““Moreover,' he mused relentlessly, 'I think that you'll be dreaming of me perhaps until the day you die.' She clapped her book shut then and stood abruptly. 'It was only,' she ground out, 'a kiss.' 'Was it?' He was laughing now. 'And moreover,' she all but growled, 'you, Lord Rawden, murmured my name rather feverishly into my throat, as I recall.' His smile disappeared. Good God, but a man didn't like to be reminded of the things he did or said in the heat of passion. She was a very good player. He eyed her somewhat cautiously. 'And you were breathing rather like a bellows,' she continued. 'Like a mating bull.' 'A mating bull?' Trust a country girl to arrive at this particular analogy.””
