A glance at her reflection in the cheval glass showed that her face and her figure remained unchanged. How could that be? she wondered, when she felt like a completely different person. Aware that her heart was still thumping erratically, she slowly drew in several deep breaths and tried to calm its beat. No wonder the poets waxed ecstatic when they composed odes about physical love. The sensations were wildly wonderful—though lightning might strike her down for daring to think such wicked thoughts. “I don’t regret it,” she whispered defiantly. No matter that Polite Society would brand her a harlot if they knew what she had done. And perhaps they would be right. The blame did not lie with Davenport, conceded Anna. She had thrown herself at him, thinking it oh-so clever to use a show of sultry flirtation to tease him into revealing his secret. Instead, the rascally rogue had taken her seductive strategy and turned it to his own advantage.
