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masculinity. There was a part of Lindsay that called to the romantic girl, and the other part that called to the womanly needs she kept so carefully hidden from him.
    Her gaze strayed to his hands, long, elegant, artistic, she shivered as she imagined those beautiful hands traversing her body; and his lips, good God, she could not look at those stronglips and not shudder as she thought of him kissing every inch of her.
    It was no wonder that Mary had set her sights on him. Anais herself could hardly bear to look away from his hansome profile, or stop herself from imagining what he must look like beneath his waistcoat and jacket. She had no doubt, though, that what lurked beneath his clothes would be every bit as perfect as his face.
    She had no doubt that sharing a bed with Lindsay would be beyond what she could ever possibly think of while she pleasured herself. As if he knew her thoughts, he looked at her, his gaze burning, his lips lifting in a secret smile.
    Yes, wicked. Wanton. She wished he would lean into her and whisper into her ear all the naughty things he whispered to her in her dreams. Instead, she swallowed and broke the spell of his gaze holding hers.
    Her gaze lifted, landed, as she suspected they would, on his face. There was no teasing in his eyes. No smile.
    “You attempt to flatter me,” she said as she stole a look at Mary Grantworth. She was watching them with unabashed venom.
    “No, Anais. I would never speak false words to you. You know that.”
    Of course she did. They were friends, after all. Friends. How the word began to feel like a noose around her neck. She did not want to be friends with Lindsay. She wanted more. She wanted the same things she dreamed about. The same feelings coursing through her body as when she pleasured herself, while dreaming it was him touching her.

    She felt her face warm and glanced away. If Lindsay knew what thoughts she had of him. How erotic. How unchaste and unmaidenly those thoughts were, he would run as fast as he could in the opposite direction.
    While he might not speak falsely to her, he certainly could not mean anything by his words. They were meant to be kind, to help a friend. She mustn’t read more into them, or into the scene they had shared in the salon. She must not think it anything of import, how he had pressed closer to her, how his mouth had lingered over her hand and he had seemed to inhale her essence deep within his chest.
    No! She was being fanciful. Allowing her bedtime wishes to become real. Lindsay did not desire her the way she desired him.
    “My lord, shall you be attending the agricultural fair next week in Blackpool?” Mary Grantworth asked, drawing Lindsay’s attention away from Anais’s face.
    “I had not considered it, Lady Mary.”
    “No? You should. My uncle has entered his Belgian Warmbloods to be judged. I know he plans to sell a few of his stallions. As you are known around town as the most accomplished horseman, as well as a connoisseur of flesh—”
    “Flesh?” Lindsay asked with a raised brow.
    Mary colored prettily, but it was far from innocent. “A connoisseur of horseflesh, Lord Raeburn. I thought perhaps you would be interested in the sale of those stallions, since you are interested in starting a breeding program here in Bewdley. At least, I assumed that was what you meant when you spoke of breeding during our walk last week.”
    Mary shot Anais a look of triumph from across the table asshe waited for Lindsay’s reply. With a stern nod that bordered on impolite, Lindsay shifted his focus to his plate and the piece of prime rib that sat on it. He gave no answer to Mary’s inquiry and Anais saw a look of pure menace cloud Mary’s beautiful expression.
    Anais’s appetite abandoned her at once. She couldn’t possibly stomach anything, not when her insides had turned to lead. Anais struggled for composure, for inner calm against the tumultuous thoughts running with abandon through her mind. Just when she thought