She stares at the viscount now, seated at her table, as if they have not met before. As if she did not see him riding at the helm of the caravan a month ago. As if he did not see her standing at the edge of the crowd, and follow her across the square and into the shadow of the church. As if she did not lure him there, feigning innocence as he cornered her, spilled praise at her feet and pressed to see what she might give. What he could take. As if he did not reach out and coil a lock of copper hair around his glove. As if she did not see the hunger in his eyes and know that she could use it.
