Free St. Raven by Jo Beverley Page B

that she knew him. That they might even be friends.
    It was an illusion. That clash of incomprehension over trade showed that. How could he be interested in foreign lands yet have no desire to explore business opportunities? How could he not want to be part of the fascinating advances in science and technology and, yes, the profits they were going to bring?
    They were foreigners who did not even speak the same language, but that didn’t make the illusion powerless. She was both exasperated by him and drawn to him, and he’d kissed her last night in a way she’d never imagined being kissed. What’s more, if she was to believe what he’d said, he’d desired her.
    He’d desired her.
Her
, Cressida Mandeville, the most ordinary of ordinary women…
    Her clothes fell loose again. She clutched them again. She took a steadying breath and turned. “Thank you, St. Raven. I can manage now.”
    She saw that look in his eyes again.
    Quieter, but still hot. It stirred something tentative but real and deep within herself…
    Cressida! He’s a rake. He holds orgies here. He is doubtless aroused by any woman in loose clothing.
    He smiled as if he could imagine her thoughts, and then he was gone.
    She blew out a breath and let her gown fall. She wriggled her corset over her head and then, reluctantly, took off her shift. Now she was covered only by her drawers and stockings. She pulled on the silky trousers and tied the cord at the waist. They did fit, though they were a little snug around her hips. When she looked in the mirror, however, she gulped.
    Snug! Her round hips and full bottom might as well be naked. And she
was
naked on top. She grabbed the jacket and put it on. The silk lining slid cool against her skin but rubbed her hardened nipples. She hastily buttoned it.
    Then she looked in the mirror again.
    She was covered. As she’d thought, she was better covered on top than she had been in her dress, for the jacket’s neckline was a little higher. She couldn’t ignore, however, the fact that her breasts were unconfined beneath it. When she shrugged, they moved! And the long line of gold buttons down the front was the only thing between her and exposure. She stretched back, and they gaped.
    Well, she’d simply not stretch back.
    The worst thing was that the jacket only just reached her waist. At any movement a bit of skin showed there, skin that had never, ever been exposed to public gaze before.
    Slowly, still watching herself, she raised her hands and pulled pins out of her coil of hair. A band of pale midriff showed, including the top of her navel.
    Impossible.
    And yet, moment by moment, she began to think that these garments might suit her better than conventional fashion. Her plait tumbled down her back. She drew it forward and loosened it, then shook her hair free, down to her waist.
    Her hair went with the costume, with the stranger in the mirror. It was as if she were looking at someone else, an exotic foreigner from Araby.
    She was plump, but she had a trim waist. The high waisted gowns of fashion did not flatter her, but the outrageous trousers and jacket did, making her full breasts and hips look right in some way. Indecent, but right. In balance.
    She picked up the face veil and tied it just below her eyes. Perhaps it was true that no one would know her if she were dressed like this.
    She broke connection with the exotic stranger in the mirror and went to plunder the jewelry. Bracelets. A half dozen narrow ones on each wrist. Two gaudy armbands on her upper arms. A necklace of red glass and false pearls that didn’t look at all Eastern.
    Reluctantly, she decided a “diamond” tiara wouldn’t do. She’d always wanted to wear a diamond tiara. Even so, when she studied the whole in the mirror, she laughed with delight. She was someone else entirely, flamboyant as she’d never been.
    She picked up the long blue veil and draped it over her hair, then had to use the tiara to hold it in place. She was laughing at