Twice Fallen Read Free

short silence, punctuated only by the clink as he removed the top of the decanter, and then the splash as he poured some of the liquor into a small crystal snifter.
    “You knew I was here?”
    Add her soft voice to his impressions. Damien liked the lilt and cadence of her question. The mysterious lady spoke in a lovely contralto, carefully modulated, and though it was tempting to turn around and see what she looked like, he denied himself, taking a sip from his glass. The brandy, he was happy to discover, was the best France had to offer and very smooth. “Yes.”
    She sat up. He knew it because of the sound of her feet touching the floor and the slight—almost inaudible—creak of the springs of the settee. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
    “Why didn’t
you
?” The brandy was heady and he swirled the liquid once before taking a second sip and slowly turning around.
    His first impression was that his quiet spy was striking. No, not beautiful, at least not like Lady Piedmont with her generous breasts and flaming hair, but… different. Pretty. Memorable even. Her hair was a rich color that in the insufficient light looked light brown with a few golden glints, and her figure was slender, not overly voluptuous, which was pleasing enough, and her skin pale and smooth. Her gown wasn’t beribboned and festooned with lace, but instead simple and yet fashionable,the neckline emphasizing the gentle curves of her breasts, the rose color offsetting the creaminess of her complexion.
    She had a very defiant tilt to her shapely chin.
    It must be a personal flaw in his intellectual composition, but he found that militant air fascinating.
    “I was here first.”
    It was a valid argument, so he shrugged, but he was
watching
her
.
Would he ever shed the habit? God, he hoped so. He was always watching. It was not an option in the existence he’d just left and he was uneasily settling into this new one. But he didn’t wish to go through his entire life vigilant and on guard.
    Actually, he was lucky to even
be
alive.
    “Yes, you were.” Damien took another drink. He’d done countless interrogations, and word had it he was very, very good at it. In fact, he knew he was. “Since there is no one to introduce us, and you just witnessed a rather personal scene, I think informality is in order.” He bowed slightly. “Lord Damien Northfield, at your service.”
    There was a perceptible hesitation, and then she said in a cool tone, “Lady Lillian Bourne.”
    He hadn’t been back in society long enough to really know any of the current gossip, not that he cared all that much about the generally superficial sins of the aristocracy anyway after so many bloody years in Portugal and Spain, but there was something in her voice that told him she thought the name might mean something to him.
    It did actually. It belonged to her. Lillian. He liked it. It was elegant, and yet not too prim.
    “May I offer my apologies for what you overheard?”It was the least he could do, for if she was an unmarried young lady—and he would stake his life on it—that hadn’t been the most appropriate of dialogue.
    “It seems to me you were not the one being improper, my lord.”
    Lovely
and
intelligent. The dry note in her observation was duly noted. “I was doing my best to dissuade her,” he agreed with a slight, hopefully disarming smile.
    “She’s very beautiful.”
    He was a little surprised at the directness. “Yes.” He swirled the liquid in the glass again, took a sip, and then expounded, “But unabashed pursuit is not appealing to me. I’ve been hunted enough.”
    The lighting was dim, but he caught the flicker of surprise in her eyes. She said, “That is an interesting statement. Are we still discussing eager women throwing themselves into your arms?”
    “No.”
    “I thought not.”
    Anyone else might simply inquire as to why she wasn’t in the ballroom dancing her dainty feet off, but he rarely took a straightforward path to