The Runaway Countess by Leigh LaValle

escape plan in case Roane did not get to her first. And she needed to ensure that she stayed here at Giltbrook Hall. No matter how she despised being Lady Margaret, she would be no use to anyone if Harrington got his clutches on her. “Two months,” she countered.
    “Two weeks.” He raised his brows, his grey eyes glittering.
    “One month.” She squared her shoulders. Certainly she could find her opportunity to flee within that time.
    “One month. You will remain under my control, and do as I say.”
    She forced down her agitation, forced herself to nod. “Within reason.”
    He took a step toward her and she had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze. “I will establish a set of rules that you will abide by.” His tone brooked no dissent. “I cannot have you turning my estate upside down as you are wont to do.”
    Again, she moved her chin in a choppy up and down of reluctant agreement.
    “No one will know of this bargain. I will have to tell something to Harrington, but such decisions are mine alone. As far as everyone else is concerned, you were invited as a guest of Catherine.”
    “Yes, my lord.”
    He frowned at the sarcasm she did not bother to hide. “I repeat myself, you will speak nothing of this to anyone.”
    “Very well.”
    “And you will no longer seek to deceive me, either by artifice or by silence. I do not enjoy surprises, Lady Margaret . If I discover your continued duplicity, I shall consider our agreement forfeit and send you to Harrington.”
    “Agreed,” she acquiesced as if she had nothing to hide, though she felt as if she were seated atop a runaway horse. “Do we have a bargain?”
    “We do.”
    She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, binding her relief into a tiny ball that he would not see. “I am glad we could come to an understanding.”
    “Tomorrow we will ride out early.”
    “Of course.” She silently congratulated herself. She need only outwit him for four weeks and she would be free. Trent was a gentleman who loved to talk of honor. He could be trusted to uphold his side of the bargain. She, however, had no intention of keeping their agreement. What did that make her?
    Desperate.
    On ne fait pas d’omelette sans casser d’oeufs. One cannot make an omelet without breaking some eggs, her maman used to say.
    She inhaled with relief, only to feel the bite of stays against her skin. “Perhaps we can negotiate what it means to ‘dress as a lady’. I cannot abide this corset for an entire month.”
    His grey eyes darkened and he dropped his gaze to her décolletage. She blinked, flustered by her own words, flustered by his reaction. Her skin heated with embarrassment and something else, something that started as a heavy pulse and spread out like the hot fingers of the sun.
    “I-I have grown unaccustomed to them,” she stammered.
    What was he doing to her? Was this part of the game? She could not control it and thus did not like it.
    “You dress this way for your lover, do you not?” He reached out a hand, drew it back, then reached forward again as if he couldn’t help himself. Her stomach lifted in what should have been alarm, but truly was anticipation. With the merest of touches, his fingertips traced her collarbones. His gaze remained on the tops of her breasts where her corset pressed them up to be round and full. “You could entice a saint, Mazie, dressed like this.” He laughed, harsh. “But then the Midnight Rider is no saint.”
    She had no reply. She had no breath. She had no command over the trilling in her body.
    “Tell me about the man.” His hand slid up the column of her throat. He stepped even closer, cupped her chin and tilted her head back, captured her gaze. “Is he gentle with you? Is he kind when he touches you?”
    What game was this? Her feet were lost to her brain. She tried to shake off his hand but could not move her head. “He is gentle enough.” Her voice was a rasp.
    Something dark flared in his eyes. “Does he please