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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
"Stay away," she said. "You started it. You . . . you tricked me into thinking you were leaving with the horses."
He nodded in agreement, and a blond lock of hair fell across his forehead. "That I did. I'll admit to that. But I would've never thought Miss Sarah Channing, the New York City debutante, would retaliate by tricking me in return. You do a very convincing fake groan of pain, Miss Debutante."
"All I had to do was imagine one of those men at the dance was stepping on my toes again in those hobnail boots," Sarah blurted.
Oh, my God! her mind said when his mention of her former status sunk in. She'd never done anything like this in her life, even when she was a child herself! What if some of her friends back in New York had seen her? She was acting like a scandalous lady of pleasure toying with her partner — just like the one she'd read about in the book her father would've burned if he'd found it under her mattress. She had to stop this.