Mistress of Scandal (Greentree Sisters 3)

He looked at her. There was amusement in his expression, and admiration, and desire. With his eyes as dark as night and that curve to his lips, she could have let herself look at him all day long. Despite her resolution to be indifferent to him, Francesca felt as if she was melting like ice in the sun.

“Why were you following me?” she asked, rather breathlessly.

His mouth curved up even more. “You are the cross I have to bear, Francesca.”

“Nonsense. I am nothing to you, nor you to me. We are strangers who met under extraordinary circumstances. That doesn’t mean we need be friends, or even indifferent acquaintances.”

His expression grew skeptical. “Francesca, even a stranger would be remiss if he didn’t warn you how dangerous these people are. You stole their property. I

t’s only a matter of time before they find the driver from your cab and get your address. They’ll track you down to Wensted Square without much trouble.”

The thought was frightening. She put it aside to peruse later.

“So you’ve appointed yourself my protector?” she demanded.

“I want to repay my debt to you,” he said, and his smile was gone and he sounded strangely awkward. “I dislike being in debt,” he added.

Was he lying? Was that why he sounded unsure of himself? But no, when he was lying he was much more smooth and practiced than that. He must be telling the truth. The villain was being honest.

She turned to stare out of the window. He could see the light dappled on her cheek, her skin smooth and soft, and the curve of her mouth so tempting, he had to put a firm rein on himself. His gaze slid down over her throat to the ruffle of lace on her bodice, and the curve of her breasts, and he wanted her so much he ached.

“I don’t think my uncle will agree to your following me about, Mr. Thorne,” she said at last, turning to face him. She looked troubled. “At the moment I have to be very careful not to upset him. He prays to the god of respectability, you know.”

“But what about you, Francesca? Somehow I don’t think you care much about respectability. You stride about the moors like a wild Gypsy, and go out in London in disguise to places no respectable woman would venture. What would your uncle say to that?”

Her wide, warm, kissable mouth turned up. “He would be furious,” she said with delight.

He groaned aloud, and abandoning all common sense and professionalism, he kissed her.

She was still for a heartbeat, and then her lips clung to his, and she pressed against him with all the wild passion in her nature. He knew then he’d wanted this to happen ever since the night in the inn. He’d felt only half alive without her—she was in his blood.

“Let me take you somewhere,” he began, breathless, half crazy with lust. His lips trailed over her throat and she arched her neck, her eyes closed, her lips swollen. He untied the hideous bonnet and tossed it out of the window and into the street.

She didn’t appear to notice.

“But…where would we go?” she asked, wriggling closer, her arms sliding up around his neck.

“I have rooms in Half Moon Street,” he said, and gave her the number. Martin could be sent off on an errand, and then they’d be alone. Be damned to everything else!

But she was shaking her head.

“I want you. You want me. Remember how it was…?”

“I don’t want to remember,” she gasped, as he pressed his lips to the creamy skin revealed above the neckline of her dress. It wasn’t enough; he wanted her naked.

“Francesca.” He was kissing her mouth again. “I’m losing my mind. Feel me…I want you now…”

He laid her hand between his thighs and then wondered why he was torturing himself with her touch.

“I’ve been like that since the inn.”

She giggled, damn and blast her! “Oh dear, that must be inconvenient,” she said breathily.

“Francesca…”

“I’m sorry.” She drew her hand away and moved back into her seat, away from him.

“You’re a free spirit, Francesca. Don’t let them tame you. Let me set you free of your cage.” He sounded like a madman, but he didn’t care. She wasn’t swayed.