Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine Read Free Page A

vision, saw a booted foot, followed by a long, shapely leg in a torn stocking, slide slowly down the tree trunk. When her skirt and petticoat snagged on a branch, she halted and cursed under her breath in short, irritable gasps. A second leg emerged.
    As did the intriguing sight of delicate lace drawers.
    He’d expected her to hide up there until he was gone, but apparently she wanted that book back, and badly enough to show her face—and her drawers.
    He should have looked away at once, but being a young man of lively humor and certainly no saint, turned his head to watch. She wore no bonnet, and her hair, the color of honey and sun-gilded wheat sheaves, spilled down her back, falling from a ladylike and ineffectual knot at the nape of her neck. He felt the instant stirring of interest.
    She was lucky—very lucky. Lazarus Kane was currently masquerading as a gentleman and on his best behavior.
    Her boots finally reached the safety of damp grass, and the ripped skirt dropped, covering her legs. Only then did she glance over her shoulder to be sure he hadn’t seen, and her eyes widened when she found him staring brazenly back at her, enjoying the view.
    Without a word, she held out her hand. She was an agreeably rounded creature, with delicate but well-defined features and a stunning pair of bright hazel eyes that shone full of stars, even in daytime and under the tumbled shade of the chestnut tree. He couldn’t guess her age, although by the shape of her, she was clearly no child, despite her obvious proficiency in climbing and hiding in trees. Something about the way she held herself, the proud chin and determined set of her mouth, made him stare—that and her stunning resemblance to a solemn-faced angel he’d once seen painted on a domed ceiling inside a grand house where he worked. Yes, she was an angel. Clearly, in this case, a fallen one. Perhaps the tree broke her fall, he mused. Mesmerized, he slid one hand into his waistcoat and withdrew the slim volume.
    There was no word of thanks. She advanced a step, her gaze on the book in his hand. With a second thought, regaining some of his playful wits, he brought the book back to his chest and held it there, daring her with a narrow-eyed challenge. She hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the pleats of her skirt, lips slightly parted. He imagined his own mouth on hers. He could taste those sweet, soft petals, could feel them shyly parting for him. The pink tip of her tongue darted out, sweeping left to right, dampening the lower lip. He was so absorbed in his imaginary kiss, he barely noticed the slender scar across her cheek.
    Then he saw it. And he knew he’d found her at last.
    Relief swept him until he was almost giddy. It was she. She wouldn’t know him, of course, but for ten years she’d been his guardian angel, bringing comfort in some of his darkest hours. Without her image engraved on his mind—that hope of one day finding her again—he would never have survived.
    He finally held the book out to her again, but when she reached for it, he forgot his newly adopted “gentlemanly” manners. So much for them. With his free hand, he captured hers and held it tight, drawing her closer through the long, shady grass.
    â€œA kiss, madam,” he muttered. “Is that not a fair exchange?”
    He expected her to struggle away, but she glanced anxiously over the hedge toward the merry revelers. She gave no shout of alarm, no sound but the smallest of startled yelps. It occurred to Lazarus she was more eager not to be seen there than she was to alert any of the villagers to her aid. The book, of course, he mused.
    What good fortune it fell upon his head this morning and none other. Lucky for her too, since he knew how to keep a secret. He had plenty of those himself.
    He tugged again, and she stumbled over a gnarled tree root, falling against him. Wide-eyed, she looked up at his face, and he felt those quick, anxious