Every Whispered Word Read Free

she assured him. “I’m not a writer.”
    â€œNot a writer, and not a spy. That’s two counts in your favor. Who, then, are you?”
    â€œI’m Lady Camelia Marshall,” she said, grabbing her hat as it started to slide off her head. “I’m a great admirer of your work, Mr. Kent,” she added earnestly, holding fast to keep the heavily flowered confection from flopping over her face. “I’ve read several of your papers and have found them to be most intriguing.”
    â€œHave you indeed?”
    If he was impressed by the fact that a woman had actually read some of his work, or claimed to find it intriguing, he gave no sign of it. Instead he walked behind her and lifted the first table that Camelia had knocked over.
    â€œWhat a bloody mess,” he muttered, bending to pick up some of the dozens of tools, pieces of hardware, and wads of notes that lay strewn about the wet floor.
    â€œI’m terribly sorry about knocking your tables over,” Camelia apologized. “I hope nothing is broken,” she added, stooping down to assist him.
    Simon watched as she awkwardly picked up a small metal box. She gripped it with one soiled, gloved hand while the other held fast to the enormous monstrosity of her sagging hat. That done, she started to rise. Unfortunately, her balance was compromised by the heavy weight of her wet bustle. She abandoned her grip on her bonnet and flailed around with one hand, her expression suddenly panicked, still holding his invention safe against her breast.
    Simon reached out and grabbed her as her hat dropped in a riot of wilted roses over her face. As she toppled against him the scent of her flooded through him, an extraordinary fragrance unlike any he had ever known. It was exotic yet vaguely familiar, a light, sun-washed essence that reminded him of wandering in the woods on his father’s estate during a summer rain. He held her fast, drinking in her fragrance and acutely aware of the delicate structure of her back, the soft gasp of her breath, the agitated rise and fall of her breast as it pulsed against the damp linen clinging to his chest.
    â€œI’m so sorry.” Horrendously embarrassed, Camelia wrenched her hat up off her face. Finally free of its pins, the treacherous headpiece fell to the floor, dragging whatever semblance of a coiffure she might have retained down with it, until her hair was spilling across her back in a hopeless mass of tangles.
    Simon stared down at her, taking in the smoky depths of her eyes, which were wide and filled with frustration. They were the color of sage, he realized, the soft green shade of wild wood sage, which grew in the dry, shady heaths of Scotland. A fine fan of lines surrounded her lower lashes, making it clear that she was well past the girlish bloom of her early twenties. Her skin was unfashionably bronzed and sprinkled with freckles, and her honey-colored hair was streaked with the palest threads of gold, indicating she was well accustomed to being in the sun. That he found surprising, given the quality of her attire. In his experience most Englishwomen of gentle breeding preferred the protection of either the indoors or shade. Then again, he reflected, most women of gentle breeding didn’t march boldly into a man’s house, uninvited and unescorted. He was vaguely aware that she no longer required his assistance to stand, yet he found himself strangely reluctant to release her.
    â€œI’m all right now, thank you.” Camelia wondered if he thought she was incapable of staying upright for more than three minutes. Not that she had given him much reason to think otherwise, she realized miserably. “I’m afraid I’m not accustomed to wearing such a big hat,” she added, feeling he must require some kind of explanation for her inability to keep the confounded thing on top of her head. She declined to mention that a wet pair of drawers had knocked her in the