“Lady Charlotte, are you ill? Dare, what’s wrong with Lady Charlotte? Dare?”

Charlotte ignored her body’s demand, unable to look away from Dare’s unblinking gaze, shaken by the stark need written in his sapphire eyes, suddenly aware for the first time of the true power of her femininity. The emotions sparking between her and Dare were something infinitely more profound than the trivial, meaningless flirtations she had practiced in the past. This was…earthy. It was primal. It was shocking and exciting and utterly wanton. She wanted to touch him, to taste his skin, to feel his bare flesh against hers, and she ached, she positively throbbed, for the application of his manly instrument. Her breasts suddenly, of their own accord and certainly without her permission, chafed in their stays, sensitized, heavy with the need to be stroked by his hands.

“My lord?”

Her breath caught in her throat, her nipples hardened and clamored for Dare’s touch, joining a veritable cacophony of cries for attention from numerous other parts of her body. She wanted his hands on her flesh, touching her, warming her, easing the ache that he started so deep inside her. She wanted it all, and she wanted it right at that moment. She took a step toward him. His eyes glittered darkly as he moved toward her, making a soft noise deep in his chest that answered the look in her eyes.

“Dare!”

“My lady!”

Two outraged voices cried out at the same time, breaking the spell. Dare frowned. Charlotte stepped back, her body crying out in silent frustration. She ordered her body to cease its lamentings and promised it that fulfillment would come next Wednesday night. “Perhaps sooner,” she mused, her eyes once more on the banded muscles of Dare’s arms. His fingers twitched in response.

“You see, Dare, Lady Charlotte is quite overcome by your uncouth appearance,” Patricia said as she tugged Charlotte back toward the lumpy settee. “Come and sit next to me, Lady Charlotte, and we shall excuse my brother while he puts himself to rights.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to say that wasn’t in the least bit necessary or desired, but Dare had evidently remembered the reason for his returning.

“I have been working on my engine,” he said to Charlotte by way of an explanation, “and I shall return to that just as soon as you explain this.”

He held out her list of locations and guests.

“Your suggestions were unacceptable. You are an earl. I am the daughter of an earl, and the widow of the heir to a count. We cannot have our wedding in a small, poky church. Where would all the guests sit?”

“Which brings me to the subject of your guest list,” Dare growled.

Charlotte gave him a triumphant smile. “The selection of wedding guests, Alasdair, is the bride’s prerovative.”

“Prerogative, and that right is revoked when the groom is paying for the whole bloody thing, as Batsfoam informs me I am.”

“Dare!” Patricia cried.

Charlotte jumped up from the settee and lifted her chin at him.