Free Beyond Seduction by Emma Holly

roof with a man she barely knew, a man who clearly considered her fair game for his amorous wiles.
     
    "My-y," she said, the word sighing out on a long, low breath. Even she could scarcely credit she'd had
    the nerve.
     
    She hadn't permitted herself to consider how she'd feel, not when she handed Isabel her packet of bogus letters to send back to Merry's mother, not when she snuck out of the mansion in her stolen dress and hired a cab to St. John's Wood.
     
    She was alone with Nicolas Craven, alone but for a butler who probably saw more depravity in a week than she could imagine in a year. Knees weak, she dropped into a faded fan-backed chair. She felt as if she were galloping toward an unfamiliar jump on a half-broke horse, the hazards untested, the outcome wholly dependent on her and the creature's skill.
     
    The intensity of her terror was a pleasure in itself.
     
    *  *  *
     
    Despite her resolve to embrace all challenges, Merry was dismayed to discover she had not planned as well as she'd thought. She went down to dinner at five to eight, still wearing her pitiful maid's dress.
     
    She stopped in her tracks at the entrance to the dining room, barely noticing when Nic rose. This room,
    a small but perfect oval, was done up like a French salon from the era of the Sun King. Soft, pastoral murals—not Nic's, she thought—filled curlicued medallions on the walls. Gilt and ormolu encrusted the furniture to the extent that she wondered if it was safe to sit. Everything looked antique, even the ivory damask that draped the table.
     
    She'd known Nic Craven was successful, but this eclectic jewel of a home was more than she'd foreseen.
     
    "Is something wrong?" he asked, standing beside his chair.
     
    Recalling herself, she touched the skirt of her orange gown. "I have no clothes," she said.
     
    She lied, of course. She had a steamer trunk full of clothes sitting in the cellar of Isabel's town house. This trunk was supposed to be on its way to Wales as part of her ruse to convince her mother she had gone. Since Nic didn't know this, he looked her up and down, his eyes slanting, his lips curled slightly
    at the corners.
     
    She didn't understand how an expression so subtle could be so predatory, or what he imagined lay under this baggy gown. Certainly, nothing like what was there, or he wouldn't have been grinning.
     
    "We'll have to see what we can do about that," he said, and offered her the chair across from his. When she took it, he slid it under her with the ease of a gentleman born and bred. "I have gowns I keep on hand for models, but I doubt they'd fit you. You're a good deal slighter than most of the women I paint. If you can survive till Monday, I know a dressmaker we can visit. Very reasonable and discreet."
     
    I'll bet, Merry thought, especially the discreet part.
     
    Nic's eyes gleamed as if he'd read her mind. "I, of course, would never force you to wear a stitch. Speaking as an artist, I think the unadorned female form is a lovely thing."
     
    Merry shot a repressive look from beneath her brows, but it only made Nic laugh.
     
    "Little cold for that," she said.
     
    Nic put his elbow on the table and tweaked her nose.
     
    "You forget," he said, "in my house, we stoke the fires."
     
     

Four
     
    Nic led Mary to the studio after dinner.  He preferred his models relaxed and, over the years, he'd
    learned only one activity ensured that better than a hearty meal.
     
    Mary looked as if she hadn't seen her share of those. Apparently, Nic could add "pinchpenny" to the
    duke of Monmouth's sins. Feeding his servants was evidently not his priority. She was skin and bones, poor thing, and had eaten every scrap Farnham set before her. Considering her appetite, her ladylike manners made him smile. This was a woman who had striven to improve herself.
     
    The thought of helping her take the next step intrigued him. He suspected she would not waste the coin
    he paid her, though perhaps even she didn't know