Tall and broad of shoulder, Vincent Everett had one of those athletic-type bodies that could, if the man didn’t have a meticulous tailor, make him look stuffed into the current fashions. The baron’s tailor was obviously the meticulous sort, though, since he cut a fine, dashing figure instead, despite his excess in muscular limbs.

So much, the snow and his greatcoat had concealed from her last night. Black hair, not just black, but darkest pitch, angular cheeks, a strong, decisive chin, a narrow nose, features that fit together so perfectly, it was amazing just how handsome he was.

Still, that was only a small part of what had so rattled her. What had been most disturbing was those golden eyes of his that seemed to talk to her. Unfortunately, everything they said was naughty— Good God, how fanciful. He really had disturbed her beyond rational sense—yet his eyes did seem to be expressing things that weren’t proper. A mere trick of the light, no doubt. Certainly not intentional. He probably didn’t even know the impression his stare gave others. And it was probably her own heightened emotions that caused her to imagine more than what was really there.

What had been merely a simple business deal for him, just another boring financial transaction, had been a calamity for her in the loss of her home. She couldn’t help the antipathy she felt toward him for that. But that strong emotion was probably why everything else he made her feel was much more exaggerated.

As she’d eaten, she had had trouble swallowing each bite. There had been so much churning going on in the region of her belly that she had feared she was going to heave right back up what little food she got down. And yet he had continued to stare. Most rude. Most nerve-racking. Yet because he had done so nearly the entire time she was with him, she had to conclude it wasn’t deliberate, wasn’t meant to discompose her, was probably just a normal, if rude, habit. Perhaps even a business tactic he had perfected and now unconsciously used in every aspect of his life.

She had seen one merchant try such a tactic on her father once, staring pointedly at him in an effort to cause enough doubt that the price they were negotiating might be raised before verbal commitment was made. It hadn’t worked on her father, but it had been amusing to watch.

It took several knocks before the sound broke through Larissa’s troubled thoughts and she rose to open the door. Vincent Everett stood there. She had just been hoping that she might be able to avoid any more encounters with him while she was here, yet there he was. And standing so close that she could smell the musky scent of him, feel the heat that he radiated—or was that the heat of her own embarrassment?