Free Amanda Scott by The Bath Quadrille Page A

realize that she did not intend to reply. He opened his mouth to speak again, but just then Robert entered with the wine he had ordered. Collecting his wits with visible effort, the earl removed his hands from Sybilla’s shoulders and stepped away.
    She released her breath in a long sigh of relief and fought a nearly overwhelming urge to smooth her hair or her gown.
    The footman set the tray down on the side table and turned to address the earl. “Shall I pour the wine, m’lord?”
    “No, thank you. That will be all.”
    When the footman had gone, Sybilla said shortly, “I do wish you would remember that you are not master in this house, Ned.”
    He shot her a level look from beneath his brows but said nothing, turning instead toward the side table. Pouring two glasses of wine, he offered one to her.
    There was a long moment of silence before she stepped forward to accept it.
    He said quietly, “It has been a pleasant evening. Let us not spoil it by quarreling.”
    “I do not quarrel,” she said provocatively. When he only shook his head and turned away, she took a small sip of her wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. He turned, saw that she was watching, and lifted his glass in a silent salute. Instead of drinking or speaking, he held her gaze, his expression daring her to look away again. She could not.
    His expression was hungry, his desire only too clear to her. For a brief moment she felt her body quiver in response to that look, until a sudden mental vision leapt unbidden to her mind of Lady Mandeville, slender, beautiful, and sleekly blond, standing behind him at a Carlton House ball, looking up at him with that selfsame hungry—and, yes, possessive —look of desire on her lovely countenance. Blinking hard, as though to do so would erase the vision, Sybilla turned on her heel and strode rapidly to the nearest window, lifting her hand to draw aside the heavy peach-velvet curtain, as though her only objective were to look out upon the moonlit crescent.
    There was silence behind her, and she did not have to look at him to feel his annoyance. Stubbornly, she kept her gaze fixed upon the lights of the city below, shifting the curtain a little, as much to screen her face from his scrutiny as to block the room’s light so that she could see better.
    A scraping sound drew her attention, but she refused to turn until he spoke. His voice was calm, and he said no more than her name. To pretend deafness would be churlish. She turned, then nearly smiled to see that he had dragged the sofa from its position against the wall to face the fireplace. She remembered a similar setting in their London house that had been, in the earlier days of their marriage, a favorite retreat of his.
    He was waiting. She let the curtain fall behind her and moved toward him. Her heart was pounding, and she stopped some feet from him to draw in a long breath, steadying herself, hoping her expression did not give her feelings away. To let him know she was nervous of him would be to give him the upper hand.
    “Why do you stop?” he asked, his voice low in his throat, his eyes fixed upon her.
    “I was considering the new arrangement of the furniture,” she said quickly. “It has some merit, I think, though my father would not think so. He believes that all furniture belongs firmly against a wall.”
    “Your father never comes into this room anymore. You told me so a long time ago. Come, sit down with me and enjoy your wine by me fire.”
    Suddenly, she longed to sit with him, to feel his arm around her shoulders, to lean against him, to feel the warmth of the fire on her skirts and the warmth of his body close to hers. She swallowed hard as more unbidden visions leapt to mind.
    He grasped her arm gently and drew her toward the sofa, then down beside him. She held her breath when his arm went around her shoulders, the gesture so familiar that it was as though they had not been separated at all. She could feel the fire now.
    When he