Free The Perfect Bride by Eileen Putman

long thought vanquished in
that fumbling, humbling experience with Julian LeFevre.
    Desire.
    Easily
identifiable, now that she thought about it, and truly appalling.
    Amanda
gave a quick, nervous smile, hoping to cover her discomfiture as she reached
for the crutches he had caught with the hand that was not wrapped securely
around her waist.
    "I
do beg your pardon, my lord," she said.
    He
did not immediately release her.
    Instead,
and to her great surprise, he tucked the crutches under one arm and lifted her
quite effortlessly. Ignoring her startled gasp, he carried her down the hall to
a door that was partially ajar. With the toe of his gleaming Hussar boots, he
pushed it open. Inside the room, he set her on a divan, placed the crutches at
her side, and turned toward a small table that held several decanters.
    He
had said not a word.
    Amanda
glanced quickly around the room, which appeared to be his study. A massive oak
desk surrounded by dozens of book-laden shelves occupied one end of the room,
while the divan and two comfortably worn leather chairs framed a small
fireplace at the other. The tone of the room was decidedly masculine, but it
was just as appealing as the parlor they had seen earlier.
    As
he handed her a glass of sherry, Amanda felt exceedingly foolish. He had twice
been called upon to rescue her from an ungainly accident. Now she — the chaperon,
no less — sat alone with him in his study drinking spirits. Perhaps he thought
her so desperate for masculine attention that she hurled herself at every man
within reach — even her cousin's intended.
    To
cover her awkwardness, Amanda took a sip and discovered a woody taste and bracing
warmth that were quite extraordinary. Perhaps there was something to be said
for ancient castles after all.
    "Thank
you for your kindness, my lord. I must confess that it is mortifying to find
myself in need of rescue so often. I am an independent woman accustomed to
doing for myself.”
    His
expression was nothing if not dubious.
    "Truly,"
she insisted. "I cannot remember when I last fell down the stairs. As for
the accident with the chair in Felicity's room..."
    Her
voice trailed off. She was chattering like a magpie. His expression was flat
and unreadable. Undoubtedly he was a man who did not suffer fools. Or giddy
women.
    Abandoning
all pretense of conversation, she took another sip of sherry and
surreptitiously studied him over the rim of her glass.
    Even
his clothing made no concessions to frivolity. His dark green jacket had a
rolled collar that gave it a vaguely military air, tailored against the
constrictive fashions of the day to allow room for easy motion. His Hussars
rose to a slight point to protect the shins, again without restricting
movement. Amanda guessed that like other military boots, they were shod with
iron.
    Iron
was a perfect metaphor for the man, Amanda decided, recalling the finely
sculpted muscles that lay beneath that heavy superfine. Clean-shaven, his face
bore a slight indentation near his mouth that might have been a dimple, had not
the possibility been unthinkable in such a man. The only thing at odds with the
controlled image was the unmanageable shock of red hair that suggested a
tantalizing wildness beneath his restraint. With that fierce mane and
crystalline gaze, the Earl of Sommersby was a man to make any woman swoon.
    Except
her. Sternly, Amanda told herself that this would not do.
    "Lord
Sommersby," she began again, her tone brisk. "I fear we may have
gotten our acquaintance off on the wrong foot, so to speak. Our initial meeting
in Felicity’s, er, room, was somewhat...awkward."
    She
felt her cheeks warm, but pressed on. "I also realize that my blunt
comments about your weapon collection may have given offense, for which I do
apologize. I hope you will allow us to start anew, as surely we both have
Felicity's happiness in mind."
    His
impassive expression did not alter. "Is it your habit to climb upon wobbly
chairs or to endeavor to navigate a