Wild Heart by Lori Brighton Page A

her.
    “Do not play with your food. ’Tis not good manners,” she said.
    He dropped his fork with a clatter.
    “Now.” She straightened as a footman arrived with a new plate. “Pick up your fork. No…no, not that one.” She reached out and picked up another. “This one.”
    He sighed in frustration and tossed the fork aside. A plate of roast beef was set before them, the scent succulent. He took up the correct fork and knife in his fists.
    “A bit more gently. Like this.” She showed him how the silverware set softly on her hands.
    He tightened his fists like a child learning to eat. “Like this?” He goaded her, feeling ridiculous, yet amused.
    “No, no.” She stood and moved behind him, doing exactly what he’d hoped.
    With her arms around his shoulders, she slipped her hands over his and helped him grip the fork and knife properly. Her scent swirled through the air…sweet roses, the salt of the sea. He’d meant to tease her. Instead, she taunted him with her presence. Her soft breasts pressed into his back, and he gritted his teeth. He had the sudden and insane desire to grab her and pull her onto his lap for a kiss that would leave her shaking.
    “Right.” Her warm breath tickled the side of his neck.
    Lightning shot through his body, and his fingers tightened on the utensils. He’d never had to control himself around a woman. In India and Italy they’d eagerly come to his bed. But England was different, much different. He swallowed hard and ignored the deep throb of his groin.
    Ella stepped back. “Well then, I guess you have it.” Releasing a breath, she sat stiffly on the edge of her chair. “While at dinner, we should engage in polite conversation.”
    “Polite conversation?”
    “Yes, think you can manage?” she drawled out. Her eyes widened and she flushed. “Sorry.”
    He grinned, pleased with her reaction, and his hope returned. She tried so desperately to be proper. It was endearing, really. “Well then, what shall we talk about?”
    “The weather?” she asked.
    “How utterly exciting.”
    “Fine. Something more interesting? Who was that man?”
    Leo took a sip of wine. “What man?”
    “The one in the ballroom, who interrupted our…lesson.” She flushed bright red.
    “A friend.”
    “From India?”
    She had silver in her eyes. Flecks of silver that sparkled in the sunlight coming in through the windows. How had he not noticed that before? And her hair, was it golden, or brown? Perhaps a mixture of the two depending on the way the light hit the strands.
    “Leo?”
    He blinked. “What?”
    “I asked if your friend is from India.”
    “Why?”
    She shrugged, using a fork to toy with her food. “’Tis just that…well…my uncle…”
    Her uncle. Hadn’t she mentioned the man had disappeared in India?
    “Akshay would be much too young to know your uncle, and India is a very large country.”
    “Of course, I know that.” She lifted her chin. “Well then, we can discuss…artists?”
    He leaned back and watched her, his amusement growing. “Of course.”
    “Did you have formal training?”
    He sipped his wine. “A little in Italy.”
    “From what I’ve seen, your work is very…interesting.”
    He knew most people did not understand nor appreciate the angry splashes of color that consumed him in heated moments. He didn’t understand, only knew he needed to release the torment. She was obviously less than impressed with his ability. It didn’t matter; he’d never cared before how people responded to his art.
    “How do you find it?” The words slipped out before he could contain them, and he mentally cursed himself for asking.
    She looked directly at him. “Angry.”
    He averted his gaze, feeling the sudden urge to tug at his collar. He’d never expected a real answer out of her. No one else spoke the truth in this blasted house, why should she? He forced a laugh past his lips. “Angry?”
    “Yes. The slashes of bold colors. The way you paint. It’s always