Fortune Favors the Wicked by Theresa Romain Read Free Book Online

you can simply—”
    â€œMiss Perry. Please. Stop. You have explained all I could desire, and more.” As though he would need to adjust the window-curtains! Not since his sight failed, darkening day by day, had he cared whether the sun was covered or not.
    She stilled. Sat on the bed, the mattress’s ropes creaking. Then sprang up again. “I’ll leave you to rest until dinner, Mr. Frost.”
    She was agitated; she had been since mentioning her sister and her niece. He wanted to put her at her ease again. “Wait, please.”
    Her tread across the floorboards halted.
    â€œWhat color is . . . everything?”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œThe counterpane. The curtains. What does it look like?” He hesitated. “I lost my sight only four years ago. I . . . miss the details of appearance.”
    Her steps came closer again. “I gave you an incomplete picture, didn’t I? All line and no color.”
    â€œSpoken like an artist.”
    â€œGood heavens, no. But I’ve spent a fair amount of time around those volatile creatures.” She cleared her throat. “Ah—are you fond of art yourself? Or . . . were you, once?”
    â€œNo more than most. Painting is lost to me now. Though if I can arrange for a friend to distract a museum guard, I still enjoy running my hands over a good sculpture.”
    The throat-clearing turned into a splutter—and then a laugh. “What higher honor for an artist than to have his piece groped?”
    Benedict smiled. He was quite sure artists enjoyed having their pieces groped as much as any other man. And from the way Charlotte posed the question, he suspected this was exactly the joke she intended.
    Footsteps crossed the floor, and then she stood at his side. “Neither of us is an artist, but we’ll rub along well enough. With my description of the room, I mean.”
    â€œI knew exactly what you meant,” Benedict said drily.
    â€œWhere to begin? Well, the washstand is a dark walnut. It’s scarred on the top where it has been scraped hundreds of times as the pitcher and ewer were dragged free, emptied, and replaced. They are glazed white, and the window is draped in olive. Outside of the window, one has a view of the Selwyn lands. We are on the edge of the moors, but he has some fine grazing land.”
    â€œAnd Selwyn is?”
    She spoke lightly, drawing away. “Edward Selwyn is the local squire, as well as one of those volatile artistic creatures I mentioned. The Selwyns are the most notable landowners hereabouts.”
    He stretched out a hand and found a bedpost. “And the bed? What does it look like?”
    â€œThe coverlet is patchwork, pieced in floral patterns and pale silks. The frame is the same dark walnut as the washstand, but in better condition. The knobs in here often get polished.”
    He had to work to keep a straight face. “Of the bedstead, you mean. Of course.”
    â€œWhy, what else could I possibly mean?”
    â€œI cannot fathom.” This was flirtation—but why him, why now? He almost asked to touch her face. She was the missing piece in this chamber, a sculpture unfelt amidst bed, washstand, desk.
    But if he began to touch her, he would not want to stop. How tempting it would be to trail his fingers over the planes of her face, to trace the line of her neck and collarbone. To cover her breast with his hand, to breathe in the scent of her bare skin. She was no maiden, not with her secrets and sly bawdy jokes.
    If he asked to touch her, she might say yes.
    He must not ask. He sought money, not a tumble. There was no reward in attaching a woman to oneself, whether for a day or a week or a lifetime.
    â€œWould it be too forward . . .” He pressed at the bridge of his nose. “Would—what do you look like?”
    â€œDoes it matter, Mr. Frost?” She sounded wary.
    Perhaps he ought to have said no. But: “Surely it matters at least as much