Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) Read Free Page A

adulation.” He snorted and took a long draw from the bottle. “You'll manage.”
                  Spencer admitted that, despite fifteen years between them, his younger brother was sometimes very wise. Admitted it silently , of course. Draining his own glass, he crossed his arms. “Fine. I shall go. But not because you’ve convinced me. I lent John a saddle and I’d like to retrieve it.”
                  Bennet’s grin was victorious. “That's more like it. Stick to the stables, and stay clear of the garden.”
     
    *              *              *
     
                  Alix stretched beneath her favorite ivory quilt, raking a fingernail over its red and coral roses, blinking up at the canopy. It was something from home to make her comfortable in England, though she wasn’t exactly eaten up with homesickness just now.
    She pressed fingers to her lips, smiling, and stretched farther. Her handsome stranger had occupied every waking moment since the ball. At first she thought he must be an acquaintance, someone to whom John had already introduced her. Surely no stranger would touch another with such familiarity, would be so bold. How wrong she’d been. She wasn't well connected to many people in England, certainly none so tall, so quick with a heart-stopping grin, with dark hair as thick and crisp as it looked. Not any man she could call to mind.
    She closed her eyes and drew him up in her mind. His eyes might have been green or gray; in the ballroom she’d had no question of their color, but garden shadows and his mask’s border had muddied her recollection and made them a shade deeper. Artists hands, or a sculptor; his long fingers had learned her rather than simple touching, explored with a roughness that had made her wonder at a gentleman with a laborer’s hands.
                  It had been on her lips more than once, to question John and try to discover the man's identity, but she had resisted. Sighing, Alix wriggled against her pillows. She didn't want to know, not really. That would spoil the mystery, and mystery was all she had now.
    So, what if they met again? That question had plagued her too, and she knew the answer. There would be no carrying on as they had at the masquerade. It had been a single moment, magical and impulsive, and over . She beat a dimple into her hapless pillow and wriggled onto her side.
    Damn John for interrupting .
                  Making love with a rogue in a garden's inky depths. It only existed in the horrid novels ladies hid beneath the cushions until they were alone. It had been unlike anything she’d done before, and she had been thrilled to come so close, the most fun she'd had in thirty-two years. After, she had expected shame to intrude, some embarrassment at what she’d been willing to do. It never came; her only remorse was over being interrupted.
    She yawned. John, you bastard .
                  No matter how much she worked up her nerve, something always spoiled the fun. The horse race from Parson’s Green to the bridge, or the time she’d smuggled French brandy into the house, or even the simple act of engaging the native women on a scouting trip back in America. Some prying eye, some wagging tongue, or some crease-faced goodwife was always there to clear their throat or whisper damning gossip to Paulina.
                  She recalled the sailing trip and shifted uncomfortably against the mattress, pulling her quilt to her chin. Just to see the fleet come in , she had lied to Paulina, with her scant savings sewn into the lining of her dress. Had her sister-in-law already known she intended to elope with Edward? It wouldn’t have surprised her to find that Paulina’s father, Silas, had had her followed by his men, had been watching and digging.
    Her face burned at the memory of being escorted through the crowd at the docks, Edward shouting behind her that he