Read Online 0425272095 (R) by Jessica Peterson - Free Book Online

would shoot our legs off sure as Sunday. You are safer here, with me.”
    Caroline’s eyes flashed. “Somehow I doubt that.”
    She swallowed; he watched the working of her throat, hypnotized by the smooth skin there, the inviting slopes and sinews.
    He shifted in his chair yet again at the ominous tightening inside his breeches. As if the bloody things weren’t tight enough.
    He crossed an ankle over his knee so that he might not frighten off Caroline with his worsening—er, condition.
    “Who were you looking for?” he asked, as a rather awkward means of changing the subject. “At Hope’s ball. I saw you looking for someone.”
    The only light in the room was that put off by a half-dozen tapers strewn about the chamber; even so, Henry could see Caroline’s cheeks burn pink.
    “No one,” she said, shaking her head as she looked down at her lap. “I wasn’t looking for anyone.”
    A beat of silence passed between them. Henry began to sweat.
    “And you. Why were you there? I didn’t know . . .” She was swallowing again. Dear God, was she trying to kill him? “I suppose I don’t know many things.”
    “Well.” Henry cleared his throat. He’d lied his way through the past twelve years; deceit was his trade, damn it, so why was it so hard to make use of that skill now?
    “Well,” he said again. “Hope and I are old friends. So.”
    Even as he said it he struggled not to wince.
    “So,” she said.
    “So.”
    He dug a hand into the hair at the back of his neck, riling his neatly tied queue. His face was burning.
    “Your hair’s gotten long,” she said. “How fashionably unfashionable of you.”
    One side of his mouth went up in a smile. “I’ll have you know I take great pride in my hair. My brother may have the title, but I have my flowing locks. Poor old chap’s got nary a strand left.”
    “I remember Robert.” She bit her lip. He wanted to ask her to stop; it was beyond— beyond —distracting. “He finally married?”
    “Just last year,” Henry said. “To a girl half his age. She’sdarling, really, and far too good for him. From what information I can gather, they are obnoxiously happy.”
    “But you two were so close,” she said, frowning. “You don’t keep in touch?”
    Henry’s smile tightened. “I’m afraid the”—he searched for the right words—“demands of my position prevent me from corresponding with my family as much as I’d like.”
    “Of course. I can only imagine the adventures you’ve encountered. The things you’ve seen.” For a moment her gaze lingered on his eye patch. The look in her eyes made his heart hurt. God, how he wanted to tell her. Tell her everything.
    Of course he couldn’t; the strength of the impulse surprised him nevertheless.
    “But you are back.” Her eyes flicked to his lap. “And, from the looks of it, very much alive.”
    Panic descended upon him as he followed her gaze; he nearly cursed aloud as he covered the very obvious evidence of his arousal with both his hands, the teacup dangling from the hook of his first finger.
    Heavens, he’d forgotten about that wicked tongue of hers. He’d loved that about her, once; her ready wit, the often perverse bent of her thoughts. She may have been an earl’s daughter, and an heiress at that, but she had the mouth of a sailor.
    Needless to say, her comment had the opposite of its intended effect. He was so hard he thought he might burst.
    “I’m . . .” He cleared his throat, shifting in his chair. “It’s the breeches, they’re not mine, I stole—I mean borrowed them, who steals breeches, really? They’re dashedly tight, you see . . .”
    She bit her lip again.
    He thought he might die.
    “Right, then,” she said.
    “Yes, quite.” He lowered his voice, gaze trained on the offending organ as if he might stare it into submission. No such luck.
    “And you,” he said. “Are you in London to seek a new husband? I see you’re out of mourning.”
    “Heavens, no.”
    “I