Courtney Milan Read Free Page B

John managed to get through them as silently as possible. Soon, the other two men were discussing the technicalities of drainage—badly and wrongly.
    “And so the upper fields drain now,” Beauregard was saying, “but as Mason here explains it, the water flows from them into the lower field, leaving me with a fine quantity of mud in the spring. We must reroute—”
    The door to the house opened, and Mary stepped out, burdened with a paper fan and a parasol. She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of John.
    He couldn’t move, either. It was electrifying to see her this close. It had been that way ever since he first laid eyes on her. She had all the features of classic English beauty—a creamy complexion, rose-pink lips perfectly formed in an expression of surprise, and clear blue eyes. But calling her beauty
classic
didn’t capture the essence of her.
    She was like a cream-cake with an added hint of lemon. Familiar and comforting in aroma…and yet when one got close enough, one realized that all that sweetness was balanced by something deliciously tart. She had even used to smell of sugared lemon—a clean, fresh scent that made him think of unsullied purity.
    It had also made him want to lick her. Everywhere.
    She’d seemed so innocent on the surface, but when he peered into her eyes, he’d seen a spark there, a hint of mischief that drew him in. She’d looked on the verge of laughter, and her merriment had spilled out of her all too easily. She’d had an air to her—one that had made him think that she didn’t know anything about passion…but that she wanted to learn.
    Mary was disarmingly attractive, and he’d wanted her. Badly.
    If only he’d known that there was more mischief and less innocence in her. Still, even now, even knowing that everything about her was a sham—that she was a thief and a liar—it made no difference. He still wanted her.
    “Dear Lady Patsworth,” Mary said into the awkward silence. “I’ve brought your fan.”
    “Thank you.” Lady Patsworth did not move to take Mary’s burdens.
    “Miss Chartley. You know Mr. Beauregard from church,” Sir Walter said. “This is his friend, Mr. John Mason. But…it looks as if you might already be acquainted.”
    Mary’s face was schooled to careful blankness. She glanced warily at John, and dropped a polite curtsey in his general direction.
    “No,” John heard himself say. “I’ve never known her. Not at all.”
    She didn’t grimace at that disavowal. Her expression remained china-doll smooth.
    “Mary, dear, if you could move the Japanese partition…” That from Lady Patsworth.
    Mary set the fan and parasol on the table and brushed past John. He caught a hint of something like sweet citrus as she passed, and those same old urges welled up in him—to lick her, despite everything. Then she crossed to the other side of the terrace and fiddled with a folding screen constructed from cherrywood and delicate paper. The so-called Japanese screen, John supposed; the paintings on its side were no doubt intended to recall the Far East to men and women who had never traveled farther than Birmingham.
    She adjusted the screen to allow a few more inches of shade to fall on Lady Patsworth’s side of the table.
    Mary’s scent hadn’t changed, but her eyes had. Once, they’d sparkled. Now, they looked flat. All that hidden mirth that he’d seen in her—it was as if it had been wiped clean and replaced with stark gray slate.
    Well. He’d not expected her to
smile
when she was caught. As methodically as she’d gone, she returned, seating herself at the table next to Lady Patsworth.
    She’d not said a word in greeting to him.
    “What does the fashion column have to say?” she asked, her low tones directed to the lady near her.
    Lady Patsworth lifted a monocle and peered at the paper. “It describes a day gown with well-fitted sleeves of sarcenet, embellished at the wrists with cord of silk.” Lady Patsworth frowned. “Cord of