She should have slapped him but she was in shock at her own thoughts of lust that arose. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. That dress! Only a man—and an unworldly one—would have permitted you to proceed on your adventure dressed in a gown thirty years out of date. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. You must have repented a little, or you would not have done that. She sensed his acute frustration as he unzipped her raincoat while trying to kiss her. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. “I do wish you and your father could come to some agreement. I don't believe he is much past forty.
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