Free To Taste Temptation by Elizabeth Hoyt

eyebrows and stepped so close, his breath brushed her cheek. “Why do you care?”
    “Care?” She opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “It isn’t that I care; it’s simply—”
    “You’re in a bad mood.” He pursed his lips and tilted his head as if he were examining a suspect piece of fruit. “You’re often in a bad mood.”
    “That’s not true.”
    “You were in a bad mood yesterday.”
    “But—”
    “You were in a bad mood when first I met you at Mrs. Conrad’s salon.”
    “I was not —”
    “And while your mood was not precisely bad when we came to tea, it certainly could not be termed good .” He smiled kindly at her. “But perhaps I have the case wrong. Perhaps you’re usually a lady with a sunny disposition, and it’s only my advent into your life that has turned you sour.”
    She gaped at him—actually gaped, her mouth hanging ajar like the greenest debutante. How dare he? No one spoke to her in this manner! He had turned away now and was idly plinking the harpsichord in a very annoying manner. She caught him glancing slyly at her, his mouth curving at the corner; then he went back to watching his fingers abuse the harpsichord.
    Emeline took a deep breath and twitched her skirts straight. She hadn’t been the belle of innumerable balls for nothing.
    “I hadn’t realized my voice was so sharp, Mr. Hartley,” she said as she wandered closer to where he stood. She kept her eyes downcast and worked to look woebegone—not a very familiar expression. “Had I known the distress my unladylike surliness would cause you, I would have died a thousand deaths rather than acted so. Please accept my apology.”
    She waited. It was his turn. Now he would be covered in shame because he’d made a lady apologize so abjectly. Perhaps he would even stutter. She tried not to smirk.
    Instead there was only silence. His long fingers played on the harpsichord keys without any notion of music. If he continued much longer, she would go mad.
    Finally, she looked up.
    Mr. Hartley wasn’t even paying attention to his hands. Instead he was watching her with a faintly amused expression. “When was the last time you apologized to a man?”
    Oooh! He was the most provoking oaf!
    “I don’t know,” she said sadly. “Years, perhaps.” She stepped closer and placed her hand on the keys beside his. Then she looked up at him and slowly let her mouth curve into a very small smile. “But I do know he was most satisfied with my apology.”
    His hands stilled, the room suddenly hushed. His eyes were intent in an almost frightening way. For the life of her, Emeline could not look away from him. She watched as his gaze drifted over her face, coming finally to rest on her mouth. Without even thinking, her lips parted. His eyes narrowed and he took a step toward her, closing the space between them and raising his arms—
    The door to the ballroom opened.
    “We are ready now, yes?” Tante Cristelle said. “Another hour, I think, no more. My hands, they will be crippled if I play longer at that instrument.”
    “Yes, of course,” Emeline gasped. Her face was probably as red as a boiled beet. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Mr. Hartley had somehow contrived to place himself on the other side of the harpsichord—a distance that was more than respectable. When had he done that? She hadn’t even seen him move.
    “Are you all right, Lady Emeline?” the girl asked innocently. “You look hot.”
    Oh, these terrible colonials with their blunt ways! Emeline saw the horrid man smirk, though she doubted anyone else caught his expression.
    “Quite.” Emeline twitched her left sleeve forward. “Shall we begin again with those dance steps? Mr. Hartley, this will no doubt bore you to tears. We give you leave to go about your business.”
    “I would, Lady Emeline, had I any.” Mr. Hartley settled into a chair and crossed his leg at the ankle as if he planned to stay into the night. “Business,