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Praise for Gail Ranstrom
THE COURTESAN’S COURTSHIP ‘…this book should not be missed.’ —Rakehell
THE RAKE’S REVENGE ‘Ranstrom crafts an intriguing mystery, brimming with a fine cast of strong and likable characters and a few surprises.’ —Romantic Times BOOKreviews
THE MISSING HEIR ‘Ranstrom draws us into this suspenseful tale right up to the very end.’ —Romantic Times BOOKreviews
SAVING SARAH ‘Gail Ranstrom has written a unique story with several twists that work within the confines of Regency England… If Ranstrom’s first book showed promise, then SAVING SARAH is when Ranstrom comes of age.’ —The Romance Reader
A WILD JUSTICE ‘Gail Ranstrom certainly has both writing talent and original ideas.’ —The Romance Reader
‘So, Lady Lace, is that your game? Gathering kisses?’
She was not surprised that he knew her alias. She was well on her way to becoming notorious.
He was dark and handsome—strong and commanding—dangerous. She realised what she had to do.
She closed the short distance between them, slipped her arms around his neck and lifted on her toes to reach his mouth. When she pressed her lips to his, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed her to the wall. No escape.
No mercy.
His kiss was consuming and powerful, making her head swim and her senses reel. When her resistance weakened, it turned coaxing, teasing with little flicks of fire at the edges. There could be nothing even remotely similar to this kiss. She was losing herself to it—losing her very will to resist.
Gail Ranstrom was born and raised in Missoula, Montana, and grew up spending the long winters lost in the pages of books that took her to exotic locales and interesting times. That love of the ‘inner voyage’ eventually led to her writing. She has three children, Natalie, Jay and Katie, who are her proudest accomplishments. Part of a truly bi-coastal family, she resides in Southern California with her two terriers, Piper and Ally, and has family spread from Alaska to Florida.
Recent titles by the same author:
A WILD JUSTICE
SAVING SARAH
A CHRISTMAS SECRET
(in The Christmas Visit anthology)
THE RAKE’S REVENGE
THE MISSING HEIR
THE COURTESAN’S COURTSHIP
INDISCRETIONS
LORD LIBERTINE
Gail Ranstrom
MILLS & BOON
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Prologue
London, May 25, 1821
Panic licking at her heels, Isabella hurried down the long dingy second-floor corridor of Middlesex Hospital, the man sent by the Home Office leading the way. He indicated a door and she stepped through into a ward with twenty or more beds. The odor, something foul and fetid, hung ominously in the air.
“This way, Miss O’Rourke,” her escort said, directing her to a curtain along the far wall.
She slowed, reluctant now, after all their urgency. He’d tried to prepare her, the man from the Home Office—Lord Wycliffe, she thought he’d said. He told her she might not recognize Cora, and that she needed to brace herself and be strong. She glanced up at him again, hoping for reassurance and finding none.
She wished she could have waited for Mama to return from looking for Cora in the park, but Lord Wycliffe had said there was no time to lose. She’d left her sister Eugenia to bring her mother and Lilly to the hospital when they returned. Then Lord Wycliffe had brought her here. To identify Cora. On the way, he’d told Isabella what had been done to her—she’d been beaten, dishonored, disfigured and cast off in a dust heap at the end of a blind lane, where she’d been found by the morning watch. Now, so close, Isabella was afraid of what she’d find.
She swallowed hard.
“Do you need a moment, Miss O’Rourke?”
She shook her head and proceeded slowly. Lord Wycliffe stepped ahead and drew the curtain back for her. He touched her shoulder as she went forward. “I shall wait for you, miss.”
Only the meager light able to penetrate a filthy window illuminated the bed, but there was nothing of Cora’s in evidence. Where was her cloak? Her gown or slippers?
Isabella stepped closer. The occupant of the bed was swathed in bandages wound around her wrists and neck. Her head was turned away, and Isabella summoned the last of her courage before she touched her shoulder. “Cora?”
Slowly, painfully, her sister turned, and a sob broke free from Isabella’s chest. She had thought she was prepared for anything, but she hadn’t been prepared for this…this parody of Cora. And it was Cora—her honey-blond hair caked with dark, stiff blotches of blood, her forehead missing a large triangle of flesh, her eyes—those sparkling blue eyes—dull now and nearly swollen shut, and her lips cut and distorted.
