You know,β she said dreamily, passing over his question, βyouβre not nearly as handsome as Lord St.Vincent.β βThereβs a surprise,β he said dryly. βBut for some reason,β she continued, βI never want to kiss him the way I do you.β It was a good thing that she had closed her eyes, for if she had seen his expression, she might not have continued. βThere is something about you that makes me feel terribly wicked. You make me want to do shocking things. Maybe itβs because youβre so proper. Your necktie is never crooked, and your shoes are always shiny. And your shirts are so starchy. Sometimes when I look at you, I want to tear off all your buttons. Or set your trousers on fire.