The Rake's Inherited Courtesan Read Free

rabbits on a ploughed field.
    ‘Somewhere for a woman like me, Mr Evernden?’ The cool tone from behind him held the slightest trace of a French accent.
    Hell. Apparently, the impertinent Mademoiselle Boisette had no qualms about eavesdropping. So be it. Beating around the bush only led to disappointed expectations, as he well knew from his business dealings. Christopher swung around to face her.
    Mr Tripp rushed between them. ‘Allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Boisette, Mr Evernden.’
    Still veiled, Mademoiselle Boisette held out a small, black-gloved hand. She curtsied as he took it, a fluid movement with all the easy grace of a self-assured woman.
    She turned to the lawyer. ‘Would you be good enough to leave us to speak alone, Mr Tripp? We have some issues of mutual concern to address.’
    To his relief, her tone sounded clipped and businesslike. No tears. At least, not yet.
    Tripp rubbed his hands together. ‘Certainly.’
    He had food on his mind, Christopher could tell.
    Tripp pulled out his calling card and handed it to Christopher with a flourish. ‘Mr Evernden, if it would not be too much trouble, I would appreciate it if you would call at my office later today. I have some documents requiring your signature.’
    Damned country solicitors. Why the hell hadn’t he brought the documents with him? Christopher tamped down his irritation. First, he had to depress any hopes Mademoiselle Boisette might have about continuing the connection with his family.
    The murmur of distant conversation and the clink of glasses briefly wafted through the open door as Tripp left and closed it behind him.
    Mademoiselle Boisette glided to the desk. Her graceful movements, her calmness, reminded Christopher of a slow and gentle river. Her impenetrable veil skimmed delicate slopingshoulders and he ran his gaze over her straight back and trim waist. An altogether pleasing picture.
    The wayward thought stilled him. He leaned his hip against a rickety table and sipped his wine. Nothing she could say would make him change his mind.
    With her back to him, Mademoiselle Boisette set her wineglass amid the clutter of papers. A lioness’s head leaned against one corner of the desk and her hand brushed reverently over its tufted ears.
    She spoke over her shoulder. ‘I feared these creatures so much when I first came to live here, I asked Monsieur Jean to remove them from the walls.’ A breathy sigh, as light as a summer wind, shimmered the secretive veil. ‘We both know there are far more dangerous creatures than these in the world, don’t we?’
    Reaching up, she pulled the pearl-headed pin from her bonnet. Her slender back stretched as she removed the hat in a fluid motion. She placed it on the desk.
    A crown of braided gold encircled her head. Curling tendrils at the nape of her long neck brushed her collar.
    As regal as a queen, she revolved to face him, her hands clasped in front of her. ‘And that is why we need to talk.’
    Christopher’s breath hooked in his throat. She had the face of an angel.
    Fringed by golden lashes, forget-me-not blue eyes gazed out of a heart-shaped face. Not a single blemish marred the perfection of her creamy complexion or peach-blushed cheeks. His mouth longed to taste the lushness of full ripe lips. A banquet offered to a starving man.
    Like a callow youth faced with his first view of a woman’s bare breast, his palms dampened. He resisted the temptation to wipe them on his pantaloons. By God, he’d seen many lovely women in the salons of London, but beautiful did not begin to describe this vision.
    Since when did his appetites control his reactions?
    As if reading his thoughts, her mouth curved in a smile, the small space in the centre of her pearl-white top teeth an enchanting fault amid celestial perfection.
    She was no seraph. Pure devilment gleamed in the cerulean gaze locked with his.
    Placing her gloved fingertip between her teeth, she glanced at him. Her lashes lowered and then swept up