Beauchamp — Florence Bowes

“She's not rich.” He sat down on the rumpled bed and pulled on short boots of fine brown leather. “Her uncle, David Douglas, is rich. Her father spent his inheritance living it up.” He grinned suddenly. “That's a man after my own heart!” His grin fades…He expertly smoothed the bedding as he talked, covering it with a brilliant tapestry throw and a toss of pillows.

“Maybe she'll inherit.” She sat very still watching his face.

“Not a chance. They have a daughter…rich little Kimberly. I haven't seen her for years. But she'll be her this summer…”

“Damn you, Brian!” She leaped out of the chair, fingers curled into claws. He caught both her wrist, making her cry out.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” he warned silkily. “The first time would be the last, I assure you. He released her and walked away. “Now be a good girl and get dressed. Lady Harrington will be here for her sitting and I don't want her to find a scantily-clad blonde.”

“Heaven forbid!” she mocked…As Sheila watched him pull the sweatshirt down over his muscular bare chest with its silken thatch of dark hair, her breath caught unevenly and she pressed herself against him, sliding one hand up under his shirt, the other up the firm swell of his throat and into the black curly hair at the nape of his neck. “Is she more beautiful than me? This Holly Douglas?”