Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3) Read Free

doesn’t distress you?”
    “I wouldn’t dream of fitting him with a fig leaf,” she said without a trace of heightened color in her cheeks. “The beauties of the human form are not the least prurient.”
    Devon smiled. A woman who wasn’t silly enough to be undone by the sight of a naked man. He’d lay odds she didn’t feel the need to call a piano leg a “limb” either. She was a refreshing oddity. “Ah, but this Dionysus fellow isn’t meant to be human, you know.”
    “No, but the Olympians were simply humanity writ large,” she said, swiping at the deep auburn curl that had escaped her bonnet and fallen across her forehead. A few strands glinted copper amid the darker tresses. “Unless I’m mistaken, this statue is a replica of an ancient one, circa first century, judging from the attention to realism. It would be sacrilege to alter it. If the ancients had no compunction about portraying their deity in such a state, who are we to demur?”
    A replica? Devon had paid the earth for the damned thing. The gong of pain sounding in his head grew louder. “What makes you think it’s not an original?”
    She slanted a look at him. “The marble has been distressed to give the appearance of extreme age, but I’ll warrant it’s not more than two or three hundred years old. Don’t be dismayed. It’s an excellent copy. Quite subtle. No doubt it would fool most.”
    It had fooled him. “So you’re an expert in ancient art?”
    “Hardly, but I know one who is,” she said crisply, drawing her spine straight and lifting her chin. “My father is Dr. Montague Farnsworth, one of the world’s foremost Egyptologists, though his knowledge of Roman and Greek cultures is extensive as well. If I know something about those subjects, it is because I have the honor of assisting him in his work.”
    Devon had never heard of Dr. Farnsworth, but then, his interests didn’t lie in antiquities. He’d bought the statue to satisfy his mother’s whim to have a classically themed garden. The countess had hoped for something like Lady Hepplewhite’s collection of marble dryads.
    “A veritable Grecian urn sprung to life,” she’d claimed about Lady Hepplewhite’s garden statuary.
    Privately, Devon suspected his mother had never closely inspected an ancient urn. They were frequently peopled with figures engaged in extremely earthy endeavors, the sort the Countess of Devonwood would be certain to frown upon should any of them be reenacted in her garden.
    He massaged his right temple in a gesture he hoped appeared thoughtful. Devon tried to hide his pain as much as possible. “So help me understand. You’re a visiting antiquarian who’s invaded this garden for the sake of sketching its art?”
    “Nonsense. I’m merely drawing to pass the time. I’m here to meet Lord Devonwood,” she said. “But apparently his lordship has been larking about London all night and hasn’t found his bed yet.”
    After his night of gaming, Devon’s pockets were lined with banknotes and IOUs. So long as he played only with those who could well afford to make good on their vowels, he suffered no pangs of conscience over the advantage his special ability gave him.
    It was rarely such a benevolent gift. He reckoned the skull-splitter he experienced now more than paid for the privilege of using it.
    “Out all night, eh? Larking about London?” He arched a brow at her, trying not to wince at the additional pain that slight movement caused him. “You make Lord Devonwood sound a perfect scoundrel.”
    “My thoughts precisely,” she said with a conspiratorial grin.
    “But there’s probably good reason for an earl to be abroad all night,” he said, feeling he ought to defend himself, though for the life of him, he didn’t know why. This girl, though very attractive, was nothing to him. “You may regret your first impression of him.”
    “Regret is a waste of time,” she said with certainty. “First impressions are generally correct. If