Free For the Earl's Pleasure by Anne Mallory Page B

Why would I, a liar like me? And even if I wanted to, as a lady I could hardly do so, as you so often remind— reminded —me.” The thing with darts was that they could always be thrown back.
    Dark eyes pierced her. “Well, now things are different. Get dressed so we can go.”
    “No.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I don’t follow orders from you.” She punched her pillow, making it more comfortable behind her back. “And ladies don’t walk or drive around the parts of town you frequent. Frequented .”
    “That wouldn’t stop you. You are pretending to possess far too much sense.”
    “And you are far too ready to ruin my reputation. As usual.”
    His face changed from irritation to dark amusement. “I don’t think that is physically possible at the moment.” He leaned forward and brushed a tingling finger through her arm. “Why can’t I touch you? It’s my dream—or nightmare—I should be able to ravish you.”
    She stared at him, the tingles and words leaving her heart still.
    “If I chose ,” he said narrowly, obviously reading something in her face. What sort of dark cloud had she been born beneath to have this man toy with her endlessly, even in death.
    She sat still, clutching the covers, unable to answer.
    He looked away. “Fine. You need to come because I can’t seem to leave the house without you.”
    She continued to stare at him.
    “I tried last night.” He picked at the coverlet, his fingers going through the cloth. “Nothing I did worked.”
    “Well,” she threw back the covers. “That sounds more in the vein of what other spirits say and what you always said as well. Self-indulgent ass.” The sudden fury pressed up her throat. But why should she get upset at what always just was?
    “I—”
    She ignored him and yanked the cord for Telly. “Don’t trouble yourself with a response. I understand perfectly. But I’m not going to a gaming hell, so you’ll have to discover a way to attach yourself to someone else.”
    Telly bustled in. As she changed behind the wardrobe door and readied for the day, Abigail tried to pretend it was just Telly and Effie in the room with her.
    She left Rainewood stewing on the bed and ate the breakfast Telly had brought while trying to concentrate on planning how to make the best impression on Mr. Sourting. Luckily it didn’t take too much thought. If there was one thing spirits had taught her, it was how to listen and ask questions. People liked to hear themselves talk.
    She touched the waist of her dress. It would be nice to have someone listen to her for a change. Truly listen. Telly tried, but the separation between them socially and the worship that Telly insisted upon made it difficult, and in the end there was little difference between talking to someone who would never dare argue as to talking with someone who didn’t care to reply.
    Mrs. Browning interrupted her increasingly sulky thoughts, striding into the room precisely fifteen minutes before their appointment with Mr. Sourting. Her mother breezed in behind the starchy woman. Hands on hips, Mrs. Browning inspected Abigail from head to toe. Used to such treatment, Abigail simply stood still.
    “I thought that sending a note to decline our visit with the Winstons would give you time to actually look presentable for Mr. Sourting. I see that I have denied myself another delightful visit in an effort to help you.”
    Abigail didn’t think this was entirely true, since either Mrs. Browning or her mother would have sent a note to Mrs. Winston saying Abigail expected two suitors today. To a marriage-minded mama and chief rival, the news was far richer than a visit would be—the tease for which all mart-driven women strove. Assuredly Mrs. Browning was anticipating the next visit to the Winstons far more than she would have enjoyed the canceled visit today.
    “Your hair.” Her mother pressed a hand right over Abigail’s forehead for a split second—the gesture too short to appreciate. “Will it