One Night of Passion by Elizabeth Boyle Read Free Book Online Page B

lady still teetered and wavered over the edge of the stairs, so he hauled her into his arms to save her from plunging into a heap of silk below.
    She trembled for a few more seconds, then finally came to rest in his embrace.
    In all the years he’d been betrothed to Lady Diana, he’d only gone so far as to kiss her properly gloved hand, but in a matter of seconds he felt as if he knew the lady he held intimately—how her body curved to fit his, the fullness of her breasts against his chest, the length of her willowy limbs wound around his with a strange familiarity, like they had been lovers for years.
    So as the whirl of purple silk and lace began to stop fluttering, he looked down expecting to find just another glittery member of the demimonde, yet to his surprise, he discovered he was holding the oddest-looking Cyprian he’d ever seen.
    Instead of the perfectly coiffed hair and array of paste jewels one associated with ladies of her profession, her blond hair was piled atop her head in a mêlée of hoydenish curls, barely held together with a handful of plain tortoiseshell pins. Her features bore no paint or artifice so commonly used by the incognitas and soiled doves; instead, her cheeks were rosy with the natural pink of embarrassment.
    Oh, her dress was obviously that of a lady of easy virtue—the neckline was far too low to be considered respectable, while the hemline rose too high to be modest. The lace and silk allowed tantalizing hints of the wares beneath—long limbs, soft, luscious skin, and curves that no lady of the ton would ever dare bare so brazenly in public.
    No, what made her such an oddity was that while all the pampered felines around her primped and moved with sensual precision and calculated poise, this lady was as graceful and engaging as an alley cat in lace.
    She swiped her tangled web of hair out of her face with one hand, while the other made a none-too-elegant sweep at her coiffure with a couple of negligent pats, brushing the wayward strands this way and that.
    When she finally just resorted to tossing her hair back off her brow, he saw her eyes—and through them, he could have sworn he saw down to her very soul.
    They were the most earnest, fathomless brown he had ever seen, wide and deep, like a sable night. He was caught by some secret they seemed to hold, an innocence that he didn’t believe could exist—not here amongst London’s most jaded.
    Innocence?
    What was he thinking? An innocent at this gathering was about as likely as Lady Diana putting in an appearance.
    “Are you well, sir?” she asked, shaking her arms and rattling at his grasp on her.
    It was then that he realized he still held her . . . not that he minded having her so close.
    For as they’d become entangled, her perfume had encircled them with a soft, subtle hint of flowers. Violets, he thought. Hardly the usual thick, annoying cloud of eau de cologne or lily of the valley favored by London’s fallen ladies.
    The scent enticed one to come closer and inhale deeply of its fresh bounty.
    Perhaps that was why he didn’t just set this chit aside and leave . . . No, he suspected his hesitation sprang from something that ran far deeper than just her beguiling perfume. For in that heartbeat of a moment, when he’d looked into her guileless eyes, something inside him thrummed to life.
    Like a prevailing wind, it swept over his senses, whispering and prodding him to take advantage of the rare opportunity standing before him like a newly discovered Spanish treasure.
    Colin had felt this way on several occasions, mostly at sea while engaged in battle when he’d spy an opportunity to take advantage of an enemy’s weakness, breaking ranks to seize the Fates with his own hands.
    It was a reckless, dangerous temptation, but one he knew from experience wouldn’t disappoint him if he gave in to its siren invitation.
    He need only trust its whispering call and step out of his usual cautious and conventional self.
    And