The tortured lips parted, and a faint sigh emerged. “Bella…”
She took Cora’s hand. “I am here, Cora. You will be all right now. I am here and I will take you home.”
“Not…going home,” she said, and a glistening tear trickled down her puffy cheek.
Isabella nearly choked with the effort to hold her sobs back. “Please, Cora…”
“D-don’t pretend.”
Isabella could no longer stem the flow of her tears. Her pain and grief welled up and spilled over.
“Be…brave,” Cora whispered. “Avenge me, Bella.” Cora stopped for a moment when her swollen lip cracked and a fine line of blood appeared. Then she blinked and started again. “He lied about everything…was not who he said.”
“Who was not? And how shall I know him?” she asked. “If he lied about his name…”
“A gentleman. Tonnish. Charming, dark hair and dark eyes…taller than Papa was.”
“That is not enough, Cora. I need more. You must hold on. You must get well, and we will—”
“His kiss,” her sister sighed, closing her eyes as if remembering. “Always…always wets his lips after his kiss. As if tasting…and he tastes of…something bitter.”
“But—”
Cora opened her eyes again and the sheer intensity of her gaze immobilized Isabella. “Promise, Bella.”
“I…I promise. I swear it upon my life. Rest now, Cora. Mama will be here soon, and we…we…”
But Cora’s hand slackened and her face froze in a concentrated study of Isabella, as if entreating, even in death.
“No…” Isabella moaned as her knees began to buckle. “No…no…”
Lord Wycliffe came forward and braced her. “Come away, Miss O’Rourke. We shall wait for your mother in the matron’s office.”
But at that very moment, her mother and sisters rushed through the ward toward them. “Bella! Bella! Say it isn’t our Cora! Say there has been some awful mistake.”
“Mama…”
Isabella tried to stop her mother and sisters from going to Cora’s bed, from seeing what had been done to her, but they swept Isabella aside, knocking her back against Lord Wycliffe. A long keening wail broke over the ward as her mother threw herself over Cora’s lifeless form. “My baby! Oh, my darling child! Bella, how could you? How could you have let her come to this?”
“I didn’t know—”
“It was your duty to know!” Mama buried her face against Cora’s chest and sobbed, her words barely distinguishable as she said, “Itshouldhavebeenyou. Why couldn’t it have been you?”
The words, stark in their sincerity, cut into her heart and made it impossible for her to breathe. She turned away from the gruesome scene, and fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Eugenia and Lilly clutched each other tightly, but Isabella had never felt so alone in her entire life.
Lord Wycliffe, a complete stranger, offered her the only comfort she could find. He slipped an arm around her waist to support her and murmured some indistinct platitude. Grief, anger, pain and loneliness filled her as she silently renewed her promise.
Rest in peace, Cora. I will avenge you.
Chapter One
London, July 2, 1821
“What are we doing cooling our heels at a masquerade when we could be kicking them up at a witches’ Sabbath?’ Tis summer, Hunter. There’s got to be something better to do. Some prank, some diversion.”
What, indeed? Andrew Hunter yawned and scanned the crowded ballroom at the Argyle Rooms. A masquerade, and he and his friends had not bothered to wear costumes or even dominoes. What a sad state of affairs, when he could not think of anything at all to interest him—here or anywhere else. Well, it was bound to have come to this sooner or later. He had not left much undone, untried, untasted.
Henley nudged him again. “There’s going to be a black mass in the tombs beneath the chapel at Whitcombe Cemetery. If you know of another…”
Andrew took a deep draught of his brandy and then shook his head. “None better than the Whitcombe Sabbaths. Go on without me, Henley. I think I’ll make an early night of it.”
“Early night? Are you ailing, Hunter?”
Ailing? Is that what one would call boredom to utter distraction? Aye, then, he had a bloody terminal case of boredom. “It’s all hogwash, Henley. Pretend and make-believe. Witches’ Sabbaths, cock fights, bear baiting, whoring…”
His friend gave him a sage appraisal. “We need to find you an interest, Hunter. A cure for the doldrums.”
“Lord save me!” Andrew laughed. “You are going to suggest a woman, are you not?”
“Nothing like a willing lass to lighten your cares, eh?”
He considered the suggestion for one brief moment. Then even that palled. How many women had he had in the last year alone? How many assignations and seductions? How many illicit flirtations? God help him, he’d lost his appetite for even that.
