“Ah.” Amanda hesitated for a moment in silence. “She also said that your special friends are generally well-titled and wealthy widows and was wondering if I was one of…”

“All right, all right, I get your point, Amanda,” he testily interrupted. “No need to bludgeon me to death. Can we forget what the woman said, please?” He was growing increasingly petulant at both himself and at the entirety of London in general. He turned from the table to face her. “We are here to talk about our problem and not about my colorful little past…” He took two steps in her direction, her cup and saucer held out before him, when he saw that she was removing the pins from her hair.

He felt an immediate and earth-shattering slippage in his resolve.

“What the hell are you doing?” he snapped.

At his sharp tone, she looked up quickly, somewhat surprised. “What does it look like I’m doing? My hair is wet, or hadn’t you noticed? I need to dry it, so I have removed the pins. Heavens, look at your face! Do we need to alert the press? I have only six of them, pins I mean, to my name and cannot afford to have them flying about.” She had picked up a towel from the basin, rubbed her hair briskly, then began running her fingers through, finishing off by tousling it around a bit. “There, that’s much better. You will find that I can be a bit frugal… Richard? Are you all right?”

Her hair was much fuller and longer and more astonishingly beautiful than he had anticipated. Damn it. He could not speak. He just stood staring—at all that wet, very long, gloriously thick blonde hair pulled over to the side and cascading down over her shoulder, reaching almost to her waist. It was a dense and shiny mass of tangled curls, a golden halo surrounding her face. It emphasized her very high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. He sensed a little tension begin in his chest.

The South of France was beginning to stir, also.

“Richard??” She repeated apprehensively. His eyes had taken on an ominously molten appearance.

“I don’t think it is wise for you to leave your wet hair exposed like that, Amanda.” He spoke slowly. “You might catch a chill. Perhaps you can wrap the towel around your head or something, perhaps around your face a bit, too.” His voice sounded rough-edged as he advanced toward her, and she took the coffee from his hands. He backed away quickly. Clearing his throat and tossing back yet another glass of claret, he again silently vowed to himself to remain on his planned course of action, no matter what.

“Ahem. Ahem. (Cough) While I am certainly grateful that we can have this opportunity to speak, I would not want it to be the cause of your catching a chill, especially since I have planned a sort of surprise. Whether you will feel it is an acceptable surprise will pretty well determine our course of action here today.”

Suddenly turning on his heel, he paced a few feet away and began his rehearsed speech, his voice rising to much the same timbre of any general addressing his troops. “Amanda,” he intoned, “it is evident that we have a strong attraction for each other; however…” Glancing over his shoulder, he stopped dead in his tracks. “Now what are you doing?” he burst out. A second large crack had appeared in his reserve, and the nerves in his body began to throb.

Sitting on a small stool before the fire, her hair tumbling nearly to the ground, she looked up at him in confusion. Already having placed a boot on the side of the hearth, she stopped, her dainty foot poised a few inches from the floor. “I am taking off my boots and stockings, that is, if it is all right with you, sir. My feet are cold and wet because my boots leak like a sieve. Please go on. Don’t let me interrupt.”

She reached modestly up under her skirt, her eyes darting in embarrassment to his face, and then she rolled down her stocking. She next removed the boot and stocking of the other foot. “Ahhh!” she exclaimed happily as she wriggled her toes before the fire. “That feels absolutely wonderful, much better. Richard, do go on, please, with your speech, it was very interesting, I am sure.”

He bitterly catalogued all the attacks on his resolve unfolding before him: a fine-looking young woman with her long, wet hair flowing around her shoulders and her face glowing with youth and health, the top and bottom of her dress dampened more than enough to cling to her, her arms wrapped around slender legs, trim ankles that peeked out from her skirt and her pretty little pink toes—a sensually explosive cornucopia warming itself innocently before the fire.

“Richard! Are you all right?” She tried to run her fingers through her hair to help dry it but quickly abandoned the attempt because of the snarls. She then pushed it from her face to lean her elbows atop her knees. She demurely placed one row of toes over her others to keep them warm.

“Hmm?” His eyebrows rose with his response, his mind a hopeless mush of confusion.

