to bloody hell.’”
Viviane imagined the rodent flying through the air at the point of Hawkes’s toe. How satisfying. How utterly humorous.
“’Good morrow, my sweet LaMourette.’” Portia dropped the letter in her lap. “Why write to you about something so awful?”
Viviane burst out in laughter. She laughed so hard she had to grip her stomach for the corset compressed her ribs. It was most painful, but she was too giddy to care.
“I don’t understand,” Portia said. “You don’t even like rats. You find this funny? What did I miss?” She silently reread the missive. “If he’s such an effect on your mood, I believe him dangerous.”
“No man is a danger to me.”
“To your person. But your heart is something else entirely.”
“Nonsense, Portia. Your head is polluted with romanticisms.”
“Better romance than dread.”
Indeed. Constantine’s visit had stirred dread in Viviane’s heart. Dread for a dismal future that would see her freedom abolished. Monsieur Hawkes had an awkward, misplaced sense of romance.
Romance?
Rhys Hawkes and Viviane LaMourette? The idea of it tickled Viviane’s persistent desire for all things sensual.
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