Free Susan Carroll by The Painted Veil

found the box he wanted.
Just opposite him on the first tier sat a pale woman garbed all in
white, the short puffed sleeves of her gown exposing the slender
grace of her arms.
    So Anne Fairhaven was still alive and well.
She had not gone off into a decline over the assault upon her
virtue by the wicked Lord Mandell. Mandell had to admit he had been
curious to see her again, wondering if he would experience the same
strange tug of attraction that had beset him that night at the
countess's ball.
    But moonlit gardens could weave illusions as
well. The heady scent of roses, like an opiate, could cause a man
to fancy there was something different about Anne from other women,
a sorrowing angel whose gentle touch might be capable of curing the
darkness in a lost soul.
    Absolute nonsense, of course. Gazing at her
across the theatre, he could see now that she was an ordinary
mortal, only a little more solemn than the sort of lady who usually
struck his fancy. She shared the box with her sister Lily and two
of the countess's long-term admirers, the Honorable Mr. Adam
Barnhart and Lord Douglas Cecil. The trio laughed heartily as the
drunken porter staggered onstage to offer some comic relief, but
Anne seemed set apart from the others, untouched by the laughter,
alone, as Mandell often felt himself to be.
    Just an ordinary woman, yet he could not seem
to tear his eyes away from her. She fingered the pearls at her
neck, her decolletage more daring than the gown she had worn to
Lily's ball three evenings ago. Mandell's gaze traveled over the
soft rise of her bosom, the ivory column of her throat, the way her
hair had been pulled up into a chignon of curls that glinted gold
in the light cast up from the stage. The style left her face
mercilessly exposed, vulnerable. It made him want to pull her into
his arms and—
    Mandell caught his breath, experiencing a
familiar quickening of the blood. So he desired the lady. That was
all it was. When he had kissed her, her lithe frame had felt good
pressed against him, her mouth hot, moist, and inviting.
    He wanted her. Then the solution was simple.
He would have her. Fill some of his empty nights with the sweet
pleasures of her body. And in having her, he would put an end to
any illusions.
    How readily would the virtuous Anne agree to
these plans of his? A hard smile touched Mandell's lips. The lady's
willingness did not overly concern him. When he had kissed her, he
had tasted desire upon her lips, felt the brief tremor of passion
course through her. A passion she had been quick to suppress. The
next time he would not permit her to do so.
    He had released her that night, fully
expecting the usual reaction; tears, accusations, all the trappings
of outraged virtue. He had to admit she had surprised him. Her only
response had been that sorrowful bewilderment that he should even
have wanted to kiss her. Could it be the lady truly did not realize
how desirable she was? He would take great delight in teaching her
otherwise.
    He had permitted her to flee him once. The
marquis of Mandell did not chase women across ballrooms. He bided
his time. Stretching back in his seat, he was content for the
moment to watch her from the shadows of his own box, imagining how
her honey gold fall of hair would look tumbled across his pillow,
her prim mouth well kissed to a state of compliance.
    These agreeable reflections were interrupted
by the sound of a footfall behind him. Irritated to have his
solitude intruded upon, Mandell turned to see who had the temerity
to step into his box unasked.
    His brows rose when he saw that it was his
cousin Nick. Who else would wear such a horror of a flowered
waistcoat and a frock coat—Mandell could not tell the exact hue,
but he had a distasteful notion it might actually be purple.
    Nick stumbled forward. Banging up against the
empty seat he muttered a soft curse. Mandell had the impression
that he was rather out of breath, but Nick's voice sounded steady
enough when he spoke.