“Lord Compton told me himself but three days ago. I called in Grosvenor Square. He showed me his antique book collection. He knows I have no money. No prospects. He assumes I’m weighing my options. Either you or…”

“Or him,” Gabriel concluded.

A shiver traced down Effie’s spine at the look in his eyes. She’d never seen him so angry. At his worst, he became cold and remote. But this…

This was something else.

“No more,” he said in a voice of perilous calm.

Her pulse skipped. “Gabriel, really—”

“No more chasing him. No more visiting his house and searching his rooms. I don’t want you within a mile of the man.” He caught her chin in his hand, compelling her to face him. His eyes burned into hers. “Do you understand me?”

A blush heated her face. She’d never been the subject of such hazardous intensity. Not even when he’d kissed her so passionately at Cremorne Gardens.

“Of course I do,” she said. “You’re attempting to order me about according to your whims. But I’m not finished with—”

“You’re finished,” he said.

Anger rose within her. She would have pulled her face away in outrage if he wasn’t holding her chin so firmly. “No,” she returned fiercely. “I’m not. Not until I’ve done what I set out to do.”

“And what am I meant to do?” he shot back. “If something were to happen to you—if Compton hurt you or that butler of his—”

“I can defend myself. No one is going to—”

“If either of them lay a hand on you, I’ll kill them.”

A thrill went through her. Good gracious, he meant it. He was prepared to dispatch anyone who dared touch her. It was overbearingly protective. Indeed, it bordered on primitive. She should be appalled by the notion. She was a strong, independent lady, fully capable of protecting herself. Even so…

“That’s very flattering,” she managed. “But you needn’t contemplate such a course.”

His thumb pressed her chin, still holding her fast. He looked into her eyes, more serious than she’d ever seen him. “I found you,” he said gruffly. “I’ve no intention of losing you.”

Her heart thumped heavily. “You won’t.”

“Then promise me that you’ll give up.”

Effie would have loved to set his mind at ease. To tell him she would cease pursuing Compton, and shun all risk of danger. But it wasn’t true. It wasn’t her.

“I can’t promise,” she said. “More depends on my success than the passage of a married women’s property bill. There’s Franc—our life together—our entire future. If I fail, I shall have no money for a home of our own.”

His eyes searched hers with sudden calculation. “She’s offered you money?”