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angles of cheek and jaw, the stubborn set of his chin. His lips were leaner, his expression harder, more resolute, than in her memories. Her gaze swiftly took in the wide shoulders, the lean, rangy frame—the body sculpted by some deity into something very close to perfection. Her eyes followed his arm, draped gracefully yet negligently along the mantelshelf; her gaze fixed on his hand, on the long fingers, relaxed,hanging downward, slightly curled as they had been last night…
    She switched her gaze to her aunt.
    Adrian turned his head; she felt his gaze on her face. “Tell me,” he murmured. “Given I need to hire an entire staff, are there enough people available in the village and surrounding farms, or will I have to look further afield?”
    Abby forced her mind to the subject. “How many staff does Bellevere need?”
    “To run optimally, I think…”
    They discussed maids and gardeners and cooks. After half an hour, Esme set her work aside, bade them good night, and left them.
    As Esme’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, Adrian straightened from his pose by the hearth and sat beside Abby.
    Her heart leapt to her throat; she had to fight a craven impulse to flee after Esme. She was aware of Adrian’s sharp gaze on her face; she sternly warned herself she had no room to indulge in missish behavior.
    The sofa was small, his shoulder a mere inch from hers—she could feel the warmth of his body all along her side, its heat more potent than the fire. Schooling her expression to one of polite friendship, she forced herself to smile and meet his eyes. The instant she did, she remembered that those strange amber eyes had an uncanny ability to see far more than she liked.
    That was then, she told herself, but as his eyes held hers trapped, and searched, she was afraid nothing had changed. She looked down.

    She sensed an instant of hesitation before he asked, “Tell me, Abby, are you glad to see me?”
    His voice was very low, a deep murmur that seemed to run just above her heartbeat. Fixing a bright smile on her face, making sure it reached her eyes, she looked up. “Yes—of course! And it’ll be so good to have Bellevere open again—so nice to have more life in the village.”
    His eyes remained steady on hers, then his lips curved, just a little at the ends. “Is the village so devoid of entertainment, then?”
    “Well, other than the vicar, Reverend Bosworth—you don’t know him, he’s new—then…” Unwilling to let another unnerving moment develop, she rattled on, sketching a detailed word picture of the occupants of the village and the neighboring farms and estates. When she’d exhausted the surrounding populace and all points of interest, she rose and crossed to the window to peer out at the snow-covered downs. “The snow’s stopped—you’ll probably be able to retrieve your bags tomorrow.”
    She’d felt his gaze, locked on her, every step of the way; she was intensely aware when he uncoiled his long legs, stood, and followed her. She couldn’t bring herself to turn and face him, to let her eyes confirm what her senses knew. For some unfathomable reason, he was watching her very closely, very intently.
    He halted behind her and looked out over her shoulder. “Hmm—it’ll be icy, but by midmorning we should be able to get as far as the ford.”
    “You’ll be glad to have your gear, and maybe yourcurricle isn’t as bad as you think.” Abby stopped; in another minute she’d be babbling. “I think…”
    She turned, intending to slip around him, only to discover that impossible. Before she could stop him, he’d taken her hand; the feel of his long fingers possessively closing around hers made her freeze. She had no choice but to meet his eyes. Willing her face to show nothing of her vulnerability, she did. His eyes trapped hers. His fingers slid across her palm and she inwardly shook.
    “Abby.” His voice was gentle but compelling. “Are you sorry that I’m here?”
    She felt her