Never Lie to a Lady by Liz Carlyle Page A

enunciated. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”
    “You have been much on my mind, my dear, since abandoning me last night,” he said. “So I asked a few discreetly placed questions and was a little disturbed by what I discovered.”
    Anger sketched across her face. “As I am a little disturbed to have been run to ground as if I were some sort of prey,” she returned. “I apologize, sir, as I hope you do, for what happened last night. However, when a lady abruptly leaves a gentleman under such circumstances, there are but a few conclusions one can draw.”
    “Are there indeed?” he murmured. “I could think of only one.”
    “And yet you followed me here?” she challenged, entirely missing his point. “Followed me into the privacy of my home? That, sir, is unacceptable.”
    Nash watched her warily for a moment. Even amidst his confusion, he could not help but be aware of her proximity and of her almost palpable allure. She was an unconventional beauty to be sure, with her dark chestnut hair, thin nose, and eyes too widely set—eyes which were focused on him unblinkingly, demanding an answer to her challenge.
    “You must pardon me, Miss Neville,” he finally said. “I have misjudged the situation.”
    “It would seem so,” she returned. “What on earth possessed you to call upon my brother?”
    “I was entering the lion’s den, I thought,” he answered. “I am not the sort of man who waits for trouble to find me, and I wished to see which way the wind blew.”
    “Oh, how ridiculous!” she answered. “What did you say?”
    “Very little that made sense,” Nash confessed.
    “I wish you to stay away from him,” she commanded. “Rothewell eats dandies like you for breakfast, Lord Nash. Trust me, you do not want to irritate him.”
    Nash drew in his breath sharply. “I beg your pardon. Did you say dandy —?”
    Miss Neville colored. “Well, a fashion plate, then. Or a tulip. Or an exquisite, perhaps?” She stopped and pursed her lips. “I beg your pardon. I meant no insult, and I obviously don’t know the proper words. But whatever you are, just stop antagonizing my brother.”
    Nash stepped closer, and grasped her arm. “And talking about what we were doing on Sharpe’s terrace might antagonize him?”
    “Good God!” Her eyes sparked with blue fire. “Surely you did not?”
    He set his head to one side and studied her, still gripping her arm quite firmly. “No, I did not,” he answered musingly. “Tell me, Miss Neville, what do you think his reaction would have been?”
    She jerked her arm away, and stepped back. “I cannot say,” she confessed. “Nothing, perhaps. Or perhaps he would have shot you dead where you stood. That is the very trouble with Rothewell, don’t you see? One never knows. Kindly go away, Lord Nash. And stay away. I think you will be saving all of us from a vast amount of grief.”
    He stepped closer, strangely unwilling to let her escape. “Tell me, Miss Neville, why did you kiss me last night?” he asked quietly. “Indeed, what in God’s name were you doing alone on that terrace in the first place?”
    “England is a free country,” she responded. “I went out for air.”
    “Miss Neville, you are an unmarried woman,” he protested. “Society generally expects—”
    “Kindly save your breath,” she interjected. “I neither need nor want another lecture about what English society expects. I am unwed, sir, not witless. If I wish a breath of fresh air, I shall have it, and your beau monde will simply have to wrestle with their ridiculous notion of propriety.”
    Against his will, Nash’s mouth began to tug into a grin. “Well, it would appear our discussion here is finished,” he said, taking up his cape and gloves. “You are, if I may say so, Miss Neville, a most fascinating woman. I wish to God you were a willing widow—or even some poor devil’s willing wife—but you aren’t, are you? And now I’m to suffer for it.”
    “Oh,