Avery summoned up every inch of control he possessed, thanked his hostess for a charming evening and strode out into the lobby. He looked down at his hands and willed them to stillness. He did not know what it was: fury at Laura Campion’s deceit and defiance, the urge to shake the breath out of her or sheer frustrated lust. All three, he supposed. Who the devil did he think he was punishing with that kiss? He was the one who was going to spend the night tossing and turning in frustration, not that deceitful, selfish woman. ‘Your hat and cloak, my lord. Shall I call your carriage?’ The footman waited impassively, too well trained to show that he found anything unusual about peers of the realm standing in the middle of the lobby eyeing their white-gloved hands and muttering. I’ll be a candidate for Bedlam if I carry on like this, Avery thought. ‘Thank you. I’ll walk. Find my driver and tell him to go home, would you?’ ‘My lord.’ The coins hardly chinked as the footman palmed them.
