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his bizarre behavior this evening had obviously been beleaguering him for the past fortnight. Lindsay had simply not been himself these past two weeks.
    Perhaps it was the extraordinarily lovely Lady Mary Grantworth who had made his wits addled. Mary certainly stared enough at him from her spot across the table. She had also engaged him in conversation for the better part of the dinner.
    What man wouldn’t become addled in the presence of Mary’s violet eyes and lithe figure? A figure that was trim, unlike her own dumpling body.
    Did Lindsay prefer small, pert breasts and narrow hips? If so, Anais knew she hadn’t a hope, for her breasts were much too big, and her hips wide. Hers was a body that was soft and curvaceous. The type she had told herself that men desired in a woman whom they were about to make love to. But perhaps she had erred in thinking that a man would desire such things.
    She couldn’t help the way she had been created. She had always been well endowed, even from a young age. She had accepted herself, and her body, and had even grown to admireher bosom in a low-cut bodice, and the flare of her hips from her waist that dipped in like an hourglass. It had been aeons since she had wished to change her body. Until tonight. Until she saw what she perceived as her rival sitting across the table from her, looking at her smugly. Mary was beautiful, thin, fashionable. Anais, while pretty enough, with her long, blond hair that was given to curl, was neither slim, nor fashionable, thanks to her mother’s belief that a body like hers was best left in plain clothes.
    What did Lindsay think? Was it Mary’s little bosom, rising above her bodice like two firm apples, that enticed him? Or was it hers, soft, warm, inviting in its display of perfect peach skin, which she had so carefully scented.
    Which woman would Lindsay want to feel beneath him? She had always dreamed it was her he desired. But now, sitting across from the perfect Mary, she wasn’t so certain.
    “You scowl,” Lindsay suddenly whispered to her, startling her.
    “Merely in thought,” she replied, refusing to look at him. His face was close to hers. She could feel his breath, the way it caressed her neck. She couldn’t look into that beautiful face and show every feeling she possessed.
    “Are your thoughts so unsavory, then?”
    Oh, they were! They were thoughts of the beautiful Mary and Lindsay together. There was no doubt about it, Mary Grantworth wanted Lindsay, and for more than just his title.
    All Anais had ever wanted was him. His title be damned. It was the man she desired. The childhood friend who had grown into a strong man, a man of good standing and intellect. A manwho was not an idle gadabout waiting to come into his title and inheritance.
    Lindsay was so much more than a viscount and heir presumptive to a marquisate.
    “When you pout, angel, every man looks at you, wishing he could kiss away the sadness from those lovely lips.”
    Yet how could she or any other woman resist him? With his dark good looks, he was everything a young woman dreamed of in a man. He was tall, broad and well muscled, yet he walked with a predator-like grace that held a woman’s gaze and captured her imagination. His clothes were immaculate, well tailored to accentuate his shoulders and toned legs. His hair was onyx colored, and he wore it long to his shoulders, where it hung in loose waves she had longed to run her fingers through. His eyes, the color of Irish moss, were fringed with long, black lashes that were utterly wasted on a man. He was beautiful, the very epitome of a brooding poet, but with his hair worn long, and the sinful curve of his mouth, which was usually shadowed with a night beard, he reminded Anais not of a poet, but a fallen angel, the sort who would tempt any woman into an indiscretion with a smile and a flash of his eyes.
    That was what made Lindsay so alluring. He was a mix of romantic sensitivity, with an underlying aura of sinful