Free The Making of a Gentleman by Shana Galen

strangling her. Nor did he seem to want to kiss her—which was a good thing, she told herself, ignoring the stab of disappointment cutting through her. So why direct her outside?
    The breeze stirred the leaves in the trees, rustling them quietly, and she sensed the comte relax beside her. He seemed less tense, less fierce out here. She supposed that should make sense. After all, a man who had been locked up for twelve years would come to appreciate the freedom of the infinite night sky and the unpredictable evening breeze.
    She turned and found him watching her again. It was dark now, the town house’s lights behind them creating just enough glow for her to distinguish the look on his face.
    She could only describe the expression as one of longing. And because her heart constricted when she saw it and her belly pooled with warmth, she started to speak before she did something ridiculous like throw herself into his arms. “I can see why you enjoy the garden. After all those years in prison, it must be refreshing to step outside any time you please.”
    He continued to stare at her, moving closer and studying her face. Felicity tried to ignore the heat she felt blossom in her cheeks and stared up at the stars again. The North Star was the most apparent, and she focused on its bright, steady glow. “I don’t know what you must think of London. I only just arrived this morning and find it quite overwhelming.” She knew she was babbling now, but he continued moving closer. She could feel his breath on her cheek.
    “But I suppose if you were in Paris, the noise and…” She squeaked as he lifted her hand and cradled it in his. She still wore her gloves, but she could feel the warmth of his bare skin through the thin material.
    “—and the lights and the general…”
    He stripped off her glove, and now there was no barrier between his warm, calloused flesh and her own, which was cooler and surprisingly sensitive to his touch. As he had that afternoon, he lifted her hand and put it to his cheek. She could feel the stubble there, under her fingertips.
    “The general, ah, general hubbub…” She tried to continue speaking as though what he was doing was not entirely inappropriate. As a woman betrothed to another man—however unwillingly—she should not allow this. In addition, as his tutor, she had more reason to stop him. This would be the perfect opportunity to teach him manners, but when she turned to rebuke him, those cobalt eyes were on her again, and her throat went dry.
    There was curiosity in his expression, almost as though touching her hand to his face was an experiment. But there was passion there too. She had seen it this morning when he had interrupted her playing, and she saw it now. Saw he did not quite know what to do with it.
    Oh, she could show him. She could lean forward and place her lips on his, and then—
    And then her father would turn over in his grave! What was she thinking!
    Summoning her father’s face before her eyes, she finally found the strength to tug her hand out of the comte’s grasp. Now she would go inside. She would go inside and go directly to her room and go to bed. Tomorrow they would start fresh and pretend none of this had happened.
    “I’m going to go inside now, my lord,” she said quietly, stepping back. “I shall see you in the morning.” She said it forcefully, and she followed the words with a determined turn back toward the doors where they had exited. She had meant every word—until she felt his hand on her elbow.
    Don’t stop. Keep walking, she told herself, but she couldn’t resist turning, just to glimpse the look on his face. Curses, but he had to be the most handsome man she had ever seen. How was she supposed to walk away from this wounded angel who aroused and unsettled her all at once?
    How was she going to serve as his tutor if she did not start enforcing some discipline now—on herself, if not her pupil?
    Be strong, she thought, and began to turn away