Free Deck The Halls With Love: Lost Lords Of Pembrook Novella by Lorraine Heath Page B

Evelyn Chambers.”
    She dipped elegantly into a flawless curtsy. “My lords.”
    He’d expected her voice to be sweet, to match her smile, but it was smoky, rich, the song of decadence and wickedness. He imagined that voice in a lower pitch, whispering of naughty pleasures, curling around his ear, traveling through his blood. He imagined deep, throaty laughter and sultry eyes, lost to heated passion.
    “Visit with the gentlemen,” Wortham ordered.
    Again, she gave the impression of one confused, but then she straightened her lovely shoulders and began making her way from one man to the next, a butterfly trying to determine upon which petal to light, which would be sturdy enough to support her in the manner to which she was accustomed.
    He caught glimpses of her face as she worked the crowd of a dozen men. A shy smile here, a bolder one there. Furrowed brow when a gentleman rested a hand on her shoulder or arm. Fluttering eyelashes as she expertly glided beyond reach without offending. He wasn’t quite certain she understood the rules of the game she was playing. Could she be that innocent?
    Her mother had been the late earl’s mistress. Surely she knew what her mother’s role in his life had been—to warm his bed, to bring him pleasure, to keep him satisfied.
    Sometimes she seemed to have confidence, to know exactly what she was doing. Other times she seemed baffled by the conversation. Still, it was as though she were ticking off a list, speaking to each man for only a moment or two before moving on, never returning to a man once they were acquainted.
    Come to me, he thought. Come to me. Then he shoved the wayward thoughts aside. What did he care if she didn’t notice him? He was accustomed to living in the shadows, to not being seen. The gossamer depths offered protection equal to the strongest armor. No one bothered him there unless he desired it.
    He didn’t desire her, yet he couldn’t deny that he wondered what her skin might feel like against the tips of his fingers. Soft. Silky. Warm. It had been so very long since he’d been warm. Even the fire by which he sat now couldn’t thaw his frigid core. He liked it that way, preferred it.
    Nothing touched him, nothing bothered him. Nothing mattered.
    She matters.
    No, she didn’t. She was an earl’s by-blow on the verge of becoming some man’s ornament. A very graceful ornament to be sure. An extremely lovely one. But she would be relegated to the same importance as a work of art: to be looked upon, to be touched, to bring pleasure when pleasure was sought.
    She glanced around, appearing to be lost within a room that should have been familiar to her. Then her gaze fell on him, and his body tightened with such swiftness that for a heartbeat he felt lightheaded, dizzy. He should look away, tell her with an averted glance that she was nothing to him, that he had no interest in her; and yet he seemed incapable of doing anything other than watch as she hesitantly strolled toward him.
    Finally she was standing before him, her small gloved hands folded tightly in front of her. With her this near to him, he could see clearly that her eyes were the most beautiful blue. No, more than blue. Violet. He’d never seen the like. He imagined them smoldering, darkening with desire, gazing at him in wonder as he delivered pleasure such as she’d never experienced. An easy task if she had indeed never known a man’s touch.
    But just as he had no use for mistresses, so he had none for virgins. He had not been innocent in a good long while. He had no interest in innocence. It was a weakness, a condition to be exploited, a quick path to ruin. It held no appeal.
    She held no appeal.
    He rethought the words in an attempt to convince himself of their truth. But as her eyes bore into his, he was left with the realization that she was not only innocent, but very, very dangerous. A silly thought. He could destroy her with a look, a word, a caustic laugh. And in destroying her, the