Passionately Yours (Hellions of High Street 3)
Who the devil is she?
It had been too dark, too hazy for him to make out more than a vague impression of her face. Arched brows. Slanted cheekbones. A full mouth. And an errant curl of unruly hair—it looked dark as a raven-wing, but he couldn’t be sure of the exact color—teasing against the curve of her jaw.
The lady’s voice had been the only distinctive feature. Slightly husky, slightly rough, the sound of it had rubbed against his skin with a heat-sparked friction.
He frowned, feeling a lick of fire skate down his spine and spiral toward his… sword.
Good Lord, had the lady really uttered such an utterly outrageous observation? He wasn’t sure whether he felt indignant or intrigued by her outspoken candor.
“No, no, definitely not intrigued,” muttered John aloud. He shifted in his seat, willing his body to unclench.
Everyone—including himself—knew that the Earl of Wrexham was, if not a perfect hero, a perfect gentleman. He respected rules and regulations. There were good reasons for them—they provided the basis for order and stability within Polite Society.
Don’t think. Don’t wonder. Don’t speculate.
No matter that the blaze of fierce intelligence in her eyes had lit his curiosity.
Granted, she might be clever, he conceded. But a lady who flaunted convention was his exact opposite. And like oil and water, opposites never mixed well.
“John? John?”
It was his sister calling. The muted echo of his name was followed by a tentative rapping on the study’s oak-paneled door. “Are you in there?”
Women.
At the moment, he would rather be pursued by Attila the Hun and his savage horde of warriors.
The latch clicked.
Deciding that he had had enough uncomfortable encounters with the opposite sex for one night, the earl hesitated, and then, like the mysterious Mistress of the Exotic Chessboard, he spun around and made a hasty retreat.
The Hellions of High Street series continues with Sinfully Yours
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Chapter One
Alessandro twisted free and fell back against the rough stones just as a dagger thrust straight at his heart. Steel sliced through linen with a lethal whisper, but the blade cut naught but a dark curl of hair from his muscled chest.
“Tsk, tsk—you’re losing your edge, Malatesta,” he called, flashing a mocking smile. “In the past, your strike was quick as a cobra. But now…” He waggled an airy wave. “You’re sluggish as a garden snake.”
“You’re a spawn of Satan, Crispini!” Another slash. “And I intend to cut off your cods and send you back to Hell where you belong.”
“Oh, no doubt I shall eventually find my testicolos roasting over the Devil’s own coals. But it won’t be a slow-witted, slow-footed oaf who sticks them on a spit.”
With a roar of rage, Alessandro’s adversary spun into a new attack.
Whoosh, whoosh—moonlight winked wildly off the flailing weapon, setting off a ghostly flutter of silvery sparks.
As he danced away from the danger, Alessandro darted a quick glance over the tower’s parapet. The water below was dark as midnight and looked colder than a witch’s—
“Crispini—watch out!” The warning shout had an all too familiar ring. “Le Chaze is behind you!”
“Damn!” muttered Alessandro. He had told—no, no, he had ordered—the young lady to flee while she had the chance. But no, the headstrong hellion was as stubborn as an—
“Damn!” muttered Miss Anna Sloane, echoing the oath of Count Crispini, the dashingly handsome Italian Lothario whose sexual exploits put those of the legendary Casanova to the blush. Throwing down her pen, she took her head between her hands. Several hairpins fell to the ink-spattered paper, punctuating the heavy sigh. “That’s not only drivel—it’s boring drivel.”
Her younger sister Caro looked up from the book of Byron’s poetry she was reading. “What did you say?”