Cheryl Holt Read Free Page A

thighs, feet, they were forged fast, and she fit perfectly. His fingers, where he clutched her wrist, were warm, electrifying. They singed through to the bone.
    “I won’t tell him you were here,” he vowed in a whisper, his lips by her ear, his sweet breath rustling her hair.
    “Swear it!” she pleaded.
    She spun toward him. He was so near, and his eyes—luminous, enigmatic—gleamed at her with splendid intensity. She could lose herself in those eyes, could beswallowed up into them, and there was something lusciously magnificent about having them focused on her.
    “I swear it,” he said.
    “Thank you.”
    He confirmed her courtesy with an indifferent shrug. “You’re prettier than the others he’s invited.”
    The statement induced another swirl of confused rumination. It was common knowledge that the earl had interviewed several candidates in his search for a bride, so she wasn’t surprised that others had visited. But she
was
surprised that her companion was adequately conversant with them to feel he could comment.
    And he thought she was pretty.
Prettier
than the others.
    The compliment settled deep inside, and her foolish heart skipped a beat. Though she knew she was fetching, no man had ever told her so. Especially not a man who looked like him, like a prince, or an angel fallen from heaven.
    “Who are you?” she asked.
    “Does it matter?”
    “Yes.” She waited, but maddeningly, he furnished no answer. “I have to go.”
    She tugged her wrist from his grasp, and he released her. Almost at a run, she sped to the door. When she would have hurried into the hall, he spoke.
    “I’ll be here tomorrow evening. Come again. At midnight.”
    She didn’t turn around. “I never would.”
    “I can’t see you in the day. Just here.”
    “No . . . no . . .” She rushed out, wondering why she was thrilled by the suggestion, why her spirits soared, her emotions reeled. She bolted toward the stairs, glad to have escaped, but his chuckle followed her, echoing down the corridor with his certainty that she wouldn’t be able to resist.

C HAPTER T WO
    Phillip Paxton sipped on a glass of brandy and tipped back in his chair, balancing on the two hind legs.
    It was just before the hour of one, and his eyes were glued to the door of the library. As if he could conjure up the petite blond beauty through sheer force of will, he stared into the dark corridor, but soon he would have to admit that she wasn’t coming.
    He’d been so sure that she would! But then, it wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong about a female, and it wouldn’t be the last.
    He was situated behind the table where he’d stumbled upon her the previous night. The book of naughty pictures lay open to his favorite drawing, that of a pixie flitting through the grass, her fairy wings drifting behind. She was attired in a dress of gossamer fabric that was so diaphanous it revealed most of her feminine form, hinting at detail and making him want more.
    As with all the illustrations in the book, it was designed to titillate and arouse, and it certainly did, though he didn’t care as much for the artificial stimulation as another man might. He preferred the genuine article to nude portraits. Still, you couldn’t blame a chap for looking.
    Poor Lady Olivia! She’d gotten an eyeful. She’d been aghast, but also fascinated, and he was tickled by her pluck and had enjoyed teasing her. Though an innocent, she was no swooning girl. She’d been blatantly interested,her inquisitiveness so apparent that her faltering denial of any curiosity had been comical.
    An insomniac himself, he’d intruded into the manor, planning to grab a volume on horse breeding Edward had purchased during his latest bride-seeking jaunt to London. With honest purpose, he’d sneaked in, but upon espying her, his innocuous excursion had been dramatically altered.
    He’d been pleasantly surprised to find her up and about, and he’d been intrigued by her choice of reading