Read Online A Gentleman Never Tells by Eloisa James - Free Book Online

then . . . he could also see something else.
    A confused but utterly delicious emotion. Hopefully, it was desire. Because, damn it, he was in the grip of a lust like nothing he’d felt before. It was making it hard to breathe.
    And he was damned glad that his pantaloons were as generously cut as they were.
    â€œWhy don’t we take a promenade?” he suggested, once they reached the drawing room. He squinted down to the end of the room. “We’ll probably end up in the next county by walking far enough in that direction.”
    â€œFor propriety’s sake, we ought to remain with the others,” Lizzie said. But she started walking.
    She couldn’t be worried about her reputation, given that the only ­people in the room were members of her family. “I promise not to make an untoward advance to you this evening,” he said.
    â€œI’m a widow, Mr. Berwick. I have no fears of that sort.” And she turned up her little nose, as if being a widow meant no man would want her.
    He wanted her, but he decided not to mention that he was definitely planning on making an untoward advance in the near future. They were reaching the shady end of the room.
    â€œIn the evening this room grows frightfully chilly and damp,” Lady Troutt said. “We might take a chill.”
    She wanted to avoid him—­a good instinct, because Oliver felt more and more like a fox who had stumbled on a particularly succulent chicken.
    He wanted her.
    He wanted to kiss the sadness out of her eyes, and ravish that wide mouth of hers until she looked as if she were wearing lip paint. He wanted to see her panting on his bed, all that glorious hair spilling around her shoulders. Maybe it fell all the way to her waist.
    Lust went straight down his body in a shocking bolt of heat.
    â€œYour gown is not intended to provide warmth,” he said, unable to stop himself from glancing at her bosom. Gentlemen do not ogle a lady’s breasts, even if her gown was so low that her breasts looked like presents, offered for his pleasure. Like creamy, silken—­
    He cut off that train of thought.
    â€œThis is a Parisian creation created from a few scraps of silk,” Lizzie said disapprovingly. “I hate to think what my sister paid for it, given its lack of fabric.”
    â€œSurely you don’t expect me to bemoan the fact that you aren’t draped in bolts of cloth?” Oliver noted that his voice had dropped at least an octave.
    Her mouth opened in a little circle. He leaned closer. “I was thinking of sending the modiste a personal thank you.”
    Rosy color swept into her cheeks.
    This end of the drawing room was indeed rather chilly, with a distinct odor of damp. Oliver hated to cover up all that luscious skin, but he pulled off his coat and wrapped her in it.
    â€œI cannot address you as Lady Troutt,” he stated.
    She was nestled in his coat, sunny hair scrunched against the collar. “Weren’t you planning to address me as Lady Mayne?”
    â€œFor a few minutes, yes. But not thereafter.” The words came out of his mouth without planning. “I dislike thinking of Adrian Troutt in connection with you.”
    â€œI wasn’t aware that you knew my husband.” Her eyes were cool and haunted again.
    Damn it, she couldn’t have loved that blighter, could she? Surely not.
    â€œI knew of him. I spend almost all my time at my estate in Yorkshire and I rarely go into society.”
    â€œIt would be most improper for you to address me as anything other than Lady Troutt,” she observed.
    â€œYes, but here we are, without a chaperone. We’re already being improper,” he said, coming to the most extraordinary conclusion.
    It seemed this was his girl.
    His woman.
    The person who would be his wife.
    A slightly sad, utterly delectable woman named Lizzie Troutt.
    They were far down the room, almost lost in the shadows. “Lizzie,”