Effie’s fingers curled on the edge of the desktop behind her. It had nothing to do with physical anxiety. Even if he had meant her harm, she wasn’t without resource. A swift knee to the nether regions or a solid punch to the throat would have dispatched him in a moment. But she had no interest in causing a scene. Not if she could extricate herself by other means.

She demurely dropped her eyes, throwing in an anxious flutter of her lashes and a slight tremble of her lips for good measure. “You’re frightening me, Mr. Royce.”

“And yet you haven’t gone pale. Your breath is steady.” Lifting a hand, he brushed his knuckles very deliberately over the curve of her throat. “So is the beat of your heart.”

Effie felt his bold caress like a thunderbolt. Heat shot through her midsection, pooling in her belly with a hazardous simmer. Her gaze jolted back to his.

She was no stranger to the game of flirtation. During her time in Paris, many men had attempted to woo her with sweet words and kisses. But this was different. Mr. Royce was no courtly French gentleman. His touch wasn’t sweet. It was incendiary.

His knuckles lingered, a scorching brand at the pulse of her throat. “Though it’s not quite as steady now, is it?” he added smugly.

Effie kept her countenance through pure strength of will. Her heart might be thumping like the dickens, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the rest of her melt into a puddle of treacle.

Holding his gaze, she removed his hand from her throat with the same deliberation with which he’d put it there. She pressed her bare fingertips to the inside of his equally bare wrist. His pulse surged beneath her touch. “Refresh my memory, Mr. Royce,” she said. “What is it that they say about people in glass houses?”

He made no effort to extricate his large hand from her grasp. “Shall we compare racing pulses, Miss Flite?”

Effie detected a hint of mockery in his deep voice. It was as effective as a dash of cold water. She released him. “You forget yourself.”

“Do I?”

“Outrageously so. Is it your habit to insult ladies of brief acquaintance with your forwardness? Or am I to believe I’m a special case?”

He set his hands on the desktop on either side of her. “I’m not sure what you are yet, Miss Flite. But make no mistake, I mean to find out.”

“What I am, sir, is a gently bred young lady, here as Lord Compton’s guest.”

“A gently bred lady who enjoys picking the locks of her host’s desk? A lady who didn’t run screaming the moment I revealed myself?”

“Perhaps I shall scream now.”

“You won’t.”

“Perhaps,” she said levelly, “I shall knock you down.”