whores,” he said, a harsh note in his voice, and then he was ashamed of himself. He was being ridiculous.
She smiled at him, her gorgeous mouth curving in a wicked grin. “Indeed, I have. I think they’ve done an excellent job, don’t you? Unless you think it’s too much? I have to admit I’m no judge of such things, but Mrs. Cadbury assures me that I simply look like a fashionable lady, not a demirep. But if you think I should change…”
“Mrs. Cadbury? Is she staying here, as well?”
“Of course. Though why it should be any concern of yours escapes me.”
“The most notorious madam in all of London is now your acquaintance?”
“No, my lord Rohan. She’s my dear friend.”
For a moment he thought she was being sarcastic, and then he realized she was simply being truthful. “Charity” Carstairs, destroying her reputation one fallen woman at a time.
He decided dropping the subject was the better part of valor. Besides, what could he say? It was none of his business—he had no interest in Melisande Carstairs except to determine the truth of her allegations and how involved his brother might be.
That, and enjoying the random indecent fantasies about her ripe body, which was even more delightfully distracting in the pale green dress. He was a fool to worry about anything more. She could send her reputation to hell in whatever manner she wished to—it was scarcely any of his business.
“The dress is perfect, and your face paint is only recognizable to a connoisseur.” He was leaving her to draw her own conclusions. “Shall we go? Or have you changed your mind?”
“Of course I haven’t changed my mind,” she said caustically. “We have a mission.”
“God help me…” he muttered. And held out his arm.
He never before thought his coach was too small. Granted, it was the landau, meant for city driving, not the large, heavy traveling coach he used for greater distances. She sat opposite him in the confined space, and the faint scent she had used drifted to his nostrils, reaching into his bones. It was elusive, evocative, erotic. Had the Fates combined forces to kill him?
It was a cool spring evening, and even after nine o’clock there was still enough light remaining that he could see her a little too well. The shawl she’d brought was very pretty but not extremely warm, and he imagined she’d have gooseflesh by the end of the night.
She looked calm, self-possessed, as she always did, but he knew that wasn’t the case. He sat back in the shadows so she couldn’t see his face, his eyes as they lingered over the tops of her breasts. He could see the beating of her heart through her translucent skin, and despite her determined calm she was nervous. He wondered why.
“I suggest we give the appearance of old friends,” she said suddenly. “Otherwise my arrival would seem a bit odd.”
“No one will believe it. They will think we are lovers,” he said lazily.
She blushed, the color very pretty on her pale skin. “No one who knows me would make any such mistake.”
“Ah, but no one knows you. You’ve eschewed society in favor of your oppressively good works.”
“Wouldn’t that make it clear that I’m not the sort for a dalliance?”
“True enough. A dalliance, as you call it, would be easy enough to avoid. A full-out, heart-stopping, body-pulsing physical affaire is more difficult to resist. And they know me. They will assume you’re infatuated with me and that you’ve tumbled off your pedestal and into my bed, at least for a time.”
He could practically feel her horrified intake of breath. “I trust you will do your best to disabuse them of the notion.”
He laughed, enjoying himself once more. “I’ll do what I can, but I suspect my protests would be for naught. If you promise not to hang on me and gaze at me with adoration we may be able to convince people that we’ve simply made an arrangement to assuage our physical needs. Even saints must have physical needs, I suspect.”
“I’m not a saint.” Her voice was low in the darkened carriage, and he remembered the stories about Wilfred Hunnicut and her brief fall from grace.
“No, you’re not,” he said softly, watching the rapid rise and fall of her beautiful breasts, the tight line of her mouth, the dark pools of her eyes in the shadowed carriage. He could feel it, he thought with surprise. It wasn’t his imagination. He could feel the deep strand of longing that was