Violet Fire by Brenda Joyce

would see in her eyes if it were lighter out. Anger? Apprehension? Excitement? His own body had begun a slow, delicious, steady throb. Damn. He wanted this woman. Of all women, he wanted her.
    â€œCome here,” he said softly.
    She didn’t move.
    He smiled, a flashing of white in the darkness. “Then I’ll come to you,” he whispered. He moved forward slowly, four easy strides, until he was standing an inch away from her. She looked up.
    Oh Gracie, he thought, if you relax you’ll like it.
    Oh dear Lord, she thought, I just cannot believe I’m doing this.
    Her eyes were dark liquid pools, at once anxious and angry. They glittered. He wanted to see them glaze with desire—with desire for him. “Don’t be mad at me,” he whispered. “It’s your charms that are at fault.” His voice was a soft, heavy caress. “I can’t seem to help myself.”
    â€œMy charms?” she said sarcastically. “Oh no, Mr. Bragg, I think it’s your rutting proclivities that are entirely to blame.”
    His eyes widened with shock.
    Hers narrowed with triumph.
    â€œGrace,” he managed, “you do have a way with words.”
    â€œIs the truth too much to bear?” she asked, too sweetly.
    â€œWhy don’t we test my rutting proclivities,” he said grimly.
    She stepped back.
    He stepped forward.
    â€œI’ve changed my mind,” she gasped.
    â€œToo late.” His hands closed over her shoulders.
    â€œThen just get it over with,” she snapped. But a tremble swept over her.
    He winced at her reaction and with his fingers spread, began kneading her muscles softly. “I know you’re not cold,” he murmured, his blood thickening deliciously inhis groin. He heard her breathe and felt her body stiffen. “Relax,” he whispered. “This is supposed to be pleasurable.” His voice was very husky. “Give me a chance. Let me show you just how good this can be.”
    â€œI detest you and what you stand for,” she said, choking on a sob.
    Rathe froze at that particularly female sound of anguish. For some insane reason, he thought of Lucilla, the fifteen-year-old he had deflowered when he was a boy. Unlike Grace, she had wanted him as much as he had wanted her. Grace was trembling beneath his touch. Rathe suddenly hated himself and his lust. He removed his hands. “I guess I’m more of a gentleman than either of us thought. You have my silence,” he said with heavy disappointment.
    He turned abruptly and left.
    Â 
    Allen arrived promptly at nine as they had arranged. He swung down from the buggy, beaming, dressed in his Sunday suit. “Grace! I’ve been looking forward to this all week!”
    Grace hurried to him with a fond smile, genuinely glad to see him. Although her first week was shorter than normal because she had arrived on a Tuesday, she was already exhausted emotionally. The girls had begun to settle down and were improving both their literary skills and their manners, to her relief. But there was the constant strain of teaching Geoffrey on the sly and of worrying about that scoundrel, Rathe Bragg, knowing her past. He hadn’t appeared again since the night he had almost kissed her, which suited her just fine. So it came as something of a surprise, when Allen drew back after pressing his lips to her cheek, to see him sitting on his stallion, staring with what distinctly looked like a frown. Their gazes met, and Grace was angry with herself for blushing as if she were guilty of some trespass.
    She clearly remembered the promise in the tone of his voice when he had been about to kiss her—and the obvious disappointment when he had not. She herself had stoodfrozen, watching him disappear with long, hard strides, unable to believe that he had changed his mind, that he had actually done the right thing. She had felt a wave of triumph, but it was mingled with regret. The salute he had