Reckless - By Anne Stuart Page 0,49

Bruised, frightened, she'd escaped to their local vicar, begging for help, for advice, for rescue.

The old man had folded his hands across his ample stomach and told her it was the woman's joy and duty to submit. And that he wished to hear no more complaints.

When she'd returned home she discovered that the vicar had preceded her return with a note to her husband, disclosing their conversation. That was the first night he'd beaten her into unconsciousness.

She'd never set foot inside a church again.

And now this. ..this man dared to look at her with what she was certain was opprobrium, judging her. I’ll eat in my room," she said and whirled away from him.

He caught her arm again, pulling her back around. "You'll eat with me," he said calmly. "You don't want the servants to know we're fighting."

"I don't give a damn what the servants think," she snapped.

She almost thought she saw a smile in the back of those dark eyes. "In fact, neither do I, but Montague would hear of it and then he'd start this ridiculous matchmaking all over again. We're better off pretending to go along with it."

She could feel the color rise to her face. "I hadn't realized you suspected it, too."

"I've known Montague all his life—it would tickle his sense of the ridiculousness."

She'd thought the very same thing, but for some reason hearing the words from his mouth was particularly annoying. "I'm an extremely wealthy widow, sir," she said in an icy tone, "and not unat-tractive. Most men wouldn't consider me a ridiculous choice."

He escorted her out onto the terrace, where a table was beautifully laid for Iwo. "Surely I haven't offended you?"

She smiled sweetly. "I'm impossible to offend, Mr. Pagett."

"You may as well call me Simon. Every time you say 'vicar' or 'Mr. Pagett’ I hear poison dripping off your tongue." He released her arm to hold the chair for her. There was no way she could leave without mating a scene, so she sat, glaring at him.

"You're hearing your own fevered imagination, vicar” She put deliberate emphasis on the word.

"And I suspect it's a great deal easier to offend you than I would have thought," he added, seating himself opposite her. There were no wineglasses on the table, and she was very much in need of something stronger than Monty's clear, cold water.

"Aren't we to have wine?" she asked.

"I don't drink spirits."

Of course he didn't. And she would have given her right arm for some. But she certainly wasn't about to admit it.

For the first lime she had a clear look at him in the light of day. He wasn't as old as she'd thought—

the lines on his face were ones of hard experience, not age. The one gray streak in his dark hair was all the more startling, and for the first time she realized he looked oddly familiar.

"Have we ever met?" she asked abruptly.

"Have you been frequenting churches recently. Lady Whitmore?"

"Of course not. I just suddenly had the thought that I might have...seen you at some point."

He shrugged. "It's possible. I spent some time in London before I joined the church. When was your first season?”

She remembered it all too well—she'd been seventeen, the toast of London, and innocent. "More than ten years ago," she said stiffly. "But I expect you'd remember me. I was quite the toast."

"I hate to disillusion you, my lady, but I don't remember anyone from that time, no matter how heart-breakingly beautiful. I was too drunk."

She looked at him in surprise. "I thought you didn't drink spirits."

"Not any longer. I find they don't agree with me. I sincerely doubt we saw each other back then, my lady. 1 spent my time in whorehouses and gambling clubs. No decent hostess would have invited me over her threshold, and certainly no one would have introduced me to a shy young virgin. Which I expect you were, way back then."

"You make me sound like an old crone. I'm twenty-eight. Decades younger than you."

"I'm thirty-five," he said flatly. "Close your mouth. Lady Whitmore. If you're going to be astonished it's better just to raise your eyebrows."

She snapped her mouth shut, starting at him. She could see it now, the signs of dissipation. Her judgmental, self-righteous nemesis clearly must have been a libertine par excellence.

"So you see," he continued in a calm voice, reaching for the crystal glass of clear water, "I know whereof I speak. I know just how vicious and deadly are the paths you and Thomas are following.

Thomas