Regency Rogues: Unlacing The Forbidden: Unlacing Lady Thea / Forbidden Jewel of India. Louise Allen
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      ‘It was instinct, I would never have used it on you.’ Thea jammed the pin back in and tried to sort out her emotions. Rhys had ruined her evening, had completely overreacted and had unsettled her to an alarming extent. But he had rescued her from the importunate rake and by doing so had spoiled his own evening. She supposed they were even.

      ‘You would not have had the chance,’ Rhys said, coming closer.

      ‘I do wish you would stop looming over me like that.’ They might be even, but she was having to hold on hard to her self-control. Rhys had meant to frighten her and, although she would die rather than admit it, he had succeeded and that was infuriating. And he had aroused feelings she simply did not want to acknowledge. ‘Oh, Lord, my new gown.’ She brushed at the skirts with all the force she could not apply to boxing his ears. ‘At least the ground is dry.’

      ‘If you allow me to walk you home in a ladylike manner, I will show you how to use your hatpin for self-defence without littering the streets of Paris with wounded admirers. Which does not mean,’ he added as they crossed the road behind the Louvre, ‘that I’ll tolerate you putting yourself in a position where you might need it again. Do you understand me?’

      ‘Yes, Rhys, thank you,’ Thea said, striving for meekness and managing to sound at least biddable, she supposed. The flare of temper had subsided, but her heart was hammering and her blood seemed to be singing in her veins. It was the same way she felt after a long, hard gallop across country, or when she heard a beautiful piece of music…and yet, different. She was restless, there was an ache inside. Reaction, she told herself. And physical desire. She discovered that she was, perversely, happy.

      ‘I am sorry about your singer,’ she said. She had promised not to interfere with his enjoyment, she recalled guiltily. ‘Is she nice?’

      ‘Nice?’ Rhys chuckled, amused, it seemed by the foolish word. ‘I have no idea. But she is very beautiful.’

      Of course. Beautiful. Thea felt the champagne fizz of happiness go flat. For a brief few moments, veiled, elegantly gowned, she had been fought over and pressed against a man’s body as though he lusted for her. But, of course, it was no such thing. Her old friend Rhys had simply been protecting plain, ordinary Thea who had got herself into a pickle and had taught her a hard lesson. The air of Paris must be a drug, making her think she wanted something that, of course, she did not desire in the slightest.

      ‘Here we are,’ she said as the lamps outside their hotel came into sight. ‘You must promise me you will not be angry with Hodge. It was all my fault.’

      And most of all, my pleasure.

      ‘Good morning!’ Thea sounded quite disgustingly cheerful as she went to the buffet to inspect the chafing dishes.

      Rhys scarcely glanced up as he rose to his feet, the French newspaper crumpled in his grasp, then sank back onto his chair to bury himself behind its pages. ‘Morning.’

      He was not good at mornings and especially not after a restless night filled with highly charged, and highly confusing, erotic dreams. For some reason the woman he had been chasing, futilely, had brown hair, not blonde, and as he reached for her over and over again he was shaken by feelings of unfamiliar guilt.

      In broad daylight the dreams blurred into a half-remembered, discomforting muddle that he was doing his best to forget. He had completely overreacted with Thea last night; he could see that now in the bright light of morning. He could have rescued her from the importunate stranger and packed the lot of them back in a hackney carriage and brought his own evening to its probable outcome. As it was, he found he could not regret the missed encounter, which was strange.

      His mood was not helped by Hodge, who started nervously every time Rhys spoke and obviously found it hard to believe that he was not about to be instantly dismissed for allowing Thea to go to the Palais Royale. As if the man had a hope of stopping her once she got an idea into her head.

      ‘More coffee, Rhys?’

      ‘Please.’ With half his attention he was conscious of her bustling about while he wrestled with smudged newsprint and colloquial French. A waft of fresh coffee, the clink of china, the rustle of fabric as Thea settled herself at the table, a faint drift of subtle rose scent.

      Rustling? Scented? Thea? Rhys folded the newssheet and laid it beside his plate so he could study her. The soft mouse-brown hair was gathered into a neat arrangement of plaits and pleats, her hazel eyes regarded him with slight wariness and small pearl earrings dangled from her lobes. Her face, which was developing a puzzled frown as he stared, was the familiar oval, unadorned by so much as a smudge of lamp black or a grain of rice powder.

      And yet…she was curiously soignée. The French word, one that he would never have thought of before in connection with Thea, swam up from somewhere and he realised it was perfect. She was groomed, elegant and perfectly…plain. If plain could be applied to the soft gleam of fine wool cloth, to the narrow edge of Brussels lace around the muslin fichu at her neck, the glow of the little pearls. Or creamy skin that was developing a blush as he stared.

      Under his scrutiny she shifted slightly and there was that soft rustle again—silk against linen, he guessed. Good Lord, what was she wearing under that elegantly simple morning gown?

      ‘You have been shopping,’ he accused. It was bad enough having to make conversation at breakfast without being confronted by a disturbingly different Thea.

      Thea rolled her eyes. ‘You know I have. You saw one of the evening gowns last night.’

      ‘I was in no mood to notice anything but your hatpin,’ he growled.

      ‘I left home with the smallest portmanteaux I could find and only two old gowns. I have bought two morning dresses, three walking dresses, two evening gowns, several pairs of shoes and all the, um…associated linen.’

      ‘Just linen?’

      A dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth, unfamiliar and utterly feminine. ‘You cannot believe the luxury of silk petticoats.’

      ‘No, I cannot,’ Rhys said repressively, as much to his own imagination as to her. ‘You look extremely…elegant.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Thea reached for the butter, apparently unflustered by the compliment. ‘I came to the conclusion when I first came out, and Stepmama was making such a fuss about my looks and figure and everything else, that frills and ornament do not suit me. I am never going to be pretty, but I knew I could achieve elegant if I put my mind to it. And I confess to loving luxury. Beautiful fabrics, well-made clothes, soft leather gloves and shoes, lovely scents and soaps…’ She gave a little wriggle of pleasure and applied herself to her omelette.

      ‘How did you find so much in only one day?’ How did you turn from a tomboy into such a feminine creature? But she is still plain, he argued with himself. No, she isn’t…exactly. He struggled to superimpose this elegant creature onto his image of Thea.

      ‘Ready-to-wear gowns seem to be much more easily obtained in Paris than in London. Not everything has been delivered yet—some had to be altered slightly—but I am not out of the common way in any dimension, which appears to help.’

      Rhys took a tactical mouthful of coffee to avoid any form of comment on Thea’s dimensions.

      ‘The СКАЧАТЬ