Free 'Twas the Night After Christmas by Sabrina Jeffries Page B

flee.”
    “No need—I’m not the reforming type, so you don’t frighten me.” He lifted his glass in a pantomime of a toast. “And you aren’t responding to my attempts to get beneath your skirts. So that makes us even.”
    Only because he wasn’t seriously trying to get beneath her skirts. And thank heaven, too. If he ever did, she might have trouble resisting him.
    She glanced about the room, which had been closed up until today. As with many such rooms in country houses, “Red Room” was a misnomer—there wasn’t anything red in it. Probably it had been red a hundred years ago, and the name had stuck long after it was refurbished. Now the curtains and linens were an azure print, and the walls were painted a similar blue.
    It was furnished with an imposing canopy bed and the two armchairs by the fire, separated by a little table. The only other piece of furniture was a bookcase of walnut that sat against the wall, next to a surprisingly large window that looked out over the lawn.
    “Was this your room when you lived here?” If so, he’d left it utterly barren of anything that might have been his as a schoolboy—noglobes or telescopes or even old racing journals. Only a few books were there, which was odd, given his rumored obsession with increasing Montcliff Manor’s library.
    “No,” he said tersely. “The nursery was my room.”
    “Well, of course, until you were older, but after you went off to school, you must have had—”
    “I’ve decided what entertainment I wish for tonight,” he said bluntly.
    Shrugging off his lack of interest in discussing his room, she walked toward him. “All right. And what might that be?”
    With a sudden, suspect gleam in his eye, he reached for a book on the table next to him. “Since Mother said you were an excellent reader, I thought you might read aloud to me.”
    His manner reminded her of Jasper when he thought to play some trick on her.
    Warily, she sat down in the chair opposite him and took the volume he offered. Then she pushed up her spectacles so she could better view the cover. Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure .
    A woman of pleasure? Oh, dear.
    She felt the earl’s gaze on her, felt him waiting for her to make some expression of horrified dismay. The desire to thwart his expectation was too overwhelming to resist.
    Opening the book, she read the title aloud in a resounding voice that surprised her almost as much as it seemed to surprise him. Then she turned the page and began to read the text:
    Madam,
    I sit down to give you an undeniable proof of myconsidering your desires as indispensable orders. Ungracious then as the task may be, I shall recall to view those scandalous stages of my life—
    “You’re actually going to read it,” he interrupted.
    Biting back a smile, she lifted her gaze. “That is what you asked of me, isn’t it?”
    His gaze hardened. “Of course. Do go on.”
    So she did. It was the account of a country girl who set off to make her fortune in the city, only to be taken in by a suspiciously friendly older woman. Camilla instantly recognized the older character as a bawd in disguise. Not for nothing had she helped her vicar husband with his work in Spitalfields. She knew how easily naive girls were deceived.
    But the narrator, relating the beginnings of her own downfall, didn’t seem overly bothered by it. Indeed, she had no sense of shame at all.
    Camilla found that fascinating. She was becoming quite intrigued by the book when his lordship said, “You can stop now if you wish.”
    She glanced up to find him looking nervous. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve only read ten pages.”
    “But I doubt you’ll like where it goes from here.”
    He seemed so uncomfortable with the idea of her going on that she couldn’t resist provoking him. “Nonsense. This happens to be a book I read often,” she lied blithely. “I’m enjoying revisiting it.”
    Perhaps she had done it up a bit too brown, for he eyed herwith rank