“You were saying something important, were you not?”

“I was?”

“I’m almost certain you were.” She gave him a guilty smile and stood. “Oh, dear, I am not being very attentive again, am I?” Padding over to him, she rested her hands high up on his shoulders. “I am very sorry. Please forgive me for being so rude. Good heavens, barefoot like this, I feel small standing next to you.” Smiling contentedly she ran her hands across his shoulders, and then gently stroked down the front of his chest. “It’s like I am standing in a hole or something.” Her eyes drifted, just for a moment, to his mouth.

Fitzwilliam scowled. “Amanda, go and stand over there, please.” He sounded very annoyed.

“Why? What have I done?”

“Just do it, goddamn it.”

“If you insist, Colonel.” She pursed her lips and walked back to where she had been sitting near the fire. “Fine, shoot.”

“I beg your pardon?!”

“Sorry, that was an American phrase. Please proceed with what you wanted to say to me.”

He hesitated for a moment and then began again, after further clearing his throat and downing his fourth or fifth glass of claret. He had lost count.

“Amanda.”

“Yes, Richard. I have not left. I am listening.”

“Right. Yes… where was I?” He began to massage his temple. “Ah… It is evident that we have… strong attraction for each other… damn it to hell, what was I saying? Your fussings, all this to do, have gotten me completely off topic! Oh, yes, I remember—Amanda, I am of an age where I find I desire something more substantial in my life than a meaningless coupling with someone. Forgive my blunt speech, but I do want us to be open with each other.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as he strolled to the window, a headache threatening, then rubbed at his chest, feeling as if a ravenous wolf was within clawing to be released. It had been those little pink toes, and he knew it. For no apparent reason, those stupid pink toes had captured his imagination and were now driving him wild.

“Ahem. Ahem.” He hesitated for a moment to stare outside. “After years of professing the complete opposite, I find that, since meeting you, I truly do desire a home life and a family. I want to share my thoughts with someone, share my dreams and love and future with one person, and we seem to rub along well together, don’t we? Can you understand what I am saying?” He turned to look at her. “As I was saying, I have arranged for something to which I pray you are amenable…” He suddenly exploded. “Bloody hell! Now what are you doing?!”

She froze midway in her process of unbuttoning her bodice, a guilty blush sweeping over her face.

“Now are you going to tell me that your breasts are cold and wet and you need to relieve them of your top?” His voice sounded angrier than he had meant it to be, while his walls of protection continued crashing down around him. The wolf was breaking free.

Brown eyes looked down in shame, and tears began to well. Her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Please do not yell at me, Richard. I cannot help it if my dress is wet, and I’m cold.”

“I don’t mean to yell. It’s just that I am trying to bare my soul to you here, and you cannot seem to retain possession of your clothes. Now please get yourself dressed again. We are not staying. If you would only let me explain to you my overall strategy…”

He watched in horror as her face crumpled into a blubbery mass of tears. “I am angering you, and you are sending me away.” She stomped her bare foot in self-disgust. Throwing back her head, she began to wail and sob with her frustration and anger and disappointment. “Oh, I am such a fool! I wanted to look beautiful! Instead, I look like a sodden pile of rags. But please, Richard, don’t force me to leave here. Don’t give up on us.”

Fitzwilliam reached her in two steps, pulling her roughly into his arms. “Stop it, Amanda. I’m the fool, not you.” Immediately their mouths found each other, and they kissed with hunger, licking and biting and ravenous. “Forgive me,” he mumbled over and over while her hands grabbed into his hair, pulling him closer. He crushed her to him and lifted her from the floor, those offending pink toes dangling in midair.

“I love you, Richard. You don’t know how I dream about you and pretend I talk to you when you’re not with me. I love you so much I kiss my pillow each night, and hug it, and wish it was you there with me.”

“I am the worst of brutes, bellowing at the only person who matters.” He kissed her eyes and nose and feasted kisses on her neck. “Please don’t cry, sweetheart. Please. I love you so much. This was entirely my fault. It was a stupid idea to meet here. But you see, I have made some plans. I wanted to explain to you…”