Free A Little More Scandal by Carrie Lofty Page B

would accept that preposterous, nauseating story.
    She wanted to rail and scream. Do you know what I’ve endured? What good I’ve done? Her sacrifices hardly seemed worth the trouble when faced with such willful cruelty.
    “Everyone’s generosity has been quite a boon, yes,” she said carefully. “This gown, for example, had been Lady Julia’s. She was so kind as to have it altered to suit me, and to lend me the services of a lady’s maid.”
    Humility. Modesty. She had no other weapons. Try to find anything in there to use against me, you bulbous crone.
    Lady Evelyn puffed a little sigh, then waved her hand. “Out of my sight,” she snapped.
    Catrin exhaled. Pure relief. She bobbed a quick curtsy and mouthed whatever pleasantries might still be expected, then turned away. Whether the woman would repeat her tale remained outside of Catrin’s control. All she could do was enjoy what remained of the party, although her stomach had knotted around a glowing red coal. She might be sick.
    She had known the speculation to be rampant, but the nightmarish fantasy Lady Evelyn had crafted was simply . . . beyond. Was any woman capable of using such a tragedy to wipe clean a shameful slate? And then to accept every invitation to every ball, smiling as Catrin loved to smile and dancing as she loved to dance? Anyone who chose to believe that of her would believe her an exceedingly cold creature.
    “I must talk to you, Miss Jones.”
    Her heart stopped. Jumped. Thudded. Raced at a terribly unhealthy speed. She would’ve been alarmed for a patient with her vital signs.
    William Christie leaned against one of the massive pillars that stretched two stories tall, to where ornate frescoes decorated the domed ceiling. His ankles were crossed. He held a tumbler of liquor, but otherwise his posture seemed tense. It was the line of his wide chest—so constricted as to be nearly hunched. Even as Catrin noticed that sign of fatigue, he straightened to his wholly intimidating height. She inhaled sharply.
    He wore a simple charcoal suit that had been perfectly tailored. No more ill-fitting garments. This one permitted his shoulders the room to be broad and impressive and his legs the chance to show off their tight, strong bulk. His body had flexed atop hers. This suit did remarkable justice to his raw strength and long limbs. A plain, black satin half-mask covered most of his face, including his busted nose. The effect was breathtaking. He had transformed into the handsomest man Catrin had ever beheld.
    Again she thought of a wolf among sheep, only he was a strapping thief among preening aristocrats. She wanted to climb him, kiss him, strip that fine suit off his glorious body.
    But from somewhere in the depths of her character, where she had apparently learned to accept a great deal of insult without showing it, she found her voice. “And if I believe we no longer have anything to discuss?”
    She believed no such thing, of course. Her pride had taken quite a beating. She wanted to huddle behind her defenses for just another moment.
    He stalked away from the column, downing the last of his drink with a single flick of his wrist. The glass disappeared on the tray of a passing server. William stood over her, a primitive god fallen to earth. He glanced his knuckles against her cheek, then passed his thumb over her lower lip.
    “Oh, but we do,” he said. Amid the dancers, the music, and the ceaseless conversations, his rumbling rasp was difficult to hear. She felt that delicious vibration just beneath her breastbone. “Miss Jones, I would like to reopen our negotiations.”

Ten
    William did not wait for her answer. He had too much ground to cover.
    Taking Catrin’s hand, he pulled her toward the ballroom. Only under such circumstances could they stand close, talking, even touching, while people feigned knowledge of their identities. The liberties taken at the annual masquerade would burst the boundaries of propriety at any other event.