He lifted a hand in an annoyed gesture, as if to bat away an insect.

Beatrix moved toward him cautiously.

“Don’t,” came his sharp rebuke. “Don’t come close. Don’t say anything. Just leave.”

“Why?”

He gave an impatient shake of his head. “Whatever words would make you go, consider them said.”

“And if I don’t?”

His eyes were devil-bright, his face hard. “Then I’ll drag you to this bed and force myself on you.”

Beatrix didn’t believe that for a second. But it revealed the extremity of his torment, that he would threaten such a thing. Giving him a patently skeptical glance, she said, “You’re too drunk to catch me.”

She was startled by a burst of movement.

Christopher reached her, fast as a leopard, and slammed his palms on the door on either side of her head. His voice was harsh and low. “I’m not as drunk as I look.”

Beatrix had raised her arms reflexively, crossing them over her face. She had to remind herself to start breathing again. The problem was, once she resumed, she couldn’t control her lungs, which were working as if she had run miles. Faced with a hard wall of masculine flesh, she could almost feel the heat of his skin.

“Are you afraid of me now?” he asked.

She gave a slight shake of her head, her eyes huge.

“You should be.”

Beatrix started as she felt his hand glide from her waist to the side of her ribs in an insolent caress. His breathing deepened as he discovered that she wasn’t wearing a corset. His palm moved slowly over her natural shape.

Christopher’s lashes half lowered, and his color heightened as he stared at her. His hand came to her breast, lightly shaping the roundness. Beatrix felt her legs threaten to give out beneath her. His thumb and forefinger caught at the rising tip and squeezed gently.

“Last chance,” he said in guttural voice. “Get out, or get in my bed.”

“Is there a third option?” Beatrix asked weakly, her breast throbbing beneath his touch.

For answer, Christopher picked her up with stunning ease and carried her to the bed. She was tossed to the mattress. Before she could move, he had straddled her, all that sleek golden power poised above her.

“Wait,” Beatrix said. “Before you force yourself on me, I would like to have five minutes of rational conversation. Only five. Surely that’s not too much to ask.”

His eyes were pitiless. “If you wanted rational conversation, you should have gone to another man. Your Mr. Chittering.”

“Chickering,” Beatrix said, squirming beneath him. “And he’s not mine, and—” She swatted his hand away as he touched her breast again. “Stop that. I just want to—” Undeterred, he had gone for the button placket of her shirt. She scowled in exasperation. “All right, then,” she snapped, “do as you please! Perhaps afterward we could manage a coherent discussion.” Twisting beneath him, she flopped onto her stomach.

Christopher went still. After a long hesitation, she heard him ask in a far more normal voice, “What are you doing?”

“I’m making it easier for you,” came her defiant reply. “Go on, start ravishing.”

Another silence. Then, “Why are you facing downward?”

“Because that’s how it’s done.” Beatrix twisted to look at him over her shoulder. A twinge of uncertainty caused her to ask, “Isn’t it?”

His face was blank. “Has no one ever told you?”

“No, but I’ve read about it.”

Christopher rolled off her, relieving her of his weight. He wore an odd expression as he asked, “From what books?”

“Veterinary manuals. And of course, I’ve observed the squirrels in springtime, and farm animals and—”

She was interrupted as Christopher cleared his throat loudly, and again. Darting a confused glance at him, she realized that he was trying to choke back amusement.

Beatrix began to feel indignant. Her first time in a bed with a man, and he was laughing.

“Look here,” she said in a businesslike manner, “I’ve read about the mating habits of over two dozen species, and with the exception of snails, whose genitalia is on their necks, they all—” She broke off and frowned. “Why are you laughing at me?

Christopher had collapsed, overcome with hilarity. As he lifted his head and saw her affronted expression, he struggled manfully with another outburst. “Beatrix. I’m . . . I’m not laughing at you.”

“You are!”

“No I’m not. It’s just . . .” He swiped a tear from the corner of his eye, and a few more chuckles escaped. “Squirrels . . .”

“Well, it may be humorous to you, but it’s a very serious matter to the squirrels.”

That set him off again. In a display of rank insensitivity to the reproductive rights of small mammals, Christopher had buried his face in a pillow, his shoulders shaking.

“What is so amusing about fornicating squirrels?” Beatrix asked irritably.

By this time he had gone into near apoplexy. “No more,” he gasped. “Please.”

“I gather it’s not the same for people,” Beatrix said with great dignity, inwardly mortified. “They don’t go about it the same way that animals do?”

Fighting to control himself, Christopher rolled to face her. His eyes were brilliant with unspent laughter. “Yes. No. That is, they do, but . . .”