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ride?” She glanced at his ensemble, lingering for a moment on the fall of his breeches, and her cheeks took on the hue of a ripe peach. Her gaze snapped up.
    “What’re ye writing?” His voice sounded rough.
    “You’ve done that thing again, where you ignore what I have asked and ask me a question instead.”
    “Aye, I’ve come to take ye riding.” Though he’d prefer a different sort of riding than the sort she had in mind.
    Her attention flicked momentarily to his breeches again, then swiftly up. Her pretty green eyes were wide.
    Perhaps she did have that sort of riding in mind .
    He tried to find his brain. Despite his better judgment, he moved toward her. “What’re ye writing?” he repeated.
    “Oh.” She waved her fingertips over the pages dismissively. “Nothing really.”
    “Poetry?”
    “Poetry?”
    He halted close enough to see that the rosy glow had suffused her neck and the soft globes of her breast above her gown too. He dragged his gaze upward.
    “Leddies always seem to enjoy poetry.”
    “Not this lady.”
    “’Tis a relief.” Relief . Nowhere near in sight. Not the sort he most needed. He shouldn’t have come. She bit her pretty pink lip and flicked the tip of her tongue to moisten it and Duncan nearly groaned aloud.
    “Why?” she said, her eyes glimmering now. “Since you claim you are not courting me, you needn’t write me poetry.”
    “Ye’ve a clever tongue, Miss Finch-Freeworth.” A tongue he’d like to see more of. But if he was imagining a virgin’s tongue in action, clearly he’d been celibate for far too long. “An I dinna claim I’m no courting ye. I’m in fact no courting ye.”
    “Then if you will await me here, my lord, I will go change into my riding dress and call for my mount to be saddled so that you can take me riding in a decidedly un-courting-like manner.” With a quick smile she curtsied and crossed the parlor, leaving in her wake a light scent of lemon.
    For a moment he allowed himself to enjoy her scent. He would never again let himself come close enough to her to indulge his senses entirely. In the flat he’d made the mistake of touching her skin. He’d not do that again.
    He glanced down at the writing table at the blank page with which she’d covered her writing. He looked back toward the door. It stood open, but if she were anything like most of his sisters she’d be at least a half hour preparing to go out.
    The temptation was too great. He could never know her intimately. This could be his only opportunity to know her at least privately. And he’d committed much worse crimes for much worse reasons in the past.
    He brushed the cover sheet aside. Her hand was neat, with a feminine curl to the capitals and a light freedom in the stroke. A peculiar sensation stirred beneath his waistcoat. He liked her hand. It was like her.
    Her prose was light and clever, yet with the same warmth and animation that shone in her spring eyes. The lines told of a village matron who tended toward gossip and her two daughters, and their adventure ordering teacakes for the Ladies of Harpers Crest Cove Auxiliary Benefit. Their series of mishaps was amusing, the characters were drawn with wit and an eye toward satire that was, however, ultimately compassionate. He pushed the page aside and read the one beneath. Then he covered them and went to the window.
    She appeared at the door minutes later. Her voluptuous figure was encased in a skirt and short coat the color of sunrise with a crisp white shirt beneath and a jaunty little hat adorning her hair. “I’m ready.”
    “Yer luvely.”
    Her cheeks glowed. He shouldn’t have said it. He shouldn’t be thinking it. He shouldn’t be imagining how much he would enjoy removing that pretty dress from her curves one item at a time.
    “Thank you, my lord. My horse is also ready. Are you?”
    No . Once she mounted, her gown would be tucked around that round behind and he’d never have a chance—not at ignoring his