When his older brother, the Earl of Lockwood, had married barely four months ago, Andrew had taken a small town house. He had no wish to hang about the family manor and watch Lockwood’s domestic bliss—comical as it was. His brothers, James and Charles, had also rented flats to grant the couple their privacy. Whatever restraint had been placed on Andrew by his elder brother’s presence was now gone. Perversely, the freedom to indulge his slightest whim had robbed him of the pleasure.
All the same, he felt an odd restlessness tonight, an air of expectancy. Something unusual was in the offing, but he suspected he wouldn’t find it in the usual places. “No,” he said at length to Henley’s suggestion of female companionship. “Think I’ll see what’s afoot at the club, then stumble my way home.”
The look on Henley’s face was amusing—as if he could not believe his ears. “Have you become that jaded, Hunter? We used to live for nights like this. Why, look! All around us, men and women are looking for mischief.”
Once again, Andrew surveyed the crowd. Spirits were high, it was true. Hiding identities behind costumes and masks gave license to lewd behavior. Or was it summer and the long warm days that loosened one’s morals? Whatever it was, it was present at tonight’s gathering and would likely be present at the many balls, soirees, musicales, fetes, fairs and pleasure gardens in the days ahead. But…
“None of it is new, Henley. Just the same old thing wearing different guises.” Lord, how he wished for something new—anything that would drag him from his constant state of numbness.
“Pshaw! There’s plenty of variety. Why, this is the first year Lady Lace has made an appearance.”
“Lady who?”
Henley inclined his blond head toward a group in one corner. Lively conversation punctuated by laughter carried to them. In the center stood a diminutive woman dressed in black silk and masked by a black lace-edged domino. She was slimmer than he liked, and not nearly as buxom, but she had a certain allure about her. She waved one graceful hand in front of her face in a dismissive gesture, and two fair young men backed away. Two more took their place, including his friend Conrad McPherson.
Andrew narrowed his eyes to peer through the dim candlelight. Yes, she was thin, but not so thin that she could not fill out a gown. And though she lacked a deep cleft between her breasts, milky white swells hinted at what lay beneath the lace ruching that trimmed her décolletage. Chestnut-brown hair tied up in black ribbons would have been drab if not for the gleam and glints of fire in the curls left to dangle down her back.
“Intriguing,” he muttered. “Tell me about her.”
Henley grinned, no doubt pleased he had snared Andrew’s interest. “She is called Lady Lace, always wears black and has, thus far, evaded revealing her true identity. They speculate that she is from the north. Yorkshire, perhaps, or Scotland or Ireland by the faint trace of a Gaelic accent. She has not been long on the scene—a week, perhaps—and some say she is the widow of a country peer. Others swear she is a courtesan looking for her next protector. All we know for certain is that each night she appears, she favors a man with a kiss. And what a kiss! No sisterly peck on the cheek, but one deep and full of promise. Why has she never chosen me, I ask.”
Andrew raised an eyebrow. “A device designed to make people talk and men anticipate her arrival. She is nothing if not a very canny businesswoman. Mark me, she will make a choice soon, and the poor devil will pay through the nose for it.”
“You are without a mistress at the moment, are you not, Hunter? What say you give it a go?”
“She’s not my usual fare. Not enough meat on her bones.”
“You might want to try something new, eh? What a coup to make away with the most sought-after woman of the season. Quite a difference between her and the schoolgirls invading town to make their bows.”
Did he care about a coup? No. But the thought of revealing what lay beneath the black weeds and lace held a certain appeal. He was not ordinarily competitive, but the idea of claiming a woman who did not behave like a schoolgirl and who would not act coy for a marriage proposal was alluring. Pray she was not a courtesan looking for a protector. He had just paid a generous congé to the last. “Go on to Whitcombe without me, Henley. I’ll catch up to you later.”
Isabella O’Rourke fought back her gag of revulsion as the black-haired man kissed her. He had a definite finesse, but the fact remained that she had permitted this intimacy with a stranger. And she knew now all she needed to know.
This was not the man who had killed Cora.
She drew away with a show of reluctance and placed one palm against his chest to keep him at a distance. “La! You quite take my breath away, Mr. McPherson. I shall have to watch myself around you.”
