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Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him. Rage flooded her at his intent, but she controlled it. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. ‘But if you must fight so furiously, I don’t see how I can promise not to do it again. Capes became rigid and adhesive. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands.
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