The Highlander's Forbidden Mistress - Anna Campbell Page 0,4

talking to you."

Cecil would have a fit if he caught her alone with this debauchee. Even if someone came in and discovered her with Bruard, the story would be sure to reach him.

She turned once more to go, while some heretofore silent corner of her soul pleaded with her to remain. This short, spiky conversation with Lord Bruard counted as the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. And wasn’t that an indictment on a dull, wasted life?

"No, you shouldn’t." He reached out and caught her arm. "But all the same, I’d like you to stay."

Heat sizzled up her arm and down through her middle until it settled in a great molten lump in the pit of her stomach. "Let me go," Selina muttered, cringing to hear how her voice wavered.

"Stay. Please."

Shocked, she stopped in her tracks and stared up at him. "You don’t sound like you say please very often."

Self-derisive humor glinted in his eyes. "I don’t."

He kept hold of her arm. If his touch had been demanding or possessive, she’d have jerked away. But it was gentle as a man’s hand never was when it touched her. She told herself Bruard knew the power of gentleness and he used it against her. But even conceding that, the contact was so sweet, she couldn’t bring herself to pull free.

"I can’t see why I’ve caught your eye," she said in bewilderment.

"Can’t you?" he said in a neutral voice.

"Is it because I’ve tried so hard to stay away from you?"

She’d noticed the ladies at this large house party were inclined to cluster around him. He’d never looked very interested. But then the first thing she’d noticed about him, apart from his spectacular looks, was the air of boredom that hung about him. She suspected too much had come to him too easily, and life lost its flavor.

He was from a great Scottish family. He was rich. Lovers vied to share his bed. He drew women to him, without having to lift the little finger on that elegant hand. No wonder he looked as if the whole wide world was a complete yawn.

Except one of the most unsettling elements of this unsettling encounter was that right now, he didn’t look bored at all. Right now, he bristled with purpose. She’d likened him to a drowsing panther. Now she’d awoken the big cat, and he was on the hunt.

Mad as it seemed, his quarry was frumpy, undistinguished Selina Martin. Of all tonight’s surprises, that had to be the greatest.

"No. I noticed you the moment you set foot in this house." The purposeful look he sent her blasted another bolt of heat from her crown to her toes in their satin slippers. His grip tightened on her arm. "Just as you noticed me."

It was true. They’d gone past the point where she could deny it.

She remained trembling in his grasp, a host of giant grasshoppers leaping around in her stomach.

"Yes." The word was a mere breath.

Selina waited for triumph, for Bruard to sweep her into his arms. Because surely her reckless confession must beggar restraint. She almost wished he would act the way she expected a Lothario to act. All grabby hands and slobbery kisses.

If he took her admission as a signal for seizing her, she might summon up the will to leave. But those hard, long-fingered hands didn’t grab, and that thin, expressive mouth didn’t slobber.

A light glittered in his green eyes. "Are you really going to marry that clodhopping dunderhead?"

"He’s…he’s not a dunderhead. He’s one of the cleverest men in England."

At least when it came to making money. Cecil had mills all over the north of England, and coalmines and a fleet of ships. All built up from a modest inheritance from his yeoman father. Cecil, by rights, wasn’t wellborn enough to socialize with the Derwents and their circle, but Lord Derwent was seeking investment in an iron foundry. Money talked louder than breeding, however much the other guests made it clear that Cecil and his dowdy fiancée were here only on sufferance.

"I don’t believe it. If he is, he has no idea how to handle a woman. Especially a woman as exquisite as the one he’s caught."

Exquisite? Nobody had ever called her that before. During her life, most of the vanity had been beaten out of her. But praise from such a connoisseur of beauty would spark pleasure in even the world’s most self-effacing lady.

All pleasure fled when Lord Bruard went on. "Give the sod his marching orders. You’re