Free Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) by Ava Archer Payne Page B

they’d been called. Utter nonsense prettily packaged—they’d been all the rage a few years back.
    “Have you read them?”
    Read them? Good lord. He’d rather waste his time chewing boot leather. Aloud he replied only, “No.”
    “Oh, but you should,” she enthused dreamily. “I used to read them aloud to Arthur at the end of the day, when we finished our work at the pub.”
    “Arthur?”
    “My husband.”
    Her husband. Arthur. Now there was a subject that caught Jonathon’s attention. She’d mentioned earlier that he had died, but had volunteered no more information about him. Jonathon found himself intensely curious about the man. How had they met? What had he been like? Had he provided well for her, or had he mistreated her? Had he been mature and settled, or young and brash? And finally, had she been broken-hearted when he died?
    But those were questions propriety wouldn’t allow him to ask. So instead he said, “Tell me about the books.”
    She gave a small shrug. “Oh, I suppose they’re all the same. Another chapter in Philomena’s Grand Adventure.”
    Jonathon shook his head. “I know I’ll hate myself for asking, but apparently I’ve imbibed enough wine to throw caution to the wind. What, pray tell, is a Grand Adventure?”
    Mrs. Donnelly’s eyes sparkled with lively enthusiasm. “What isn’t it—that would be the better question. Fighting thieves, outwitting kidnappers, scaling castle walls, leaping over waterfalls, engaging in swordplay, securing runaway coaches, wrestling wolves—”
    “Should I mention that wolves have been extinct in England for centuries?”
    “Well, I suppose that particular volume was a bit far-fetched.” 
    Jonathon nodded, only half-listening as she continued her lively description of the books. He liked the way her hands danced through the air as she spoke. He liked the way she used her voice—conveying an exciting thrill one moment, earthy delight the next. He admired her intelligence. Hell, very few members of the House of Lords could summarize the intricacies inherent in the China trade as eloquently as she had done.
    Then there was her appearance. Amazing what candlelight could do for a woman’s skin. Or at least, her skin. The woman positively glowed. Warm honey, he thought, battling a ridiculous to press his lips somewhere against her person, to judge if she tasted as delectable as she looked.
    He allowed his gaze to drift slowly over her features. Not fully English, nor was she fully Asian. Her look was subtle, elusive, and vastly more intriguing. Dark, luminous eyes. Plump, pouty lips. Delicate wrists and finely boned hands. And her smile. Endearingly lopsided, with a tendency to quirk upward on her right side. When she spoke, he caught glimpses of gritty determination, fierce loyalty, and strength of spirit. All in all, she presented a compelling mixture of unaffected femininity and rock-solid backbone.
    Mrs. Donnelly was small in stature, and given to wearing large bonnets and plain, almost drab garments, as though to shield herself from unwanted attention. To a degree, the cloak of plainness she draped around herself worked. She was not the sort of woman who would stand out in a crowd.
    But bloody hell, once a man did notice her, he would be hard pressed to pull his eyes away. She had the kind of look that drew a man in and kept him there. This was not a lady who would be easily intimidated—or easily forgotten.
    Indeed, she was the sort of woman who could easily take London by storm. He pictured her dressed in the finery of a well-bred lady. Perhaps a gown of rich ivory silk to emphasize her unusual coloring, her hair swept up and away from her face, an elegant strand of pearls draped around her throat. He pictured her gracefully descending a staircase, shimmering sunlight flooding in behind her, a flock of eager suitors waiting below.
    Then, once he imagined her thusly attired, his thoughts took a vastly more interesting turn: undressing her