He laughed and gave her a crisp bow. “Do not watch yourself, madam. I shall do that for you.”
She smiled and drew her closed fan down the side of his right cheek. “I shall think upon it, sir. Now off with you.” She made a shooing motion toward the ballroom and waited until he disappeared.
Alone, she exhaled and waited while a bottomless shudder passed through her. She turned to the console table in the alcove and found an abandoned glass of rich amber liquid. Whiskey? Brandy? It didn’t matter. With just the slightest hesitation, she lifted it and took a deep drink, holding the liquor in her mouth until it burned. God grant it would burn away the last traces of her humanity so that she could finish what she’d begun.
She swallowed, closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the wall, waiting for the warmth to spread through her.
“That little shudder of revulsion, madam? Was it for yourself or your partner?”
Myself! She straightened and turned to face the intruder in the alcove. He was watching her, one shoulder propped against the wall and a cynical smile curving his deeply sensual mouth. His eyes, dark and intense, bore into her, and she suspected he saw more than he should. Oh, that would never do!
“You find a kiss revolting, sir?” Her question was not an answer, but she hoped he would not pursue one.
“I do not, but your reaction proves different.” He bowed, a mere mocking of manners. “Andrew Hunter at your service, madam.”
She gave him an equally mocking curtsy but did not volunteer her name. What would he say if he knew she’d only had her first kiss a week ago? “My reaction aside, Mr. Hunter, I do like kissing. That is why I do so much of it.” Oh, how smooth her lie was. How convincing.
He grinned as if deriving some satisfaction from her reply. “So, Lady Lace, is that your game? Gathering kisses?”
She was not surprised that he knew her alias. She was well on her way to becoming notorious. She considered lying to him but realized it would be futile. If she was any judge, this man had told enough lies in his life that he would surely recognize hers. “Perhaps I am too countrified, sir, but I am always amazed when I realize the degree to which complete strangers in the city feel they are entitled to the intimate details of one’s life.”
He gave her a slight nod. “I gather I am not the first to inquire into your background. But a name is hardly intimate, madam.”
“There is no need to grant anyone permission to use it, since I do not plan on being long in London.”
He reached out and lifted the domino from her face, dropping it on the console table. “Do I look like the sort of man who needs permission?”
No, he certainly did not. His very presence unnerved her. He was strong and commanding. He was dangerous. He was a man just like the one who had killed Cora. And then she realized what she had to do. She would come to it sooner or later, so it was best to have it over and done with now.
She closed the short distance between them, slipped her arms around his neck and lifted on her toes to reach his mouth. She felt his little shock of surprise in the sudden stiffening of his spine, but when she pressed her lips to his, he softened, wrapping his arms around her and turning with her until her back was pressed to the wall. No escape.
No mercy.
His kiss was consuming and powerful. It was undeniable, making her head swim and her senses reel. And then, when her resistance weakened, it turned coaxing, teasing with little flicks of fire at the edges. Her breasts, flattened to his chest, began tingling and aching, quite unlike anything she’d experienced before. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that she was losing herself to this kiss—losing her very will to resist.
Oh, dear Lord, she’d lost control of this situation! She summoned the few senses remaining to her and fought to regain that tenuous hold. Alas, Andrew Hunter had no intention of relinquishing it. His tongue met hers and merged with a hot demand. She wanted to retreat, but there was nowhere for her to go. With the wall at her back and Mr. Hunter at her front, she was trapped as effectively as if she’d been caged. And in another minute, she would crave captivity. She slid her fingers up his neck and stroked the soft wave of dark hair at his nape and arched against him, wanting more of the breathless feelings he elicited.
And then he went still and stiff. He surrendered her mouth with a low growl and reached up to disentangle her arms from around him and turned away. Had she disgusted him?
“You have bewitched me, Lady Lace,” he said as he turned back. “But I prefer to conduct such activities in private.”
She realized that she had somehow wandered from her original purpose, but she didn’t know how. She could only stand there, looking at him, unable to speak.
“Name your price. And please do not disappoint me by asking me what I mean.”
Oh, that much, at least, was clear. She could only hope he thought she was a courtesan rather than a common whore. “I understand, sir, but I fear you have misread me. I am not for sale. Not at any price.”
“Then you are looking for a husband.”
“No.”
