“Please forgive me,” she said, smiling. “I should not have picked your mistletoe without permission, but as you are a friend of my father –” “Who is your father?” he demanded curtly, not allowing her to finish. “Lord Hatton. I believed we are to have the pleasure of your company at dinner soon.” A change came over Lord Westbridge’s face. Temper vanished, replaced by pleasure, but it was a sly, distasteful kind of pleasure that made Louisa uneasy. He swung himself down from his horse. “So you are the Hatton filly, eh?” he grunted. “People told me you were pretty.” With insolent assurance he took her chin between his fingers and studied her. “They weren’t lying.” Disgusted, she only just resisted the temptation to jerk away. This kind of compliment was not at all to her taste, even if he had not breached all the rules of manners by touching her.
