He looked right back at her with those damned black eyes unflinching from her frustration. "You deserve better."

She swallowed hard and forced herself to step back, to move away from his big, warm body and his hot, caressing hands and that mouth that made her dream of things she'd never known.

"You're right, of course, Mr. Worthington. We really must get back to the party." She folded her arms over her chest, suddenly chilled.

He moved to offer her his coat. She turned her back on him and strode down the slope to the shearing shed, already working on the pleasantly noncommittal smile she would wear as she returned to the people who knew her better than anyone — and yet not all. This time she passed through the rose arch all alone.

LYSANDER WATCHED GEMMA GO until she turned the corner of the building and disappeared from his view.

He did not follow her. He was fairly certain that she would rather fall on her face than have him there at her elbow, escorting her safely down.

Once she was gone, he turned his gaze upon the dale by moonlight. From this vantage, he could see the manor, its windows dark, and its decrepitude gilded over.

Lysander knew it could be saved, but work should begin soon or the structural integrity would be compromised. Surprisingly, the prospect did not alarm him. It had only been a short time since he'd had to leave Worthington Manor, the old family home in Shropshire, because he been too disturbed by the noise and bustle of the reconstruction to remain.

Now, the thought of a crowd of builders descending upon Yew Manor seemed very satisfying indeed, provided that "crowd" meant no more than a dozen.

What he could build for Gemma with the aid of a dozen men! Especially if a couple of them were Worthingtons.

He hadn't the right to hammer a single nail, and never would if Gemma didn't forgive him. He could be sure of that. Gemma wasn't one of his sisters, who had to relent eventually. He might've done terrible damage to Gemma's opinion of him by kissing her and then refusing her.

Women like Gemma — well, there were no women like her, not in all the world. None so generous, so hard-working, so selfless, so delicate and yet so strong. And, although she concealed it well, so vulnerable. She thought he didn't know her and perhaps he didn't, but he understood her.

He knew that when he rejected her advances on the hillside, she might never forgive him. However, if he'd embarrassed her before her people, she would have never forgiven herself.

BY THE TIME LYSANDER reentered the shearing-shed ballroom, Gemma had joined in a rousing contredanse, skipping down the tunnel of dancers hand-in-hand with Button.