“Just as well, my sweet, since no respectable man would marry a woman who’d kissed half his friends and more.”
She gave him a self-deprecating laugh and looked away, wondering if there was another abandoned glass of liquor nearby. “Perhaps the man I am seeking is not respectable.”
“Then you and I are ideally suited, madam, since I am not the least bit respectable.”
She might have thought he was teasing or cajoling, if his tone had not been completely serious. Oh, she could believe him. One could not kiss like that without years of practice and miles of experience. But there was something darker in his voice, something frightening. She glanced back to find him uncomfortably close. She raised one hand to hold him apart.
“No words of affection? No declaration of fidelity or undying love? No pretty manners or promises? What sort of courtship is this, sir?”
“Have I not said you’ve bewitched me? I could tell you lies, Lace, but I hoped you were not the sort to require such twaddle. How could I love you when I barely know you? How could I swear fidelity when we will both be on to the next lover as soon as our affair palls? But if that is what you need, I shall give it to you, though be warned—I won’t mean a word of it, and I won’t have you crying ‘foul’ afterward.”
He was honest, at least. Of the four similar proposals she’d garnered, not one of them had been honest enough to tell the truth. “N-nevertheless, Mr. Hunter. I am not for sale.”
“If not money or marriage, name your terms.”
Searching for words, she shrugged. “When…when I know them, sir, I shall tell you.”
“Please do. When I want something, I am not a very patient man.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
He grinned, bowed and took his leave. When he was halfway across the ballroom, he turned to look at her again. She could feel his gaze sweep her from head to toe. His admiration was clear, but the open sexuality of his gaze unnerved her.
She glanced at her domino on the console table. How would she ever hold him at bay? She had better find her quarry soon.
Lady Lace. Ah, yes. This was going to be interesting. How long had it been since a woman had denied him? Well, that sort of woman, at any rate.
Andrew took his hat and walking stick from the footman at the door and stepped into the darkened street. The distance to Whitcombe Cemetery was scarcely twenty minutes, and he waved a coach away, deciding the exercise would expend a measure of his restless energy.
And banish the memory of the most remarkable kiss he’d ever indulged.
To be kissed in so sudden and forward a manner, to be consumed by that kiss to the point of instant and painful arousal, was unprecedented for him.
Lady Lace was definitely a witch. That kiss—how had she known the very thing that would set him back on his heels and make him lose his self-possession? And how had she managed to accomplish the very thing no woman ever had—meet him on his own terms, without demurring or pretense?
How had he thought her drab at first sight? Lace definitely improved with proximity. At close hand, she was perfectly proportioned. Her breasts were soft and ample enough to burn their impression against his chest. And her hair was not dull at all, but alive with multicolored strands of chocolate, chestnut, caramel and copper. And her eyes—the most soulful greenish hazel he’d ever seen. But her mouth—dear Lord—that mouth! It was all his favorites wrapped into one. The hint of a saucy lilt in her voice and the soft, lush lips accented by a small mole above one corner beckoned him. Straight, even teeth and a sweet, almost shy, tongue replete with intoxicating brew completed the spell.
Ah, but what could he do about her? Clearly, she had her own plan. Just as clearly, he was not a part of it. But that knowledge did not satisfy his lust for her or engender any soft romantic notions in him. He wanted her, and he fully intended to have her.
He felt his blood rising again and quickened his pace. He hadn’t intended to go to the witches’ Sabbath tonight, but now he felt the need to slake an indefinable thirst for excitement and fulfillment. Aye, he’d go to meet Henley and the others and they’d find sin of some sort.
Isabella closed the door of the rented town house on James Street and braced herself. As awful as the night had been, coming home to the guilt and pain was worse. She dropped her cloak where she stood, kicked her slippers off and tiptoed into the salon. A soft sigh from the sofa told her that Eugenia had waited up for her.
Her sister sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Bella?”
“Gina, I told you not to wait up. Go along to bed, dear. Mama will need you in the morning.” She went to the sideboard and poured herself a small glass of port to help her sleep.
“She’s had a bad night, Bella. She’ll sleep late. But she may want to see you tomorrow.”
Isabella gave her sister a sad smile. How dear of Gina to hold out that hope. In truth, their mother was the sort who needed to fix the blame for any disaster on anyone but herself. This time it was Bella’s turn to be the scapegoat.
