Amanda McCabe by The Rules of Love Page A

you standing there.”
    “No. I can see that.” He moved closer to her stillin the shadows. The gold threads embroidered on his cream-colored waistcoat glinted in the candlelight. “I did not mean to startle you.”
    “Indeed? Then what are you doing here, Lord Morley, lurking in the shadows? I was under the impression that this was the direction to the ladies’ withdrawing room.” Or perhaps she had taken a wrong turn? There appeared to be no one about in this part of the house at all. Rosalind tried to draw in a deep breath, but her chest felt tight, constricted—and not from her light stays or silk chemise. It was from this man’s very presence. He made her feel unsure; he seemed to take up all the air in the narrow corridor.
    It was just because she loathed him, she told herself sternly. Because he was a wastrel, who squandered his life in shallow, careless ways.
    That was all it was. That was the only reason she felt her face burn, her fingertips and toes turn icy. She just wanted to be out of his presence.
    “I believe the withdrawing room is the other way,” he answered lightly, with a shrug of his wide, velvet-covered shoulders. “Yet I could not believe my eyes when I saw you in the ballroom. You are one of the last people I would expect to see here. I had to assure myself that it was you, Mrs. Chase.”
    He could not believe it because she was of such lowly station, perhaps? Rosalind frowned. She would have thought that men who flouted their position by writing poetry would not think of such things. But then, he
was
of the
ton
—she should not be amazed that he was like everyone else. She remembered the shifting of peoples’ gazes, the smirks, when they discovered she owned a school.
    She was past caring about all that now. She had always done what she had to do, to take care of herself and her family. Why, then, did it sting so when
he
implied as much?
    “Oh, Lord Morley?” she said, with a forced, careless little laugh. At least, she hoped it sounded careless.“And why is that? Because I am a mere schoolmistress?”
    He gave her a smile, a knowing grin that made her cheeks burn hotter. “Not at all. Because it seems as if Town would be too wicked for you, Mrs. Chase. Too full of temptations. Sins.”
    Temptations? Such as a pair of fathomless dark eyes that seemed to see into her very soul? A heady whiff of some citrus soap? Oh, yes. Apparently Town, or at least Lady Portman’s corridor, was full of those. She stepped back from him, until she felt the edge of a marble-topped table against her hips.
    He just took another step toward her, so close she could see the faint blue-black shadow of whiskers along his jawline.
    “It is not safe here, Mrs. Chase,” he said softly, tauntingly. “Not like it is behind the high walls of your school.”
    Rosalind’s gaze flickered past him to the painting on the wall, but she still sensed him there. Sensed his warmth. She did not see the indifferent seascape at all. “Ah, but Town has become much more civilized of late, has it not? Since people have found a source of manners, of good behavior.”
    “You mean
A Lady’s Rules
, do you not?” he said, with a rich chuckle. That sound seemed to vibrate deep inside of her. “Do you truly think of them as a simple guide to manners? A gentle suggestion of how to be—civilized?”
    She looked back to him, unable to break her gaze away from the velvet of his eyes. He watched her intently, leaning toward her, as if he truly cared about her answer. “Of course. What else could they be?”
    “Oh, now, I do not know. A way to keep people in line? To make them conform to someone else’s views of how things should be?” He leaned one hand against the wall, carelessly, as if he was not aware of his action. The soft fabric of his sleeve was near—so near—her neck, her bare shoulder.
    “C-conform?” she choked out. She tried to edge away from his arm, but the table blocked her path. “Conform to