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Beauregard.”
    Em looked up from her pile of lists to discover Jonas Tallent blocking the doorway to her tiny office. She managed not to smile, but it took effort—he was a sight to please in a long, many-caped greatcoat that lapped at the tops of his highly polished Hessians. He’d exchanged his hacking jacket for a more formal coat and waistcoat; he looked like he’d stepped from a page of the Gentlemen’s Gazette .
    Battening down her unruly senses, she nodded briefly. “Mr. Tallent.”
    When he said nothing more, just looked at her, she felt compelled to ask, “Is there something I can help you with?”
    “Actually, it’s I who am here to help you.”
    Uttered in his deep, ineffably smooth voice, the words rolled over her. Her instincts rose in instant suspicion.
    His smile only deepened, as if he knew. “It occurred to me that it might be beneficial for you to meet Finch, our supplier in Seaton, and look over his wares firsthand. I’m headed there now in my curricle, and wondered if you would like to come along.”
    Meeting her principal supplier, at his warehouse, with her employer—he who controlled the account she would be using—by her side…
    She would have taken an oath that nothing would have got her physically closer to Jonas Tallent by choice, but…she set down her pencil. “How long will we be gone?”
    “Two hours at most, there and back with time to talk to Finch.” He nodded to the pile of papers under her hand. “Bring your lists, and you can give him your first order.”
    It was far too good an opportunity to pass up—something she was very sure Tallent knew.
    What he didn’t know was that she was perfectly capable of keeping him in his place, no matter what he thought or tried. That was one thing her years at her uncle’s house had taught her; she was now an expert in the not-so-subtle art of keeping gentlemen in line.
    Pushing back her chair, she rose. “Very well. If you’ll wait while I fetch my bonnet?”
    “Of course.” He stood back to let her pass him. As she turned toward the common room, he added, “You might want your pelisse as well—the wind is always stronger closer to the coast.”
    Heading for the stairs, she smiled to herself. Any gentleman who instinctively thought of a lady’s comfort was unlikely to pose any great threat.
    She started up the stairs.
    He paused at their foot. “My horses are frisky. I’ll meet you outside.”
    Raising a hand in acknowledgment, she continued to her room.
    Five minutes later, she joined him outside, and felt forced to amend her definition of “threat.” The chestnut steeds prancing between the shafts looked like the devil’s own.
    He saw her hesitation, grinned. “Don’t worry. I can manage them.”
    She looked up and met his eyes. “I’ve heard gentlemen say those words before—usually just before they overturn their carriage.”
    He laughed. The sound did disturbing things to her insides.
    Transferring the reins to one hand, he laid the other over his heart. “I swear on my honor I won’t land you in a ditch.”
    She humphed. Gathering her skirts, she reached for the curricle’s side.
    He held out his gloved hand to help her up; without thinking, she laid her fingers in his. His hand closed firmly about hers—and her world tilted.
    Rocked.
    He drew her up. She landed on the seat beside him, struggling not to gasp.
    Good God! When would her wretched senses stop reacting?
    When would they get over him?
    He hadn’t tried to hold on to her hand for any longer than necessary. He was wearing leather gloves, and so was she. Yet still the sensation of his fingers holding hers lingered, stealing her breath, making her heart pound.
    Luckily, his horses, shifting restlessly, had claimed his attention. With just one last glance to make sure she was settled, he released the brake and loosened the reins. The chestnuts immediately surged, and they rattled out of the inn’s forecourt.
    He turned the pair south. “Seaton’s