Free Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction by Jayne Fresina Page A

her funny little face and her fascination with his breeches made it impossible to lose his infamous temper. Yet. A dent in her lower lip was in danger of absorbing his attention for too long. “Half your life?”
    She sighed. “Yes.”
    “Then you know I am an unconscionable cad.”
    “Yes.” No equivocation there.
    “So why would I help by sending customers to you? Why should I care what becomes of an ingrate who abandons a good, steady, well-paid post in my household and has the gall to accuse me of—what was it— high jinks ? You can hawk your wares on a street corner and down a quart of gin a day, and it won’t make a ripple in my life.”
    “I assume you want your investment returned.”
    “Two hundred pounds? Do I strike you as a gentleman in need of it?”
    “Do I strike you as a woman who lacks the determination and wherewithal to find her own customers and achieve her own success?”
    There was a little feathery seed caught in her hair by her temple, just visible under the brim of her bonnet. Must have blown there in the spring breeze as she walked through the nearby park on her way to Danforthe House. Carver badly wanted to raise his hand and take the seed out for her, but then he would have to touch her hair. It would be soft, warmed by the sun. The curls would twist around his finger. He might not be able to stop there, and he didn’t want his fingers bitten.
    He felt a sharp pain, like a toothache. Wincing, he quickly lifted that same tempted hand to rub his cheek, and then it seemed as if she thought he was laughing at her, for the young woman’s anger visibly mounted. When she stepped toward him, Carver could see more color in her face, more detail in the deep, warm, chocolaty depths of her eyes.
    “And for your information, sir,” she added indignantly, “I’ve never touched a drop of gin.”
    “Perhaps you should. Might make you smile for once.”
    “I do not believe in the overconsumption of alcohol. I’ve seen what fools it makes of people.” Her face was pert, censorious. “Like you, for instance.”
    Oh, she was getting far too bold now, and he’d let her stretch her legs far enough. It was time he reined her in. “I daresay you also learned a lesson from your father’s misfortune.”
    That caused the prissy madam a jolt. Her eyes widened. “What can you mean by that, pray?”
    “Was he not the village drunk?”
    “He most certainly was not!”
    “But he was drunk the night that carriage ran over him. Had he not just been tossed out of the local tavern?”
    Her cheeks flushed a dainty shade of pink. “My father was on his way home from market that evening. It was late, and he was tired.”
    “And soused.”
    “How dare you!”
    “It’s true. My sister told me. She heard all about it from Rafe Hartley’s aunt and uncle.”
    Her lips parted. Her lashes flickered. Some of the high color in her face drained away.
    “Perhaps your mother wished to save you from the truth,” he added, realizing he might have gone too far in his eagerness to put her in her place again.
    She turned away swiftly, and the fresh, sweet scent of lavender tickled his nose as the sway of her gown released a soft wave of fragrance into the air. He waited. What could he say now? It wasn’t as if he had any experience in making apologies.
    “In any case,” she managed, recovering quickly, “had I wanted meddling in my business, your lordship, I would have asked your sister for a loan. Not you.”
    Meddling? Meddling? He was speechless and so annoyed that he forgot his toothache and any thought of apologizing.
    Now came the thrust of her sharp tongue, getting her vengeance. “Please do not send any more of your women to me.”
    She made it sound as if he kept a tribe of them in the cellar, along with a collection of fine wines. An amusing idea and quite practical actually, when he considered it. Carver always swore he would never devote himself to just one woman. Far better to have lots of Buffers ,