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made “London” sound like “Babylon” when his mouth tilted up a little.
    “Very well, then. And in the country…do you see animals adapt to their circumstances? Grow longer coats for winter, grow spots so as not to be seen by predators, or coloring to attract others of their species?” He had a thoughtful little crease between his eyes.
    “Well…yes. I do. For instance, the cattle have all grown longer coats this year, for winter. And the squirrels have begun gathering more nuts, and Mrs. Dewberry believes this means this winter will be early and hard.”
    He nodded in a satisfied manner. “Very well, then. But here is the question I’ve been pondering.” He leaned slowly toward her, so close she could see how very thick his eyelashes were, and that his eyes featured more than one shade of blue.
    He clasped his hands on his knees thoughtfully. “Why, Miss Fairleigh . . .”
    And without warning, his voice slowed, the timbre of it changed—and just like that, it wound around her senses like a silken rope and held her fast.
    “. . . why do you suppose a woman’s skin is so soft…so very, very soft…if it isn’t meant to…tempt? If it isn’t meant to be…touched?”
    The last word was very nearly a whisper. It landed on Sabrina as surely as a breath blown softly against the back of her neck.
    This was when her lungs ceased to take in air.
    His blue eyes refused to relinquish hers. She was well and truly caught.
    That voice went on. “And if we aren’t meant to take pleasure in our own skin, Miss Fairleigh, why then can so very much pleasure be had from touching it…and from being touched?”
    She felt his words somehow everywhere on her body.
    He waited. But she couldn’t speak. She breathed in deeply, appalled to hear how uneven her breath was, how she struggled to take it. Like a genie freed from a bottle, his words entered her mind and took shape there, filling it with images she’d never before entertained.
    The earl nodded, as though he’d confirmed something.
    “We are all animals, Miss Fairleigh.” He said this mildly.
    And sat back in his chair, dropped his head again to the page, that little smile playing over his lips, and his pen began scratching away as though this conversation had been naught but a pause to yawn and stretch.
    He’d lured her into his web and made his point as surely as if he’d thrust a sword into her. And he’d done it, she suspected, purely for his own diversion. She, as far as The Libertine was concerned, was child’s play.
    Sabrina remained silent. And then she turned about ten more pages of her book, not reading or seeing any of them. She finally decided that ten pages’ worth of pretending to read was enough to salvage her dignity.
    And finally she stood and moved across the room to get closer to the fire. The leaping blaze seemed far less dangerous than the Earl of Rawden.
    Later, after all the guests had gone up to bed, Rhys bent over a billiard table across from Wyndham. His shot was true; the little triangle formation of balls scattered across the table, finding the pockets he’d meant them to find.
    “Good start, Rawden.” Wyndham bent to take his own shot. “Your mood seems to have improved. What brought it about? Did Sophia grovel or beg forgiveness or do some other significantly more pleasant thing to cause you to relax?”
    Rhys’s mouth twitched. “Hardly. Take your shot, Wyndy.”
    Wyndham took his shot, and it was splendid. “Ha!” he said pleasantly to Rhys, and stood upright, leaning upon his stick.
    “No,” Rhys continued, “it has naught to do with Sophia. But I think I may have discovered a cure for boredom.”
    “Has it anything to do with the righteous but pretty Miss Fairleigh?”
    “Pretty?” Rhys repeated idly, as if he hadn’t noticed at all.
    Of course he’d noticed. He’d gazed at her long enough today, and had been vaguely irritated with the conclusion. Upon close assessment of her features, no other conclusion