One Touch of Scandal by Liz Carlyle Read Free Book Online Page A

his hand to her face, cupped his long, incredibly warm fingers round her cheek, and gently turned her face back to his.
    And then the strangest thing happened. It was as if the heat of his touch seeped into her, through her jaw and up into the muscles of her face, until there was a flood of warmth through her body that felt something like the sizzle of nearby lightning, and yet nothing like that at all.
    It felt as though Grace had turned her face to the brightest sun imaginable, and drawn from it not just warmth, but something that felt vaguely like peace. Grace held herselfperfectly still to it and let the hush fall all around them. The noise from the street below, the faint autumn breeze from the window, even the sound of her own breathing; all of it faded away, but for how long, she could not have said.
    When she returned to herself, Grace heard a voice saying, “Open your eyes.”
    She tried to remember whose voice it was.
    â€œLook at me, Mademoiselle Gauthier.”
    She had not realized her eyes were closed. “W-Why?”
    â€œBecause I wish to see your eyes,” Lord Ruthveyn murmured. “They are, after all, the window to one’s soul, are they not?”
    At that, her gaze flew to his, almost against her will. But once their eyes met, Grace forced away the strange lethargy. She had nothing to hide. She would not be afraid of this man and his black, glittering gaze. And so she watched him as intently as he watched her. They sat so close, Ruthveyn had one hard thigh pressed to hers. His heat and scent swirled in the air—a mélange of exotic spices and smoke and raw, unadulterated male.
    Grace drew it in, the strange sense of calm and the otherworldly silence still pervasive. A moment passed, a heartbeat in time in which she felt utterly alone with Ruthveyn, as though nothing beyond this room and this moment existed.
    And then his hand fell from her face.
    As if nothing unusual had occurred, he turned his attention to the tea table, plucked one of the lemon biscuits from her plate, and set it to her lips.
    â€œEat,” he murmured.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou have lost all your color again,” he said.
    As if mesmerized, Grace found herself doing as he bid,biting off half and chewing it slowly. It was as if her taste buds had been jolted to sudden awareness. The morsel was tart as a slice of raw lemon, yet sweet and buttery. A crumb almost fell, and unthinkingly, Grace caught it with her tongue on a low sound of appreciation.
    Ruthveyn’s eyes narrowed approvingly. “Our chef’s special recipe,” he murmured. “Monsieur Belkadi raked all of Paris for him—then had his sister completely retrain the poor devil. Wait until you taste his saffron couscous.”
    â€œCouscous?” Grace took the second half with her fingers and finished it off. “Truly? Oh, I shall be his slave.”
    â€œI shall let him know,” said Ruthveyn. “Now a sandwich.”
    â€œI…I am not hungry.”
    â€œYou are,” he commanded. “You are starving. You need the clarity of mind that food will bring.”
    It seemed a strange thing to say. But Grace ate a bite of the tiny sandwich he presented, almost without considering how odd it was to be fed by a man she’d just met—or any man at all, come to that.
    The sandwich held a thin slice of cucumber atop a pink pâté, which tasted of salmon and lemon and dill all at once, then finished with the taste of purest cream. “My heavens,” she said after swallowing. “I wonder any of you can waddle up the steps.”
    Ruthveyn said no more but simply handed her the plate, then refilled her tea, slowly stirring in a dollop of milk just as she liked it. She finished off every bite, working her way round in a meticulous, clockwise fashion until, to her shock, the plate was empty.
    â€œExcellent,” he said again, setting the plate away.
    He returned to the opposite sofa, leaving