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A line of hot desire raced from Anthony's fingertips, up the length of his arms and down his spine...
There was something vibrant and enticing about her. Her movements were spontaneous, not forced. She was so different from the lifeless ladies he'd been forced to dance with lately.
And, devil take it! She was Lily Kennyon. Little Lily Kennyon, whom he'd carried to the manor when she was three and had scraped her knee at one of his mother's garden parties. Who used to chase frogs and put them under her sister's pillow at night and pay the devil for it in the morning.
Apparently she still courted trouble. What had he been thinking to engage her in a dance? According to Hartwell, she'd quite a scandalous past.
But the pain in Lily's eyes when the countess had insulted her had crippled him. He hadn't seen her in eight years, yet he still felt the need to come to her rescue.
Although, as his hand held hers and his temperature rose, he thought perhaps he was the one who needed rescuing.
"You don't have to do this," she said. "We're not children anymore. I can take care of myself."
"It would appear that I do." He twirled her. "Seems your fondness for causing havoc hasn't diminished with time."