Hot Silk. Sharon Page

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СКАЧАТЬ hoped to relax her by making her laugh but she threw up her hands, which made her bodice gape. He caught a glimpse of lush ivory curves with a deep shadowed valley between. His throat dried and his blood rushed down to his cock, making it instantly as hard as iron.

      “I don’t want due respect!” she cried. “Nor do I want to be an anonymous ‘love’. I want—Oh, this is ridiculous. What does it matter what you call me? I can imagine what everyone else will call me.”

      With that, she turned and began to clomp up the stairs.

      “A little quieter, Miss Hamilton,” he advised, though he hated quenching her spirited anger. It was just what she needed—the best remedy for humiliation. “A little discretion will keep our secret a secret.”

      “I don’t understand,” she whispered ahead, to the dark and the cobwebs. “Why would you help me?”

      “I might be a highwayman, but there are certain things I do not steal.”

      “Like a woman’s virtue?” Disbelief rang in her voice.

      “Like a woman’s heart. Now tell me your story. All of it.”

      When it began with, “I should have known better—”, he growled, and she tried again.

      “Lord Wesley has pursued me for a week. He’s found ways to get me alone, to be suggestive. I knew he desired me, and I…I cared for him. I should have known that lust might not mean his heart was engaged, of course!” She turned, as though to ensure he was not laughing at her. He was not. And he never would. His heart hurt for her.

      “I would not have let him…well, I was not going to meet him after all. I knew I should not. But he found me, and he told me he wanted to marry me. He asked me what my answer was. And I said yes! And then, it seemed so right to…well, to…I should have known better.”

      “And waited until he put a ring on your finger to discover he’s a piece of shit? Far better you find out now.”

      She gasped. “It wouldn’t have come to that. He never intended to—”

      “Stop interrupting my attempt to make the appropriate point, Miss Hamilton. The mistake isn’t yours. It’s his. Now let us get you to your room and I’ll take care of his bloody lordship.”

      She stopped on the stair and turned again, brow furrowed with worry. “What do you intend to do?”

      “I will ensure they do not ruin you. I can ensure this is kept a secret. I promise you that.”

      “Why would you do that for me? When it’s my own fault.”

      “It isn’t your fault. You’re human. You believed a blackguard.”

      She sagged against the banister. “I’ve ruined everything. I can’t marry. I—”

      “There are men who aren’t so worried about having a virgin. They’d rather have a woman they enjoy spending time with. They’d rather have love. Now, which is your bedroom?”

      That startled her, but she dutifully answered. “The green room. It overlooks the west pond.”

      “It’s at the end of this hallway, then.” He urged her up to the landing, knowing he should open the door and let her go. But he bent over her hand, pressing his lips to her fingers, just a brush, and then he rose. “You gave your heart. It is and always will be the most precious gift.”

      “One I gave to the wrong man.” She gave a laugh, a soft, wild laugh. “I gave my innocence to the wrong man.”

      She was vulnerable now. And enticing, even in the faint light glimmering in from the hallway, even when surrounded by creaky wood framing and a few centuries of dust. She was pink and gold, the sort of treasure that tempted men to madness. He’d faced down pistols, but it took all the courage he had to abruptly turn her by her slim shoulders. To not take advantage and press his mouth to those soft pink lips.

      “Slip out into the hallway and go to bed, Miss Hamilton. Bathe yourself, slip into your warmed silky sheets—” He almost stumbled over that image. “Close your eyes and sleep, love.” He whispered it. “Do not worry about tonight. I will take care of everything.”

      “It is not so simple as that,” she declared, showing a flash of pride that he could have applauded. “I have no idea what to do when I wake up tomorrow.”

      “Go on about your life, Miss Hamilton.” He thought of all the times he had thought he could not bear to see the sunrise, the nights he thought he couldn’t stand to live another day. But he had.

      “My life is about marriage, Mr. Sharpe,” she whispered. “That is the direction of my every day.”

      He wanted to say that it still could be, but instead he said, “Then perhaps you should find a new direction for your life, Miss Hamilton.”

      Then he opened the door, checked the hallway, and watched her go.

      This was what she got for looking to a man to rescue her.

      Grace threw her crumpled satin gloves to the smooth counterpane covering her bed and she stalked to the bellpull to summon one of Lady Prudence’s maids. Unlike all the other women here, she could not afford to bring her own.

      A rich, earthy, unfamiliar scent touched her nose and she panicked. She released the tasseled rope before she gave the tug that might ring her death knell. She smelled of him.

      She could not be attended by a maid. Not when her dress was a wrinkled disaster, her hair was a mess, and she wore the undeniable smell of a man. But she could not take off her own gown and corset. And she needed washing water.

      Struggling with the buttons, she stalked to the ewer and basin. There was some left, cold, but it might be enough to rid her of this smell. She could sleep in her corset—well, not sleep, just wait for dawn—but there was still the matter of her dress.

      As she struggled with the buttons she could reach, then wriggled and jumped and grunted to get the dress off, Grace muttered aloud, “Lord Wesley is a lily-livered rodent who is not worthy of licking my boots. Horse droppings are more noble than he!”

      It might have been silly, but it made her feel better. And as she gave a final push and stepped out of her gown, she sighed with relief. She left her dress in a puddle on the floor, hoping that might explain away the wrinkles, then grimaced as she poured the last of the water into the basin.

      She supposed it was punishment for being a fool. She dampened the washcloth and shivered.

      Marriage was to be her salvation—it was the only way out—and now she’d thrown that away. As penance, she scrubbed herself hard with the cold washcloth.

      What was she to do? She had inherited none of her father’s talents, unlike Venetia who could paint and her sister Maryanne who was a gifted author. She was not in the least bit artistic, unless one counted a flair for throwing herself into dramatic disasters.

      Of all Rodesson’s daughters, she had inherited the most from their mother Olivia:—her blond hair, fine and pale but strong enough to curl and wave, and her mother’s famed features. Her eyes were green—like those of her infamous father. Gentlemen СКАЧАТЬ