Mistress of Scandal (Greentree Sisters 3)

“To my mind country girls are always so refreshing,” Mr. Jardine went on gamely.

“I’m hardly a girl,” Francesca retorted. “I

am five and twenty. How old are you, Mr. Thorne?”

Mr. Thorne made a sound that could have been a cough or a laugh. “I am nearly thirty, Miss Greentree.”

“Londoners are so pale and wan, and the children so dreadfully skinny.” Amy was trying to wrench the conversation out of the hands of her headstrong daughter. “Country folk are so much more…”

“Strapping?” Sebastian said. “Buxom?”

Buxom! How dare he? Did he really think her buxom?

“Rosy-cheeked and strong of limb,” Amy finished reprovingly.

Mr. Thorne took the drink his host was offering him. “In my experience,” he began, and Francesca knew by the glint in his black eyes that he was going to say something rude and impertinent, “a man wants a woman he can hold without fearing she will break.”

“You mean a Toby jug as opposed to a Dresden shepherdess?” Francesca asked sweetly.

“I was thinking more of a Valkyrie. A Boadicea in her chariot.”

“They are very warlike examples of our sex, Mr. Thorne,” Amy said doubtfully. “Don’t you think it would be more appropriate for a female to pour your tea and listen to your troubles than throw thunder and lightning bolts?”

“Perhaps Mr. Thorne prefers thunder and lightning bolts,” Francesca said slyly. “Did you enjoy the storm on the moors that much, Mr. Thorne? Should I have left you in the mire?”

“Francesca,” Amy reproved her. “I’m afraid Mr. Thorne won’t understand your teasing.”

He smiled at Amy, a truly attractive smile, and it was only when he turned it on Francesca that it lost its innocence. “I don’t mind,” he said. “Tease away, Miss Greentree.”

It was the smile that did it. There was something very intimate in it, something wicked and wanton. Something that spoke of heat and…and naked flesh. What was happening to her? Francesca’s blood seemed to be pounding through her body like a runaway coach, turning her hot and a little sick. Sebastian was doing this to her. She must not allow him to see her weakness. He already knew far too much about her, and she knew he would use that knowledge against her, to take what he wanted.

Self-restraint. Self-control. The room was spinning…

She felt his hand, clasped about her elbow with a ironlike grip, and realized he was holding her upright. Her knees seemed to be buckling.

“Don’t swoon on me, my Valkyrie,” his deep voice said in her ear.

Fainting was for debutantes and expectant mothers. Francesca was not the sort of woman to faint. She straightened up, clenching her teeth until her jaw ached. “I…it is very warm in here,” she said in a small, husky voice.

Amy was on her feet. “Francesca? Are you well? You are not yourself, are you? I knew it the moment I saw you in that…that dress. Oh, I do wish you would not prowl the moors! I’m sorry, Mr. Thorne, I am grateful my daughter found you, but she will make herself ill one day, if she hasn’t already…”

“I am perfectly well, Mama,” Francesca said. “The room is overheated, that is all.”

“You must go straight to bed,” Amy insisted.

Bed. I do want to go to bed. I want to go to bed with Sebastian Thorne and make love to him all night, and when the dawn comes, I want to awake in his arms and make love again.

Oh dear God! Her thoughts shocked her witless. What was happening to her? She was truly losing her mind, and it was all his fault. Francesca looked up, full of fear and guilt, and found herself staring directly into his black eyes. His own widened, and something sparked deep within them—an acknowledgment of what she was feeling? The same thought? Whatever it was, Francesca knew she had just succeeded in making things worse.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Jardine was arguing gently with his wife, “the girl needs a sip of brandy, that’s all. Here you are, Francesca. Drink up.”

The cool glass was pressed into her hand and she lifted it to her lips, doing as she was told because she wasn’t capable of doing anything else. Her mind was numb, suspended. She choked as the alcohol burned her throat, the room blurred. And then Sebastian was leaning toward her solicitously, and everything came into her sharp focus. She was aware of his clean, masculine scent.

What was happening to her? She knew he was dangerous; she knew she must stay away from him. Why was she being drawn into his orbit like a moth to a flame? And like a singed moth, she felt raw, her emotions stripped bare so that she was finding it difficult to breathe.

“I’m perfectly all right,” she insisted, edging away. “I have been out on the moors in far worse weather, as you well know, Mama. Besides, if I am ill then I won’t be able to go to London with you, now will I?”

Amy’s brow wrinkled. “Perhaps you should stay here.”