Cheryl Holt Read Free Page A

you
entertained
him?”
    “As if I’d divulge any of my tricks!” She appraised Emily as a rival, then chuckled. “You’re too skinny to be a threat.”
    She strutted out as Mr. Fitch announced, “The earl will see you now, Miss Barnett.”
    “Fabulous,” she replied, but she rose too rapidly. The floor swayed, and she steadied herself by grabbing onto a sofa. She hiccupped again.
    Fitch studied her and scowled. “You’re sotted.”
    “I am not,” she bravely contended.
    He glanced at the punch bowl, which contained much less liquid than it had when she’d arrived. “Miss Barnett, how much punch have you had?”
    “Why?”
    “Oh, for pity’s sake. It was laced with rum! The earl has it shipped in from his plantations in Jamaica.”
    He clasped her arm and escorted her down the hall, and Emily struggled to keep up. She was disoriented, the corridor an endless gauntlet. Finally, Fitch led her into a candlelit room. Even though it was the middle of June, and a balmy night outside, a fire roared in the grate and, as if she’d been dropped onto a tropical island, she was hit by a blast of humid air.
    She squinted into the shadows, stunned to note that the chamber was a virtual den of iniquity, decorated with potted plants, decadent colors, and plush daybeds. Large pillows were scattered about, as if she could plop down anywhere to get comfortable. It was the kind of place one read about in books, a reclusive count’s hideaway, or a sheik’s refuge in Arabia. If a harem of veiled concubines had flitted by, she wouldn’t have been surprised.
    A male voice sounded, a deep, sonorous baritone thattickled her innards and rattled her bones, but she couldn’t locate from where it originated.
    “Who have we here, Mr. Fitch?”
    “Miss Emily Barnett, sir.”
    “Emily . . .” He spoke her name as if it was honey and he was tasting it.
    “She’s recently moved to London from the country. To seek employment.”
    “From the
country
?” the man mused. “Oh, how I love variety.”
    “She claims she has references, but I feel duty-bound to mention that she may be a tad out of your league.”
    “But she’s managed to snag herself the most lucrative appointment in town. She can’t be all that naive.”
    “She’s drunk, sir. She didn’t realize there was rum in the punch.”
    Emily had never imbibed of hard spirits, and truth be told, she was beginning to wonder if she wasn’t a bit foxed. There was no other explanation for her wooziness, which had her pondering what type of madhouse she’d entered.
    Who would slyly intoxicate a potential governess? Was it a test? If so, she’d failed miserably.
    “Be silent, Mr. Fitch,” she snapped as she squinted into the gloom, “or I’ll tattle as to how much you dislike Lord Winchester. And I’m not drunk.”
    The curious man barked out a laugh. “Did you hear that, Fitch? She’s going to tell the earl how much you despise him.”
    With no rejoinder, Fitch slinked out. Left alone, her heart pounding, Emily stood her ground.
    “Come to me,” the man commanded.
    She stepped farther into the room, slithering through a gauze curtain, and on the other side, she was face-to-face with the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He lounged on a huge chair that resembled a throne. His hair was black and worn much longer than was fashionable, and his eyes were an intense, mesmerizing shade of blue. He was tall—six feet, at least—and he was lean and fit, as if he practiced fencing or pugilism to keep himself in shape.
    Dressed in casual dishabille, he had on a flowing shirt and trousers, the sort she’d expect to witness on a sultan or a pirate. The shirt was loose and open at the neck, baring his chest partway down. She’d never viewed a man’s chest before, and amazingly, it was covered with a matting of hair, as black as the hair on his head. She was fascinated and couldn’t stop staring.
    He hadn’t shaved, and his cheeks were darkened with stubble. He looked like