Seduced by a Stranger by Silver Eve Page A

tea, she settled in the chair—a heavy mahogany affair that required the strength of both her hands to draw it from beneath the table. The warmth of the sun bathed her even through the glass panes as she began her meal. She had taken only a few bites when a faint sound from the doorway made her look up.
    Her heart slammed against her ribs.
    Gabriel St. Aubyn had returned. He stood framed in the doorway, dressed in a dark blue coat and white shirt, the cut and quality of which proclaimed his place in the world. The cost of that coat would probably feed a hundred hungry toddlers in St. Giles for a month.
    A slurry of thoughts swirled one into the next. Mrs. Bell’s oddly verbose behavior earlier undoubtedly had something to do with the baronet’s return. His sudden appearance made her certain that she had indeed seen a man step from the woods. This man? She thought so. But how had he gone from there to here with such speed? He was not disheveled or out of breath, so he could not have run, and the distance was too great for him to have traversed it at a leisurely pace and arrive here, in the doorway of the breakfast room, so quickly.
    “Good morning, Miss Weston,” he said, and offered a bland smile, his lips curved in perfect symmetry baring just a hint of white teeth. A welcoming and pleasant expression. She trusted it not at all.
    “Good morning, Sir Gabriel.” She kept her greeting crisp and brief.
    “Gabriel, or St. Aubyn if you prefer,” he said, echoing the words and tone he had used the day they took tea in Madeline’s chamber.
    He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself coffee. So here was the reason for its inclusion this morning. Apparently, Gabriel St. Aubyn preferred coffee to tea.
    His eyes met hers as he turned back, the morning light turning them more gold than amber brown, unutterably beautiful. She found his splendor disconcerting; she had no liking for attractive men. No, not so. She had no liking for men in general, least of all a confounding, enigmatic man who treated his own cousin with such shabby disregard. Though she had spent over a week in Madeline’s company, subtle prodding had not revealed the reason for the discord between the cousins, and Catherine had not wished to disturb Madeline by escalating gentle query to outright inquisition.
    St. Aubyn stared at a spot above her left shoulder, and she glanced up, wondering what it was he studied with such interest. The dust motes dancing in the sunlight?
    He set his coffee on the table.
    “Your trip was pleasant?” she inquired, and immediately realized she ought not to have bothered.
    His brows arched up and she caught a flicker of amusement as he turned away without offering a reply. She supposed that was a reply in itself. He deemed the topic purposeless and, hence, unworthy of discourse. It seemed that St. Aubyn was nothing if not consistent.
    Catherine took a bite of toast, chewed, swallowed, tasting nothing, her movements mechanical. She watched from the corner of her eye as he filled a plate.
    He moved back to the table, choosing the seat out of direct light, at right angles with hers, too close for her pleasure. The effort of an exchange of small talk with a man who refused to participate was an unappealing prospect. She would have preferred he seat himself at the far end, away from her, and that he read a newspaper while he ate, holding it up to form a wall between them.
    On the pretext of eating a meal she no longer desired, she looked down at her plate and sliced a bit of ham.
    “Why did you come here?” he asked with neither finesse nor veiled words. He wielded inquiry like a precisely honed blade.
    Catherine almost choked, managing to chew and swallow only by dint of will. Gathering herself, she decided to proceed in exactly the tone he set.
    “I was invited.”
    “Yes, of course. But I inquire about your motivations, your thoughts”—he paused, sipped his coffee, then finished in a low tone—“your desires.”
    His