Powder of Love (I) Read Free

the paintings, and didn’t speak, his dark eyes shadowed. His mouth had been drawn in a straight line, yet his lips were still full. Odd how she could vividly recall the details of a man’s lips days after meeting him.
    She fought the languid desire to take off her corset and chemise, and she pushed herself off the bed. Best to go with the uncomplicated brown and cream gown. Something easy to don so she could throw it over her head and yank it on quickly before she gave in to the temptation of getting into bed.
    But the thought of Mr. Reed still tugged at her. He had no right to haunt her like this when he’d barely tried to be agreeable during that visit.
    Maybe he’d heard that nearly silent, scowling men with unruly black hair were all the rage with hostesses. Or perhaps he hated her sitting room and her refreshments.
    Never mind. They were gone, and she had been the one to push them out of her house. Not literally, of course, but she knew how to get rid of undesirable men.
    It had been difficult. First she’d allowed her conversation to lapse into yawn-inducing dullness. She spoke of lace and bobbles and the price of shoes and watched Clermont’s eyes glaze over. Interestingly enough, Mr. Reed’s expression didn’t change, although she wondered if perhaps she’d caught a small smile at one point.
    And Mr. Reed’s other smile. She’d forgotten it. Recalling it made her grin like a lunatic.
    He hadn’t been stern the whole time. Late in the visit, Rosalie had been sitting on the bog oak sofa, and Mr. Clermont had joined her there, gradually shifted closer to her. He’d actually brushed his fingertips across her nape, making some remark about the way she bundled her hair loosely.
    Rosalie had twisted away from him. She’d widened her eyes and contorted her mouth—a comic contortion—aiming the look of mock alarm at Miss Renshaw.
    The older lady hadn’t noticed. Rosalie’s companion was present in body and her brown eyes were open, but her mind, as usual, had wandered to more interesting places.
    But Mr. Reed had met her eyes and must have seen Rosalie’s silly grimace. That had to explain his sudden grin—a real one that lit his eyes and showed white, nearly even teeth. His expression was unexpectedly sweet, entirely transforming his forbidding features. Of course she had to grin back, and their exchanged smiles had felt like a shared amusement, a joke they both appreciated.
    The smile had vanished almost at once when Clermont touched Rosalie’s arm and murmured some more compliments at her—the man was a confirmed murmurer.
    She’d managed to drive the two men out of her parlor soon after that by using her proven tactic of more boring conversation followed by some plain speaking. Nothing so unladylike as telling them to go away, of course.
    But would she have pushed so hard to make them leave if Mr. Reed had sat that close to her? Absurd notion, but the thought of him so near her that she might feel his breath on her neck, taste it with her mouth, made her own breath come fast and shallow, causing something inside her to stir and grow heavy.
    Mr. Reed might have been standing right in front of her, smiling, his strong fingers reaching to touch her. Perhaps if his hand trailed across her nape…
    “No more of this,” she said aloud.
    Determined to shake her strange mood, she rang for Murphy to help with the buttons in the back of the gown and to fix her chignon. The chatty maid was a marvel at driving unwelcome thoughts from one’s head.
    * * *
    The rest of the afternoon had no more strange sensations or visitors, unless one counted the cursing Italian carriers who came to the back entrance with several wooden crates.
    Rosalie ordered the crates to be placed in the library and then forgot about them. She had no idea what else Johnny had left her—and after the peculiar restlessness she’d felt after touching the box, she wasn’t eager to find out.
    After dinner, Rosalie sat in the drawing room,