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She was herself, and it had never bothered her before, but now she found herself wishing she earing the enta taffeta she’d seen in York lastparasol and slippers The preposterous i in the rain on the moors, made her smile

His gaze was roaht, when I was trapped in the ht I was drea of you, but I see noasn’t you”

Francesca stiffened “I’s!”

He realized he’d insulted her, and shook his head impatiently “But you do That is my point”

“I do?”

“My ‘feverish is’—I do like your turn of phrase—didn’t do you justice I can see that now Who needs blue eyes and a perfect nose and—” He stopped hastily “You are my dream”

“I think you rily “I don’t even know your name!”

“Sebastian Thorne” He bowed like a gentleman “From London”

“Then, Mr Thorne, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else” Her voice was chilly and formal, her “proper” voice “I am Miss Francesca Greentree, of Greentree Manor And I do not make appearances in men’s dreams, especially not yours!”

He was staring at her blankly And then, slowly, his dark eyes lit up with an unholy aain

“Miss Greentree,” he repeated “Miss Francesca Greentree I feel as if I know you already”

Chapter 3

The wo hiht He ondering about it hihter—and although he hadn’t known that at first, he did now It made no difference Just as it made no difference that she wasn’t strictly the woman of his dreams Her hair was too curly and unrestrained, her eyes were brown and not blue, her nose was tip-tilted, and her ht But none of that mattered

He wanted her

Wanted her with a feverish single-mindedness he usually reserved only for his prey Perhaps he had lost his ht in the mire? Death had breathed upon him and left him with an unquenchable thirst for life And Miss Francesca Greentree was life