Love Not a Rebel by Heather Graham

friends. The dream was too real, and so she looked on to the entryway.
    A man was just entering, handing his gloves and hat to Harrington, smiling and offering the man a word.
    Suddenly he looked up, just as if he had sensed that she was there. She discovered his eyes upon hers.
    Just as she had imagined …
    Except that the man was not Lord Robert Tarryton.
    It was her nemesis—Lord Eric Cameron.
    God! What right did he have to be there? In her very house? Yet she stared at him, unable to draw her gaze from his.
    His hair seemed very dark, almost black that night. He had not worn a wig and he had not bothered to powder it. He seemed exceptionally tall, towering in the doorway.His eyes, she thought, were even darker than before, indigo blue, with just that touch of taunting silver. He was dressed fashionably enough in a frock coat of royal blue, and white laced shirt, and breeches in a light-blue silk. His hose was white, and his shoes were adorned with silver buckles. Somehow he still didn’t look quite civilized. Perhaps it was the way he wore his hair, defying fashion. Perhaps it was the structure of his face. He was tanned, as if he spent much time outdoors, and his features were bold and strong, his cheekbones were high and his chin was quite firm and squared. His mouth was full and wide, and as his eyes met hers, she thought that perhaps his very smile gave him the look of something just a bit savage, for his lip curved with a slow and leisurely ease that caused little shivers to race down her spine.
    She realized that her hand had fluttered to her throat, and then she decided angrily that it was his eyes that gave him such an uncivilized appearance, for they danced then with startling silver humor as if he knew that he had somehow affected her, somehow caused her breath to catch. And she couldn’t even seem to look away from him.
    And neither did he look away from her.
    Eric Cameron stood in the entry and stared up at the girl, his hostess, and he was both amused and entranced.
    He saw in her eyes the same little vixen with the dark red hair and emerald eyes who had bit him with such certainty and vengeance all those years ago.
    He almost pitied Lord Tarryton, if the man hadn’t made sure to tell her the truth as yet. Eric had heard word from the governor himself that if Tarryton had not jumped with joy at the prospect of the young duchess, he had been quick to covet the title and property that came with her. Yet from the look of Amanda this evening, he surmised that she did not know. She had dressed to entrance a lover, but the excitement in her eyes was a greater attraction than any lace or velvet could create. Eric thought that she might well be aware of her femininity and her assets, she had confidence, but he wondered if she knew just how beautiful she was, standing upon the landing, her fingers trailing delicately over the bannister and brought softlyagainst her throat. She was a woman of medium height, but so slim and delicate that she appeared somewhat taller than she really was. Her neck was long and graceful, and her breasts rose provocatively high and round against the embroidered bodice of her white gown.
    Her hair was truly her glory that night. It was flame and it was dark, a deep auburn that framed the ivory of her perfect complexion, in ripples and waves. It was caught high above one ear with a golden comb just to tumble and cascade over the opposite shoulder like a deep burning fire.
    Everything about her that night was glorious. Her beauty was startling. Her face was such a fine oval, like something exquisitely carved. Her cheeks just now burned with a touch of pink. Her eyes were deep green, like the land at its most verdant, Eric thought. He smiled slowly. Flame hair, green eyes. And though she stood motionless, he felt her vitality. She would fight, he thought, for what she wanted.
    She raised her chin slightly. She was determined to look away. Her will had not lessened a bit, nor, it seemed,