Along Came a Rogue by Anna Harrington

lick of sense in his brain, he’d have been running back to his room as fast as he could to get away from the temptation of her. Yet he nodded, knowing the drink would buy him time with her. Alone. “Nicely, thank you.”
    She rose gracefully from the settee. The last remnants of the awkward girl he remembered vanished beneath the smooth swing of her womanly hips as she crossed to the cabinet in the corner, then bent over and gave him such an inviting view of her round derriere that he inhaled sharply through clenched teeth.
    She withdrew a crystal decanter and tumbler and splashed the golden liquid into the glass. With a look of challenge, she held it out to him and waited for him to come to her to claim it.
    His lips twitched wryly at the irony that the woman who refused to leave her home was once again holding her ground. And that a strong drink was now the least of what he wanted to claim from her tonight.
    Unable to resist her siren song, he stepped inside and closed the door, then slowly crossed the room to her.
    “I’m glad we have this chance to talk,” she told him.
    “Are you?” He didn’t believe her for a second.
    She gave a jerky nod. “I just—I just wanted to say that what happened—at Ivy Glen—” she began haltingly, her embarrassed voice as soft as the crackling fire beside her. “I don’t blame you. It was completely my fault, and I apologize for all the problems it caused.” She held out the tumbler in a peace offering. “Truce?”
    His lips curled in relief as he took the glass. “Truce.”
    She was watching him, waiting expectantly, so he forced himself to take a sip. Surprisingly, the brandy went down smoothly.
    He nodded toward the decanter. “You keep brandy in your sitting room?” The brat was one surprise after another.
    “I have trouble sleeping. Sometimes, a glass helps.”
    “Like tonight?” He frowned, concern tightening his chest. Perhaps she hadn’t been feigning illness after all. “Are you unwell?”
    “I’m better, thank you.” She folded her hands demurely in front of her. “But I was quite fatigued earlier.”
    “Yes, I suppose you were.” He took another swallow, finding a forgotten taste for brandy, before adding wryly, “After all that shooting.”
    She nodded. “Nothing tires out a lady quite like hunting.”
    He choked.
    As he struggled to fight back the coughs, he slid a glance at her and caught her eyes gleaming mischievously at his expense. For the first time since he arrived at her doorstep, he saw something in those blue depths besides fear and anger. And it was nice. Very nice.
    “Thank God you didn’t go for the kill,” he muttered.
    She sighed regretfully. “Next time.”
    And then, seemingly despite herself, she laughed—not much of one, to be honest. A truncated and nervous little bubble, but still a laugh. And he was damned happy to hear it.
    He studied her over the rim of the glass. She wasn’t classically beautiful, certainly not the kind of striking woman who usually drew his attention, and despite her natural grace, she lacked the urbanity he found so alluring in society women. But her face was arrestingly pretty, and combined with her challenging willfulness, which had kept him on alert since he arrived, and her curvaceous body, which had kept him half-hard, she intrigued him more than any woman he could remember in ages. If ever.
    “Tell me,” he asked, wanting to know more about the woman she’d become, “do you still sketch?”
    Her breath hitched. “Pardon?”
    “You sketched at Ivy Glen.” He moved to sit on the settee uninvited, kicking his long legs out in front of him and foolishly settling into the conversation while she wisely—if frustratingly—held her ground on the far side of the room. “Do you still draw?”
    “Not since I married.” She stared at him in wonder. “You remember that?”
    “Of course, I do. You carried that sketchbook with you everywhere you went.”
    “That was when I still dreamed of