purchase. No, that was largely her own fault. If she’d been a more reasonable woman, she would have handed over the blasted note her brother had so foolishly signed. Tristan would have thanked her politely