Candice Hern Read Free Page B

some time now. She was a difficult case, to be sure. A delicious challenge. He'd been studying her for weeks, circling like a predator planning his attack. Her outward reserve, that cool self-restraint, lay over her as smooth as the features of an elegant bird, tightly and neatly arranged, not even a wisp of down out of place. The perfect image of unruffled calm. Yet if one looked closely, as he so often did, miniscule hints of disarray, almost invisible, could be discerned beneath the pristine plumage. It was those tiny disorderly feathers he intended to keep tweaking, in hopes of ultimately dislodging all the rest.
    Contrary to popular belief, Rochdale had no experience seducing virtuous women. In point of fact, he'd spent most of his adult life avoiding them. When it came right down to it, though, he supposed they were no different from the rest. Manipulative. Grasping. Shrewish. The primary difference with a woman like Grace Marlowe was that her sexual nature would be tightly repressed or closely guarded. It would take some finesse to coax it into the open, but who better to do so than the Great Libertine?
    He had watched her everywhere, and made sure she knew he was watching. She'd pretended to ignore him, but he could read her uneasiness in the way she held her body, in the tight tone of her voice, in the too-obvious manner in which she avoided eye contact. And especially in the secret looks she'd cast in his direction when she thought he wasn't looking.
    Fixing his gaze on Grace Marlowe had been no hardship. The longer he looked the more her beauty was revealed to him. She may be the sort of sanctimonious prig he despised, but she was easy to look at, with her thick, golden hair and gray eyes. Under the right circumstances — in the moonlit garden or a candlelit bedroom — he could imagine those refined, aristocratic features softening, and he suspected she would be quite breathtaking.
    And here was his first real chance to begin steering her toward that ultimate softening.
    He'd been almost knocked off his pins when she'd shown up at his doorstep tonight with the rest of the erstwhile rescue party. When that hotheaded puppy had flattened him and then Thayne had rung a peal over his throbbing head, Rochdale had assumed the presence of Grace Marlowe in his country villa was to be a lost opportunity. Then the Fates had smiled upon him when she was obliged to give up her seat in Thayne's carriage to the Thirkill chit, leaving her behind with him. Alone.
    Sheane's Albion, that lively prize-winning bay gelding, would be housed in Rochdale's stables before the month was out.
    The coachman was not pleased to be roused from his sleep to drive all the way to London, but neither did he seem entirely surprised. He was accustomed to his employer's unpredictable ways.
    "Oh, and Jenkins," Rochdale said, "take your time harnessing the cattle. No need to rush, if you take my meaning."
    Jenkins caught the coin Rochdale flipped him, pocketed it, and grinned. "Right you are, milord. I'll check everything over twice. Wouldn't want nothing to go amiss at this time o' night."
    Rochdale could not wipe the smile off his face as he walked back to the house. He had known Grace — he always thought of her as Grace and not Mrs. Marlowe, because in his thoughts he was always seducing her — would insist on leaving at once, and he had only teased her about staying with him at his villa so that a carriage ride would seem the lesser of two evils.
    In truth, it had all worked out exactly as he'd hoped, for he knew he could make better progress in the intimate atmosphere of a carriage. Fortunately, he'd brought his small traveling chariot to Twickenham, which meant they would have to sit side by side as there was no seat opposite. And the movement of the carriage would no doubt cause their bodies to brush against each other. In fact, he would make sure of it. He might even have to hold on to her if they hit a bad patch of road or bounced into a