“For the last three days, I’ve assumed you were making sport of me.” St. Clare’s brows snapped together. “I wasn’t. Nor would I ever.” “You say that, but—” “Miss Honeywell, if you don’t stop fidgeting with your gloves and look at me, I shall be compelled to take your hand and hold it in mine.” Her eyes shot to his. “You wouldn’t dare.” St. Clare was gratified to see the return of her temper. “Try me.”
