miracle of a mouth, the mouth that tasted like heaven, curved into a wry smile. “Good night, sir.”
She bobbed a brief curtsy, then fled before he caught her.
Chapter Nine
L eath’s eyes were the color of a stormy sky.
Such a trivial fact for Nell to dwell upon, but easier than recalling how she’d teetered on the brink of disaster. When he’d risen above her on the bed, eyes of astonishing beauty had transfixed her. Not brown as she’d expected, but steel gray with a charcoal line around the irises, shadowed to mystery by sooty eyelashes. She was surprised she’d noticed so much with him lying between her legs, lifting her skirts.
Now the morning after tasted bitter, and she cringed at her unbridled behavior. Shame churned in her stomach as she approached the marchioness’s rooms. Lord Leath had seduced Dorothy. How could Nell kiss the brute with such enthusiasm? How could she let him touch her in ways no man had touched her before?
Dorothy had entrusted her vengeance to an unworthy instrument.
But since fleeing Leath, doubts about his guilt had tortured Nell. He’d spoken of his principles before and she’d dismissed him as a hypocrite.
Then last night…
Leaning one hand against the wall, she gulped and faltered to a stop. She struggled to get her breath back against the dizzying recollection of those big strong arms wrapping around her.
Until that last squeak of self-preservation, when he’d been so appallingly close to taking her, she’d been mad for him. She’d loved everything he’d done. The kisses. The caresses. The murmured praise and encouragement. The heat. The intimacy.
What she knew about this man should disgust and terrify her. He’d bedded women all over England. He’d come close to bedding her. She shivered to remember that hard, insistent weight pressing between her thighs. Yet he’d stopped when she asked, and she couldn’t mistake how he’d repented his loss of control.
When a woman lay at his mercy, what sort of rake let her escape unscathed? Nothing from last night fitted what she knew, except perhaps how the marquess attracted her like a magnet drew iron.
Was Dorothy mistaken about her seducer’s identity? Why would she blame her fall on Lord Leath if he wasn’t responsible?
And there was the inarguable fact that someone had seduced Dorothy.
Now what became of Nell’s quest once the marquess proclaimed her a lightskirt? Could she convince the Duke of Sedgemoor of Leath’s misdeeds with only Dorothy’s last words as proof? Especially when Nell’s own belief in his crimes wavered with every new day. She had a horrible feeling that Sedgemoor would dismiss her accusations as mere fancy.
Fate must decide.
She raised her chin and marched toward her ladyship’s apartments, only to halt in the doorway on a betraying gasp when she saw Leath with his mother. For one searing moment, his gaze met hers. That sizzling contact transported her back to those torrid moments in his bed. Then he glanced away and continued discussing Lady Sophie’s latest letter.
“Nell, you’ll enjoy this. Sophie is redecorating the manor at Gadsden in the gothic style.” The marchioness waved Nell toward her usual chair near the chaise longue. A chair beside the marquess’s.
After last night, Nell couldn’t bear to be so close to him. She retreated to the window seat. “How lovely, your ladyship.”
The marchioness continued reading, but although Lady Sophie was an entertaining correspondent, Nell couldn’t concentrate. She stared out to the dismal day. Rain pounded on the glass and wind lashed the trees against skies as gray as Leath’s eyes. When his lordship terminated her employment, would she have to travel in this miserable weather? Would a carriage take her to the nearest coaching inn, or would he make her trudge through the storm?
“Nell?” the marchioness said.
“I’m sorry, your ladyship,” she said quickly.
She hadn’t heard a word of the letter, although
She bobbed a brief curtsy, then fled before he caught her.
Chapter Nine
L eath’s eyes were the color of a stormy sky.
Such a trivial fact for Nell to dwell upon, but easier than recalling how she’d teetered on the brink of disaster. When he’d risen above her on the bed, eyes of astonishing beauty had transfixed her. Not brown as she’d expected, but steel gray with a charcoal line around the irises, shadowed to mystery by sooty eyelashes. She was surprised she’d noticed so much with him lying between her legs, lifting her skirts.
Now the morning after tasted bitter, and she cringed at her unbridled behavior. Shame churned in her stomach as she approached the marchioness’s rooms. Lord Leath had seduced Dorothy. How could Nell kiss the brute with such enthusiasm? How could she let him touch her in ways no man had touched her before?
Dorothy had entrusted her vengeance to an unworthy instrument.
But since fleeing Leath, doubts about his guilt had tortured Nell. He’d spoken of his principles before and she’d dismissed him as a hypocrite.
Then last night…
Leaning one hand against the wall, she gulped and faltered to a stop. She struggled to get her breath back against the dizzying recollection of those big strong arms wrapping around her.
Until that last squeak of self-preservation, when he’d been so appallingly close to taking her, she’d been mad for him. She’d loved everything he’d done. The kisses. The caresses. The murmured praise and encouragement. The heat. The intimacy.
What she knew about this man should disgust and terrify her. He’d bedded women all over England. He’d come close to bedding her. She shivered to remember that hard, insistent weight pressing between her thighs. Yet he’d stopped when she asked, and she couldn’t mistake how he’d repented his loss of control.
When a woman lay at his mercy, what sort of rake let her escape unscathed? Nothing from last night fitted what she knew, except perhaps how the marquess attracted her like a magnet drew iron.
Was Dorothy mistaken about her seducer’s identity? Why would she blame her fall on Lord Leath if he wasn’t responsible?
And there was the inarguable fact that someone had seduced Dorothy.
Now what became of Nell’s quest once the marquess proclaimed her a lightskirt? Could she convince the Duke of Sedgemoor of Leath’s misdeeds with only Dorothy’s last words as proof? Especially when Nell’s own belief in his crimes wavered with every new day. She had a horrible feeling that Sedgemoor would dismiss her accusations as mere fancy.
Fate must decide.
She raised her chin and marched toward her ladyship’s apartments, only to halt in the doorway on a betraying gasp when she saw Leath with his mother. For one searing moment, his gaze met hers. That sizzling contact transported her back to those torrid moments in his bed. Then he glanced away and continued discussing Lady Sophie’s latest letter.
“Nell, you’ll enjoy this. Sophie is redecorating the manor at Gadsden in the gothic style.” The marchioness waved Nell toward her usual chair near the chaise longue. A chair beside the marquess’s.
After last night, Nell couldn’t bear to be so close to him. She retreated to the window seat. “How lovely, your ladyship.”
The marchioness continued reading, but although Lady Sophie was an entertaining correspondent, Nell couldn’t concentrate. She stared out to the dismal day. Rain pounded on the glass and wind lashed the trees against skies as gray as Leath’s eyes. When his lordship terminated her employment, would she have to travel in this miserable weather? Would a carriage take her to the nearest coaching inn, or would he make her trudge through the storm?
“Nell?” the marchioness said.
“I’m sorry, your ladyship,” she said quickly.
She hadn’t heard a word of the letter, although
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