"I find you fascinating, Miss Westland."

He heard her breath catch. Her eyes were limpid pools with the ability to take a man under and not make him care that he might never again surface.

"We're practically related. You could call me Lydia."

"We're not related at all," he said, while not revealing the more honest truth. That he was absolutely grateful they weren't.

"You play with fire, when you approach a man wearing nothing but your nightclothes," he informed her.

Lydia felt as though she weren't only playing with fire, but completely surrounded by it. When had the night grown so incredibly warm? When had heat begun to pulse through her like sweltering springs?

"It wasn't my intent to approach you in my nightclothes." Holding his gaze, she was aware her voice sounded as though it came from far away.

"Your intent hardly matters when I find you so distracting. Have you any notion how truly lovely you are?"

"You ignored me for most of the evening," she pointed out.

"Not for one moment."

His hands left her ankles to cradle her face. "You tempt me, as I have not been tempted in a good long while."

She found it difficult to draw in air, to think. She was certain she was supposed to respond with some sort of witty repartee, but she couldn't think of anything clever or interesting.

"I'm hardly dressed as a temptress."

"You're hardly dressed at all. That was your second mistake."

"And my first mistake?"

"Was not returning to the house when I ordered you to go."

Before she could protest that she wasn't one to take orders, he settled his mouth against hers, demanding, insistent, giving the one command to which she was more than willing to surrender.