The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount by Julia London Page A

Phoebe grabbed up Jane’s gown and pulled it over her head. “I…I scarcely remember him at all.” That was really rather close to the truth—her father had died when she was only seven years of age.
    She buttoned the gown as best she could, but couldn’t reach the buttons in the middle of her back. It wouldn’t matter if she could, for her bosom was larger than Jane’s—substantially larger, by the look of it—and she doubted she could fit a button into its hole with a lever.
    “Are you dressed?”
    That question startled her because he was now standing just on the other side of the screen. “Ah…” She dropped her arms and looked down. The décolletage was far too tight for her—she was practically spilling out of the gown.
    “Are you coming out, Madame Dupree?”
    “It doesn’t fit,” she said, studying the décolletage of the gown. “Jane is smaller than I am.”
    “Allow me to see it—”
    “It really doesn’t fit—”
    “Are you indecent?”
    “No! But I really must—” She cried out with alarm when he suddenly pushed the screen aside, propped one arm on top of it, and brazenly studied her figure in the gown.
    “My lord!” she cried in protest. “I beg your pardon!”
    Summerfield ignored her. His gaze was devouring her, taking in every inch of her in that pale green gown. With a nod of approval, he finally stepped aside, motioning her forward.
    Phoebe didn’t move.
    “Come, come,” he said impatiently, gesturing for her to step forward.
    With one hand holding the gown together at her back, she marched forward and came to a halt in the middle of the workroom.
    “Yes,” he murmured, and walked a slow circle around her, taking in the gown from every conceivable angle while Phoebe’s face burned. When he at last moved around to stand before her, he looked into her eyes. “Beautiful,” he said. “A diamond of the first water.”
    He was not referring to the gown. Phoebe could feel the pressure of him again, his masculine energy filling the room, pressing down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe.
    “But I think there is one improvement that can be made when Jane wears it,” he added silkily.
    “This gown is perfectly made,” she said, lifting her chin. “What could possibly be improved?”
    “The bodice.” He casually touched his finger to the skin of her breast, just above the bias of the gown’s neckline, and traced a slow, tantalizing line across her flesh. “It is too low.”
    His touch made her feverish, but there was one thing Phoebe knew with all certainty—the décolletage of the gown was perfect. “It will fit Lady Jane properly, I assure you.”
    He gave her a lopsided smile. “It is too low,” he said again, and brushed his knuckles across the swell of her breasts. “When a man sees a beautiful woman in a gown cut as low as this, his eye is drawn to her flesh, and he is overcome with the urge to touch her.” He repeated his caress over her breasts again, but his eyes remained locked on hers. “That will not do for Jane.”
    Phoebe’s skin was sizzling and the pressure on her was unbearable. His touch was unlike anything she’d ever known—it branded her, left an indelible mark. She imagined his brown hand against the pale skin of her bare breast, his mouth on her nipple. Such thoughts normally would have disconcerted her, but for some inexplicable reason, they emboldened her—or rather, emboldened Madame Dupree, who had nothing to lose. Phoebe knew instinctively that if she did not stand up to his seduction, he would devour her like a confection.
    She smiled warily. “If a man is so overcome by the sight of skin, then I’d wager that man is not a gentleman and will not be in your sister’s company.”
    Summerfield gave her a roguish grin and casually stroked her flesh once more before fingering a curl of her hair at her sternum. “And what of your company? I’d wager you know that a gentleman is diffident with women…but that a man knows