Luck Be a Lady by Meredith Duran Page A

Everleigh’s.
    The door opened quietly. Mr. O’Shea carried a bottle of wine in one hand, and two glasses in the other. Goodness. She looked away to hide her horrified smile—pray heaven he did not intend to make her enjoy this—and her gaze settled on the package she’d been carrying.
    â€œBottle of red,” came O’Shea’s voice. “Fresh from France. Will you take a glass?”
    Bottle of red? “I don’t know that varietal,” she said dryly. “At any rate, no, thank you. I no longer drink.” She ignored his snort. The last thing they required was another debate on her commitment to temperance. “Let’s get to this, shall we?” She picked up the packageand walked toward the only other door in the room—relieved, as she opened it, to discover that the bedroom was not nearly as lurid as she’d feared. The walls and bedsheets were brown silk, the pillows tasseled in gold. The dark carpet felt soft and thick beneath her feet. Her muddy boots would ruin it—but that was not her concern.
    A single branch of candles lit the small room, lending it a discomfortingly cozy quality.
    The creak of the floorboards announced O’Shea’s approach. A bolt of anxiety sizzled through her. She took a deep breath, willing the cold resolve to return as she ripped open the package. She had gone halfway across London to fetch it, wearing that bombazine veil, which was so thick that it all but blinded her.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    She flinched. He was speaking nearly at her ear. “A sheet.” She snapped it open; it billowed across the counterpane and settled, white as a field of snow.
    She frowned. It was not quite as plain as she’d liked. The white embroidery blended into the white cotton backing, but it still looked embarrassingly ornate. Against the dark coverlet, the single hole piercing the center of the sheet became disturbingly conspicuous.
    â€œWhat in . . .” O’Shea was staring at the sheet, his expression impossible to read.
    The blush burned through her like fire. She wanted only to shrink and hide. No. She would not give him that satisfaction. A curious anger swam through her, clipping her vowels. “You will make this quick, I trust.”
    He snorted, his attention still fixed on the sheet. “With that in the way? I hope so. Did you stitch it yourself?”
    â€œCertainly not.” She sat on the bed and began to unlace her boots. “I have no gift at domestic arts. There are certain religious communities that sell such paraphernalia.”
    â€œNot mine,” he said flatly.
    She glanced up, startled. “Are you religious, sir?”
    He met her eyes, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “Pity if I’m not. I’ve got the devil at my heels, all right.”
    She frowned as she pulled off her boots. “I will ask you not to object. It took me a great deal of trouble to procure that item.”
    â€œWould it matter if I did object?”
    She had enough wisdom not to answer that. But as she rose in her stocking feet to loosen the buttons at her neck, her fingers felt shaky.
    The sheet posed a problem. This candlelight, with its soft and flattering quality, seemed to cast a mocking romanticism over the scene. She would prefer darkness. But it would require light for him to locate the opening in the sheet.
    She gritted her teeth, then turned the dial in the wall. The lamps blazed to life.
    He winced, shielding his eyes with one hand. “Are we to shag in a spotlight, then?”
    The word was filthy and unfamiliar to her. She could guess at its meaning, though. “Does it make a difference? Now, please leave so I may undress and place myself beneath the sheet. I’ll call out when I’m prepared.”
    He gaped at her. There was something mildly diverting in the sight of Nicholas O’Shea, so plainly disconcerted. “And here I thought a gently bred virgin might like