And the awful truth was that Bella blamed herself, too. If only she’d paid more attention to Cora’s absences. A short walk in the park, indeed! Her sister had been meeting a murderer. If only she’d gone with Cora. If only she’d raised an alarm sooner when Cora had been late coming home.
“Mr. Franklin came by at suppertime,” Gina said. “He wants to know if we intend to honor the lease through September. I did not know what to tell him.”
A lump formed in Isabella’s throat and she sighed. “If I am gone next time he comes, tell him yes. We cannot leave London until Mama is well enough to travel, but that may not be for a while. Nevertheless, we shall pay, even if we leave the place vacant. Mama signed the contract, and we shall honor it.’ Tisn’t as if we are destitute.”
Gina nodded. “The sooner we leave, the better, say I. Not only has London killed Cora, but it is stealing you away, too.”
“Hush, sweet,” Bella soothed. “London is not stealing me away. I am simply seeking Cora’s murderer. He shan’t get away with it. I promised.”
“But, Bella, you have changed. You…you are drinking too much strong spirits, you are going out without a chaperone and staying out late. You will be ruined.”
She gave a choked laugh. Will be? If Eugenia found out about the kisses… “Cora is dead. Dead. The scandal will ruin us all—you, Lilly and me. I only hope we can leave London before the news filters to the ton, which it is sure to do when Lord and Lady Vandecamp arrive in London. They will withdraw their sponsorship in quick order. When Mama is well enough, we will return to Belfast, likely never to return.” She sighed. “So, do you really think I care what a bunch of London popinjays think of me? We are already ruined.”
“That isn’t fair. It wasn’t our fault. And, no matter what society will think, it was not Cora’s fault, either.”
“That will not matter.’ Tis always the girl who is blamed. What fast behavior! Why was she unescorted? What was she doing there? Somehow it will be twisted to be Cora’s fault. Now go on to bed, dear. I am home safe now, and I shall come up presently. I just want to look in on Mama and Lilly.”
Gina stood and gathered her robe around her. “Do not fall asleep on the sofa again. Cook will find you when she comes down to prepare breakfast. She’ll tell Nancy, and Nancy will tell Mama.”
Bella nodded absently. Nothing was secret from the servants. When Gina was gone, she returned to the bottle on the sideboard. A sip? Just a tiny dram? Enough to let her sleep without dreaming? Or was Nancy reporting her drinking habits, too? Measuring the level of liquid in the bottles?
What was wrong with her? She’d never even tasted anything stronger than watered wine before Cora died, and now she was using it liberally and undiluted. To forget the pain. To sleep without dreams. To wash away her self-loathing and the taste of too many kisses, too many strange men.
She went back to the sofa, leaving the decanter untouched. She just needed a moment to close her eyes and make plans for tomorrow, and to rest.
First, she’d rise early, with her sisters. With Mama unable to cope with even the slightest unpleasantness, Lilly and Gina needed guidance. She could not have them wandering off alone as Cora had done.
Cora. Tragic, beautiful Cora.
How she wished she could remember Cora beautiful now—with her honey-blond hair and blue eyes so like Lilly’s, and so unlike Gina and Bella in coloring and temperament. But she could only remember Cora as she’d last seen her in Middlesex Hospital—a grotesque parody of what she had been. And, dear Lord, how could she ever forget Cora’s sightless eyes entreating her beyond death? Be brave. Avenge me, Bella.
In the weeks following Cora’s death, she’d made daily visits to the Home Office and begged for information. But in the end, there had been no leads, and the case had been put aside. Lord Wycliffe had been too busy, she’d been told, and was working on “other things.” They’d sworn they had done all they could, but admitted that Cora’s killer might never be brought to justice.
But Bella couldn’t accept that. His kiss, Cora had said. Always…always wets his lips after his kiss. As if tasting…and he tastes of…something bitter. So, for the last week, she’d gone out in society, found men who matched Cora’s description and urged a kiss—the only avenue the authorities had not pursued. The only one left to her.
That man tonight—Mr. Hunter—had turned away after their kiss. Had that quirk simply been a reaction to her catching him by surprise? But she couldn’t recall if he tasted bitter.
The mere thought propelled her to her feet and sent her back to the sideboard. No small dram would do, but a full half-glass. She drank it standing there, and did not move until the little trails of fire tingled all the way to her toes.
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