To Sin With A Stranger by Kathryn Caskie Read Free Book Online Page B

when she realized Isobel wasn’t joining her. “Aren’t you coming?” She pointed toward the fourth department. “I believe I can see the silk she meant from here, and it is lovely.”
    Isobel became aware just then that several ladies were listening to everything she and Christiana were saying. So, to make her feelings perfectly plain, she replied in a tone more appropriate for an orange seller than the daughter of a minister from the House of Commons. “I have no intention of looking at silk for a wedding gown. I have no intention of marrying anyone—especially the Scottish marquess Blackburn.”
    “Really?” Christiana grinned. “Hmm.”
    Isobel tipped her head toward the door to the street, and Christiana turned around to follow her out of the store. “Yes. It is the truth. I have not the least bit of interest in him. Not one bit.”
    “Oh, Issy, methinks thou doth protest too much,” Christiana muttered beneath her breath.
    Isobel whirled around and peered warily at Christiana, who was running her hand along a case of fans and gloves as she walked. “Did you say something?”
    “What?” Christiana glanced up innocently. “Oh, only that…um…” Color charged into her cheeks. She stilled her step, and her gaze flitted around the first department. Then she turned her attention back to Isobel. “I did not mean to say so aloud, but Issy, I think the fan you admired earlier costs too much.”
    Isobel’s eyes momentarily narrowed with suspicion that it was not the fan Christiana had commented upon. “Yes, I agree. Too dear.” She hurried back to Christiana and grabbed her hand. “So let us not tarry any longer. I wish to return home.” She pulled Christiana close and lowered the tone of her voice. “Please, let us leave now. I do not wish to encounter any other members of White’s, and the longer we remain near St. James’s Street, the more likely we are to tempt ill fate.”

Chapter 4
Materialism is the only form of distraction from true bliss.
    Horton
    Sterling’s throat tried to close in upon itself to prevent the vile soup from making its way into his body. He sat very still at the formal dining table, praying for his stomach to accept the potage.
    “It was my mother’s favorite recipe.” Mrs. Wimpole stood behind Sterling with her hands on her wide hips, expectantly awaiting his reaction to her meal. “I couldn’t quite recall all the ingredients, so I made do and added a little this and that to the soup.”
    Sterling nodded his head and forced back every instinct to the contrary to swallow. Though the soup looked appetizing, it reeked like a blend of rotting flounder and whore’s breath in a chamber pot.
    She tugged anxiously at her blond lace fichu. “Well, my lord, what do you think? Delicious, no?”
    Sterling turned his head just a bit and sealed his lips as he smiled, lest his gullet chase the swill back up again.
    When he was sure he could open his mouth, he grabbed a goblet of watered ale and drained it before setting it to the table again.
    Mrs. Wimpole was wringing her hands and chewing on her lower lip. “Is the soup too…hot?”
    Sterling seized on her suggestion. “Aye, but just a wee bit.” He warily eyed the yeasty-smelling roll on his plate. “And…you made the bread as well?”
    Mrs. Wimpole laughed. “Oh, goodness no. Those are from the baker. Baked yesterday, but right tasty when you warm them up.”
    Safe enough, Sterling supposed. He grabbed it up and pulled off a large bite. “Where are the others? I am only a few minutes late for our noonday meal.”
    “Oh, they came down, but not a one took more than a sip of soup before your brother Killian remembered that they all had an engagement at the tea garden…The Garden of Eden, that was the one.”
    Sterling felt his eyes widen, and he immediately came to his feet. “Aye, the Garden of Eden! How could I have forgotten? Well, I must away at once.”
    Mrs. Wimpole’s fluffy little white eyebrows inched toward