She was no seraph. Pure devilment gleamed in the cerulean gaze locked with his.
Placing her gloved fingertip between her teeth, she glanced at him. Her lashes lowered and then swept up again. A lingering question lurked in her eyes.
Eve biting the apple.
He swallowed.
She tugged the tip of her glove free and then released it.
An indrawn breath lifted the swell of her bosom beneath her close-fitting gown. He imagined rose-tipped globes peaking to his touch.
His collar tightened. Sweat trickled down his spine.
Transfixed, he stared as she repeated the manoeuvre with each remaining slender finger. In all his years on the town, he’d never seen such wanton sensuality. Blood stirred and pulsed in his loins. He shifted, spreading his thighs to ease the burgeoning pressure.
Head tipped to one side, she focused her gaze on his mouth and licked her bottom lip with a moist, pink tongue.
An unendurable desire to echo that touch on his mouth, to trace the path of her glance, tingled his tongue.
As graceful as a ballet dancer and with agonising slowness, she drew off the glove, baring the white skin of her wrist, her knuckles, her slender fine-boned fingers.
Visions of white, naked flesh writhing beneath him shortened his breath. Sensations of silky skin, slick and wet and hot for him, closing around him as he drove them both to mindless bliss, tightened his groin. He fought the deep shimmer of pleasure.
She laid the wisp of black silk across the big cat’s tawny muzzle.
He curled his lip. A brazen wanton indeed.
He enjoyed the warmth of a willing woman, but had no need of a professional courtesan. And no matter how beautiful or sensual, he had no interest in a woman who had brought scandal to the name of Evernden.
A dimple appeared at the corner of her curving mouth.
Taste her. Caress her full lips with his mouth, duel with her moist, soft tongue and press her slender form hard against him. Take what she offered with brazen abandon. Here. Now. The words matched the rhythm of his pulsing blood.
Damn. This little witch wouldn’t play him for a fool as she had his dotard uncle. Lust never controlled him.
He slammed his glass amid the documents on the table, ignored the red stain spreading over the jumbled papers and folded his arms across his chest.
Seconds felt like minutes as, one finger at a time, she freed the other glove and slid it off. She ran the garment through her fingers, a torturous stroking of silk against bare skin. She dropped it beside its partner.
He remembered to breathe.
‘Mr Evernden.’ Her husky, accented voice caressed his skin the way a lioness rubbed in adoration against her mate. ‘I have a proposition for you.’
Yes, his body roared in feral triumph.
Chapter Two
Disgust roiled in his gut, both at his unprecedented lack of control and the thought of his ancient uncle with his hands on this delicate creature. ‘There is no proposal you could offer that would interest me, madam.’
Raising an eyebrow, she perused his person from heel to head, her gaze lingering on his chest before sliding up to meet his eyes. She smiled approval.
Molten lava coursed through his veins at the studied invitation.
Damn her impudence. Even the most audacious of the demi-monde made their desires known with more discretion. He didn’t deal in money for flesh. The few women with whom he’d established mutually enjoyable relationships preferred gifts of jewellery, subtle tokens of appreciation and respect.
A seductive sway to her hips, she drifted to the centre of the room, her modestly cut gown intriguingly at odds with her aura of raw sensuality.
Once more, her gaze rested on his mouth and she moistened her lush lips. ‘You sound quite sure of yourself.’
The only thing he knew for certain was his body’s demands in response to her blatant allure. He forced his expression to remain impassive. ‘We are discussing you, not me.’
She inclined her head to one side. ‘Really? What is it to be then, Mr Evernden? Not an orphanage, for I am too old. A parish workhouse, perhaps?’
Her husky, French-laced voice called to him like a siren’s song. He clenched his jaw.
Tapping one slender, oval-nailed finger against her rather determined chin, she nodded slowly. ‘You will take your uncle’s money and leave me to the tender mercies of the town.’
Bloody hell. She made him sound like a thief. Only he had no need of his uncle’s pitiful estate and no reason for guilt. He knew where his duty lay. It did not include taking his uncle’s bit of muslin home. ‘Nothing of the sort. You have to live somewhere suitable.’
Something hard and bright flashed in her eyes. Swept away by fair lashes, it was replaced by a mischievous gleam. ‘Anywhere except your home, of course.’
The deuce. Could she read minds? ‘Exactly.’
She dropped her bold stare to the floor and her imperfect top teeth nibbled her lower lip. ‘Excuse me, Mr Evernden. I do not wish to be at odds with you, but I do request a fair hearing before you reach a final decision.’
‘There is nothing to discuss.’
Her eyes flashed. ‘There is your family name.’
A lump of lead settled on Christopher’s chest. More scandal. His mother had enough misery to contend with as Garth debauched his way through life, without this female causing her anguish. ‘My family is nothing to do with you.’
She turned and picked up her gloves and hat. ‘Perhaps this is not the best place to discuss such a delicate matter.’
He followed the direction of her gaze around the cluttered, dirty room and shrugged.
‘We would occasion far less remark in my private apartments, once the other guests have departed,’ she urged.
Blast. He’d forgotten the reception. And Aunt Imogene. She would chew his ear off if she learned he’d been alone with this female. Not to mention what she would report to his poor, benighted mother. ‘Very well.’
‘I will ask the butler to bring you to my drawing room at the first possible opportunity.’
Christopher nodded.
Her hat clutched against her bosom, she peered out of the door, then slipped out.
Christopher raised his eyes to the smoke-grimed ceiling. He’d fallen into a madhouse.
He followed her into the hallway in time to see a swirl of black skirt disappear up the servants’ narrow staircase at the other end of the passage. At least she showed a modicum of decorum.
Christopher straightened his shoulders and sauntered back to the reception. The company had thinned in his absence and Tripp was nowhere to be seen. Nursing his wine, Christopher wandered over to the window and glanced out. A privet hedge bordered the lane leading to the wrought-iron gates at the end of the sweeping drive where a knot of coachmen smoked pipes and chatted at the head of the four waiting carriages. Beyond them, a down-at-heel fellow in a battered black hat perused the front of the house. A prospective buyer?
The ramshackle condition of the property would not attract a wealthy purchaser despite the magnificent view of alabaster cliffs, the English Channel and, on a rare fine day like today, the faint smudge of the French coast on the horizon. Small vessels, their white sails billowing, scurried towards Dover harbour behind the headland.