irritation. First, he had to depress any hopes Mademoiselle Boisette might have about continuing the connection with his family.
The murmur of distant conversation and the clink of glasses briefly wafted through the open door as Tripp left and closed it behind him.
Mademoiselle Boisette glided to the desk. Her graceful movements, her calmness, reminded Christopher of a slow and gentle river. Her impenetrable veil skimmed delicate sloping shoulders and he ran his gaze over her straight back and trim waist. An altogether pleasing picture.
The wayward thought stilled him. He leaned his hip against a rickety table and sipped his wine. Nothing she could say would make him change his mind.
With her back to him, Mademoiselle Boisette set her wineglass amid the clutter of papers. A lioness’s head leaned against one corner of the desk and her hand brushed reverently over its tufted ears.
She spoke over her shoulder. ‘I feared these creatures so much when I first came to live here, I asked Monsieur Jean to remove them from the walls.’ A breathy sigh, as light as a summer wind, shimmered the secretive veil. ‘We both know there are far more dangerous creatures than these in the world, don’t we?’
Reaching up, she pulled the pearl-headed pin from her bonnet. Her slender back stretched as she removed the hat in a fluid motion. She placed it on the desk.
A crown of braided gold encircled her head. Curling tendrils at the nape of her long neck brushed her collar.
As regal as a queen, she revolved to face him, her hands clasped in front of her. ‘And that is why we need to talk.’
Christopher’s breath hooked in his throat. She had the face of an angel.
Fringed by golden lashes, forget-me-not blue eyes gazed out of a heart-shaped face. Not a single blemish marred the perfection of her creamy complexion or peach-blushed cheeks. His mouth longed to taste the lushness of full ripe lips. A banquet offered to a starving man.
Like a callow youth faced with his first view of a woman’s bare breast, his palms dampened. He resisted the temptation to wipe them on his pantaloons. By God, he’d seen many lovely women in the salons of London, but beautiful did not begin to describe this vision.
Since when did his appetites control his reactions?
As if reading his thoughts, her mouth curved in a smile, the small space in the centre of her pearl-white top teeth an enchanting fault amid celestial perfection.
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
