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shock, he caught her elbow.
    It so surprised her, her novel flew to the ground, falling about like overgrown leaves on an autumn day.
    “Forgive me,” he said immediately.
    She made a sound that was somewhat growlish before she could stop herself.
    “I just—“ he foundered for a moment. “I should like your company.”
    Any other reply would have received a terse reply but there was honesty in his eyes. He meant it. And if she was honest, she had been growing melancholic herself since the death of her uncle.
    It was why she was looking forward to her trip to London on the morrow so greatly. Too many days alone in this great house were beginning to take their toll. As self-sufficient as she was, no soul could exist without some company.
    He knelt before her and began carefully collecting pages. “Would you tell me about it?”
    “What?”
    “Your story?”
    She never talked about her writing. There was no one to talk to. Elizabeth Barton, the actress who facilitated her entrée into London’s demimonde, knew she was an author but they didn’t discuss her work.
    It was tempting to take him up on his request, for she often felt as if she were brimming over with her story. However, it was too risky.
    “I do not feel comfortable doing so.”
    “Ah Lady P, one day you shall have to share it with the world.”
    “What if I write only for myself?” She’d done that at first, before she’d realized she could gain financial stability from her work.
    “Why would you deny the world the magnificent people in your head?”
    She narrowed her eyes, trying to understand the odd man on the floor. “What if my writing is drivel?”
    “Not possible,” he said with unflappable conviction. “If you refuse to share it with me at least promise that you will let me show it to an editor.”
    She tensed. “No, Lord Charles. Absolutely not.”
    What was she doing? Speaking like this to him? Risking it all for a few more moments in his infuriating, though compelling, company. That was what she was doing. If she’d really wished to be rid of him, she’d have already swept out of the room and, yet, she’d indulged in their banter.
    He stood slowly and offered her the bundled pages.
    She took them, carefully avoiding his touch. “I am going into town tomorrow. I think it best we allow our representatives to handle the transition of the house. After all, it is yours now. If you wish to sell it to me, just inform my steward.”
    A curious look hardened his face. “If that is your wish.”
    “It is.” And with that, she whisked from the room, determined never to be alone with him again. Lord Charles was far too great a temptation. And despite what he might say, his kind of bliss wasn’t worth the risk. Of that, she was certain.
    Truly.

Chapter 5
    The gray and pink light of dawn slipped through the great hall’s towering windows, slipping onto the floor and spilling over the toes of Charles’ boots.
    He took another sip of brandy from the snifter he’d found nestled with a bottle of brandy. . . Beside Lady Patience’s writing desk.
    One glass had already been used. Unless her servants were inclined to tippling and leaving the evidence behind, there was no other conclusion to draw other than that Lady P herself liked a bit of brandy whilst she worked.
    Teetotaler she was not.
    What other assumptions had he made about her that were incorrect?
    He was beginning to think, many. Very many.
    For not only had she had the brandy, she’d vacated the house even before dawn had made its presence known.
    He’d heard the coach rumble over the gravel drive and listened to the sound of her firm step as she had left Barring House and him behind.
    Somehow, he had seriously miscalculated Lady P. Miscalculation was something to which he was entirely unaccustomed.
    He’d been so certain she would bow to his will; that she would succumb to his fawning over her writing. After all, she had agreed to be his ally.
    False.
    Absolutely false, he now