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time to influence your thinking; that, with a little financial guidance from me, you’ll have regained your senses by then.”
    “Or perhaps I’ll have used those three months to influence other businessmen, those who aren’t afraid to try something new by financing my venture,” Anastasia shot back, feeling angry and frustrated and resentful— more so because she wasn’t wholly sure where those emotions stemmed from. Oh, she was furious at being thwarted, at having someone else in control of her life. But she was also bothered by Lord Sheldrake’s rejection, more bothered than she’d anticipated. And she couldn’t help but feel a grudging surge of admiration at his utterly principled way of doing business—even if she did loathe the outcome.
    So who was she angry at, him or herself?
    An intrigued spark had lit the marquess’s eyes. “You intend to seek out other investors?”
    “Given your negative response, yes.”
    His lips twitched. “I wish you luck.”
    Damn, the man was arrogant.
    “This meeting is over, my lord.” Anastasia gathered up her skirts and started to walk by him. “I appreciate your time, and your integrity. I don’t share your opinions.”
    Unexpectedly, he caught her arm as she passed. “And I respect your passion for this venture. Can we agree to disagree, or is that too unconventional a notion, even for you?”
    Anastasia froze, uncomfortably aware of the strong hand gripping her forearm, more aware of her own powerful, if confusing, reaction to it. Half of her wanted to yank herself away, the other half to stay precisely as she was, to explore the odd sensations elicited by Lord Sheldrake’s touch. Both reactions were too extreme, too irrational, given the inconsequence of the contact, the casual nature of their acquaintance. Perhaps it was just the fervor of their discussion, the intensity of their differing opinions. And yet…
    Slowly, her gaze lifted to meet his. “No, my lord,” she replied, trying to read his thoughts, and to understand her own. “It’s not too unconventional for me. As of now, we agree to disagree.”
    “Excellent.”
    Was it her imagination, or did his grip tighten? She wasn’t certain. What she was certain of was that his gaze narrowed, probed hers, and that despite the finality of his tone, he made no move to release her.
    A heartbeat later, he spoke. “I, in return, promise that I won’t interfere with your efforts to win over England’s businessmen. If you find someone eager to invest—wonderful. I not only won’t stand in his way, I’ll applaud your abilities of persuasion.”
    Anastasia felt an unwilling smile tug at her lips. “Is that a challenge, my lord?”
    His teeth gleamed. “And if it is?”
    “Then I accept.” Her gaze shifted back to her arm, where she could actually feel the warmth of his fingers seeping through her gown, singeing her skin with an unknown and strangely disconcerting heat. “We’d best go to lunch,” she suggested, her tone oddly strained.
    Slowly, he nodded. “Yes. We’d best.”

4
    L UNCH WAS AN HOUR and a half of delicious food, fine wine, and tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.
    It wasn’t for lack of conversation. George saw to that. Seated at the head of the table, he scarcely let a moment pass before directing yet another financial question at Damen Lockewood. The marquess, seated on George’s left, answered every question, his gaze politely encompassing not only George but Breanna—who sat directly across the table from him—and occasionally Anastasia, seated to her cousin’s right. For his part, George never spared a glance at either girl, keeping his body angled toward the marquess, and his eyes, which seemed overly bright, glued to him as well. George’s voice and expression were strained, and Anastasia suspected he was still peeved that he hadn’t been privy to her financial advisory session.
    She stifled a smile. How relieved her uncle would be if he knew he’d missed