He told himself he hadn’t dressed to impress Lady Taffeta, that this was his usual style when he took out his high perched phaeton, but he knew in his heart it was a lie. When he had regarded himself in the long looking glass, he had wondered absently if she would like the way he looked. He caught the question in his head and immediately berated himself. What the devil are you doing? She was a chit—lass … a virgin, and all he could think about was getting her into his bed and driving himself into her in every imaginable position he had ever fantasized about. He was a cad. She was a child, playing at games she knew nothing about. She was an imp of a woman. He shouldn’t be thinking about her. He should visit Melody Conners and relieve himself of his raging and demanding constant need. These thoughts were driving him mad, and then there stood Mrs. Melody Conners at the curbing flagging him down. Should I stop? He had no choice. She was stepping into the street. He pulled up his greys and smiled.
