The French Count's Pregnant Bride

“That’s what I was hoping to hear,” Anton said, bathing her in a slow, seductive smile that threatened to reduce her rational judgment to a blob of molten hormones. “I’d hate to have to challenge him to a duel at dawn.”

She untangled her fingers from his while she still retained a smidgeon of common sense. “There’s no danger of that. My ex-husband is no more interested in me than I am in him.”

“What does interest you, then?”

“Catching up on my sleep.” She faked a yawn behind her hand. “It’s past my bedtime.”

He made a big production of looking at his watch. “You’re surely not serious?”

“I surely am.”

“But the night is still young, ma belle ange.”

Withstanding his flattery was definitely more than she could handle. “Not for me, it isn’t,” she insisted, forcing herself to her feet and clutching her purse to her breasts like a shield. “I’m fading fast, and your wine, excellent though it was, isn’t helping any. Good night, Anton. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

Before she could make the speedy exit she’d planned, he was on his feet and blocking her escape. “The pleasure was all mine,” he murmured, brushing his lips over the back of her hand.

That she could deal with. He was French, after all, and a Count, to boot. But then, instead of releasing it, he turned her hand over and pressed a soft, warm kiss in the center of her palm. And for reasons that completely eluded her, she felt the effect all the way to the soles of her feet. She wasn’t absolutely certain, but she thought she might even have let out a tiny whimper of pleasure, too.

Accurately guessing exactly the effect he’d had on her, he folded her fingers over the spot, and fixed her in a gaze veiled by his fringe of dense black lashes drooping at half-mast. “Until tomorrow, Diana,” he murmured.

Not if she had any say in the matter! Vividly aware of his gaze measuring her every step, she resisted the urge to bolt, and schooled herself to walk with a reasonable facsimile of decorum through the inn’s front door. Then, when she was quite sure she was out of his sight, she did bolt, scuttling up the stairs and down the narrow corridor to the sanctuary of her little room as if the devil himself were in pursuit.

The woman was a mass of contradictions, he decided, watching as the light came on in her room. Educated, refined and with a certain sophistication, on the one hand; on the other, curiously naive and unsure of herself.

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