Cheryl Holt Read Free Page B

a dangerous bandit, capable of any nefarious conduct, and a ripple of trepidation swept over her.
    Was she dreaming? She was so exhausted, and it was so late. Had she fallen asleep in the parlor?
    Discreetly, she pinched her wrist, but the tweak was discernible.
    She approached until she was directly in front of him, and though she had a sinking feeling that she’d already gleaned his identity, she queried, “Who are you?”
    “I am Michael Farrow, Lord Winchester.”
    She winced. “I didn’t mean what I said about Mr. Fitch. He thinks you’re a splendid emp—”
    Lord Winchester cut her off with a wave of his hand. “It’s no secret that he loathes me. And with valid reason.”
    He scrutinized her, taking a slow and inappropriate journey across her bosom, her tummy, her thighs, and he frowned. “I hate your gown.”
    “I’m sorry.” Of her small number of outfits, it was by far the most conservative and unadorned. “I’d thought it would be best for the role I hope to play.”
    “What role is that? The virtuous governess?”
    “Well . . . yes.”
    “I suppose a fantasy could be amusing”—he shrugged—“although I’m not much for games. I fail to grasp how you’ll entice me when you’re attired in gray. Do you know anything about masculine inclinations?”
    “Of course,” which was a blatant fib. Her upbringing had been extremely sheltered, her contact with men garnered through her relationships with her father and Reginald.
    “I’d advised the interested candidates to wear red.”
    “I don’t have any clothes that are red.”
    “Miss Barnett, have you any actual experience at this kind of thing?”
    “An ample amount.”
    “Really?”
    “I’m a veritable expert.”
    “Surely, you jest.” He raised a skeptical brow.
    “I’ve had many previous positions.”
    “And were your prior employers
satisfied
with your performance?”
    “Each and every time.”
    “These references of which you’re so proud”—he chuckled—“would your patrons be anyone with whom I’m acquainted?”
    “I’m positive they’re not.” She’d invented the names,having copied them from gravestones in the Hailsham cemetery.
    “Good. I detest having to share my intimate associations with friends.”
    Rising, he uncurled from his chair and closed the distance between them. He was so near that his feet slipped under the hem of her skirt, his legs tangling with her own. He towered over her, and as she peered up at him, she felt giddy and wild, and she speculated as to what he intended, but she couldn’t begin to guess. She’d never met another quite like him.
    At the placement agency, there’d been some vague remarks as to his being odd, as to his having irregular habits—hence an interview in the dead of night—but Emily had assumed they’d meant
odd
in a normal way, that he let his dogs run in the mansion, or that he smoked cigars at the table.
    None of the ambiguous caveats had prepared her for the reality.
    She’d never had a beau, so she hadn’t realized that standing next to an adult male could be so invigorating. Her senses reeled; her mind whirred; her pulse hammered with excitement. It was so thrilling to be sequestered with him, to be thrown together in such an unusual setting. She could feel the heat emanating from his skin, could smell the soap with which he’d bathed. There was another scent, too, that was earthy and alluring, and she suspected it was his very essence.
    She had the strangest urge to reach out and rest her palm on his chest, and the notion was so bizarre, and so out of character, that she was shocked by her whimsy.Obviously, her inhibitions were lowered, and she had to proceed cautiously.
    “You don’t seem the type who would want to do this,” he was commenting.
    “Oh, I absolutely am,” she insisted.
    “You’d have to be available at all hours. There’s no telling when I might demand your services.”
    “I’m not afraid of hard work.”
    “You’d have to do