Petra struggled with her composure. She was outraged that he thought he could kiss it all away just as he had done once all those years ago, when he’d picked her up after her horse, balking at a difficult jump, had unseated her. Although, as she recalled that incident with the clarity of hindsight, as soon as he’d picked her up off the ground and dusted her off, he’d immediately turned his attention to her horse . . . and spent a lot longer checking the animal’s forelocks for swelling and sprains than he had on Petra’s bruises. And she hadn’t minded at all, so intoxicated was she by Guy Granville’s attention, however cursory.

The elegant image of the French vicomtesse abruptly popped into her mind and her anger surged anew. How dared he think he could start up a flirtation with her again, after everything she’d said, and particularly now, when he was in an open liaison with another woman? She inhaled sharply and immediately caught the scent of him, a hint of lemon verbena, a musky earthiness beneath. It flooded her with sensual memory and absently she touched her lips, feeling the residual sensation of his kiss.

“Wake up,” Guy said, still smiling. “I seem to have put you to sleep.”

Petra gave herself a vigorous mental shake. “Of course you haven’t,” she stated. “But I’ve been ready for my bed this last hour. Let me show you out.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” he prompted, not moving as she walked to the door.

“What question?” She looked at him blankly, deliberately keeping all expression from her countenance.

“I asked if you’d have dinner with me on Wednesday.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“No,” she said shortly, and then realized how very rude she sounded. Behaving like an ill-bred schoolgirl would merely increase her present disadvantage. “No, I’m sorry. I’m otherwise engaged on Wednesday.”

He bowed in acceptance, picking up his hat and cane from the pier table. “Another time, then.” He walked past her as she held the door for him. “I suggest you soak your feet in warm water before you put them between the sheets.”

Petra’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You are all condescension, my lord.”

He laughed, opening the front door. “Don’t forget to lock up behind me.” His laughter drifted back down the street as he strode toward Berkeley Square.

Petra shot the bolts on the door with almost vicious satisfaction and taking her cognac with her limped her way upstairs. Her bed was turned down, the gas lamp throwing a soft golden glow over the comfortable bedroom. She peeled off her ruined stockings, discarded her dress and petticoat and sat on the edge of the bathtub in the adjoining bathroom, turning on the hot tap, wriggling her toes under the soothing stream as she sipped the cognac.