The realization that he was the very last person she wished to be there-within ten miles or even more of there-slammed through her and shook her to her toes.

“Well, it is. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get some sleep.” Lifting the latch, she pushed open the door, went in, and shut it.

Tried to. The door stopped four inches short of the jamb.

She pushed, then sighed. Deeply. She dropped her forehead against the door. Compared to him, she was still a squib; her senses informed her he had only one palm against the door’s other side.

“All right!” Stepping away, she flung her hands in the air. “Be difficult then.” She uttered the words through clenched teeth. Tired as she was, her hold on her temper was tenuous-that, she knew, was the very worst state to be in when forced to deal with Charles Maximillian Geoffre St. Austell.

Stalking across the room, she pulled off her hat, then sat on the side of the bed. From under lowered brows, she watched as he entered. Leaving the door ajar, he located her, then scanned the room.

He saw her brushes on the dresser, glanced at the armoire, noting the pair of half boots she’d left under it, then he looked at the bed, confirming it was made up. All in the time it took him to prowl, long-legged, arrogantly assured, to the armchair before the window. His gaze returning to her, he sat. Not that that word adequately described the motion; he was all fluid grace somehow arranging long, muscled limbs into an inherently masculine, innately elegant sprawl.

His black hair grew in heavy loose curls; presently neatly cropped, the thick locks framed his face. A harsh-featured, aristocratic face with dramatically arched black brows over large, deep-set eyes, strong, sculpted nose and jaw, and lips she didn’t need to dwell on.