Free Lost in Pleasure by Marguerite Kaye Page B

closely. It was in
sad need of reupholstering, but there was something captivating about it that
made her want to try it out. She did so, snuggling into the high seat back,
closing her eyes with a sigh of pleasure. The worn leather on the out-scrolled
arms spoke of much use. It was a gentleman’s chair. She pictured it sitting in
front of a roaring fire in a library or book room.
    The chair seemed to envelop her, wrapping her in its welcoming
embrace. Whoever he had been, the original owner was clearly a man who liked his
comforts. Well-to-do, judging by the quality of this bespoke piece. Maybe a
scholar, or a poet—the early nineteenth century was practically awash with
poets. Errin smiled to herself. How different life must have been then. How
romantic. How much she wished her life...
    Her eyes grew heavy, and closed. There were flashing red lights
behind her lids. A deeper, more intense red swirled in the background like a hot
mist. She felt dizzy. Her fingers and toes tingled. The dizziness took a firmer
hold, making her feel as if she were spinning round and falling backwards at the
same time. The dazzling light hurt her eyes, but she couldn’t seem to prise her
lids open. Then a sudden flash of white light burned through the crimson, making
her sit bolt upright.
    * * *
    The first thing she noticed was the portrait of a man,
an extremely attractive man, dressed in the cutaway coat, clinging pantaloons
and polished leather boots of the Regency period. His eyes, a striking brown
colour that was like burnished copper, were tinged with amusement and seemed to
be observing her intently. He had a strong nose, a most decided chin, and his
mouth trembled on the verge of a smile, as if he knew some rather shocking
secret. Night-black hair cut very close to his head, but no hat. More devilish
than handsome really, and very sure of himself into the bargain, Errin
decided.
    She couldn’t understand why she hadn’t noticed it when she
first entered the shop. Her headache had gone. She must have dozed off. The heat
of the fire perhaps—that always made her woozy.
    The fire ? What fire ?
    The fire burning in the hearth. Above which the painting hung.
In the room that looked very much like a library and not at all like Pandora’s
Box off Camberwell High Street.
    Was she still asleep and dreaming this?
    Jet-lagged?
    Hallucinating?
    Errin rubbed her eyes, but the scene remained the same. She
pinched herself, something she’d always thought a ridiculous thing when people
did it in books. It hurt, but still nothing changed.
    She looked around her, at the glass-fronted bookcases and the
beautiful curio cabinet that took up most of one wall. It was a lovely room,
authentically Regency, with some much older pieces. She ran her hands over the
ebony-and-ivory marquetry of a pedestal side table that looked to be straight
out of Sheraton’s Cabinet Dictionary . If this was a dream, it was an extremely
vivid one.
    The portrait above the mantel drew her attention again. A
wealthy man, a scholarly man, but above all a sexy one. It might be the boots, or the way the pantaloons clung to his legs, or
perhaps the devil-may-care look. There was nothing insipid about him. His
smouldering demeanour suggested a man capable of giving, and receiving,
pleasure.
    The idea made Errin’s blood heat. Keeping one eye on the
portrait, she wandered over to the bookshelves, running an idle finger along the
titles. The unlit lamps scattered about the room were oil-fired. There were
candelabra on the mantel, standing on either side of a clock showing the phases
of the moon. French , she thought automatically.
Louis Quatorze, and in perfect condition. Worth thousands. Intrigued, she was
about to take a closer look when a door in the panelling opened.
    A man stood in the doorway. Tall, with long legs clad in long
boots and tightly fitting trousers. A tailed coat left unbuttoned to reveal a
striped waistcoat. The coat framed broad shoulders. The white shirt with