Read Online A Little More Scandal by Carrie Lofty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carrie Lofty
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sank. The way I see it, I have my own life to live, as I please, and sixty-three others to commemorate. I won’t do so by half measures. London awaits, Mr. Christie, as do the remainder of my days. If you care nothing for sharing them with me, so be it. Tell Mr. Lymon what you like.”
Only a sharp twitch across his shoulders revealed any emotion. Perhaps surprise. Disapproval. A tremor of anger. Whatever the origin, it was nothing to the sharp grunt of his climax and the raw shudder of contentment that had rolled through his body. But Catrin had no patience to interpret subtle clues from a man who was usually so brazen—not when her thoughts boiled together in a mass of want.
When had this conversation strayed beyond the mere negotiations she claimed?
She reached for the doorknob.
“You can’t go out like that.” His brogue was thick and low.
“I’ll do what I like.” She flicked her gaze toward the desk. Papers were strewn along its surface and on the surrounding floorboards. “If the last hour isn’t proof of that, I don’t know what is.”
She needed to leave. She needed to flee. She was drowning again, especially when she pushed out of his office. Only this time, she knew nothing about the waters in which she swam.
Nine
A masked gala.
Perfect, actually, for a woman who wanted fewer eyes following her every move, and a shield from the gossip that inevitably followed. With any luck, she would not even recognize William Christie if he also accepted an invitation.
In the carriage across from Lady Julia, feeling lower than a poor relation, Catrin almost snorted at her own silliness. Of course she would recognize him. As distinct as the spires of Big Ben, his towering frame and workingman’s scowl had become her social landmarks. Failing to see him would be like surveying a field of woolly white sheep, so placid as they chewed and milled, while willfully missing the wolf prowling in their midst. When compared to mere men, he was a whole other species.
Again she stifled a chuckle.
“Is all well, Miss Jones?” asked Jonathan Talbott. A cousin of Lady Julia’s from her mother’s side, he was several years younger than Catrin and of far fewer means than the rest of his family. His love for dice, cards, and ponies surpassed his skill. Without a title to recommend him, he possessed elegant manners and little else. But if she wanted mere manners, she would have returned to her father’s parish.
Good gracious, when had she become such a hoyden? Gradually, she knew. With a stab of disloyalty, she suspected her boredom extended further back across the years. Aldith had been safe and predictable. Her grief upon his death had been genuine, as had her need to escape its aftermath. She had changed daily across five years of living for necessity, duty, and survival. Now other concerns left her bored.
And that was before William had pushed her back across his desk. She was doomed to melancholy at the very least, because no matter the man, he would need to live up to the sparkling, drugged pleasure of the frustrating Mr. Christie’s mouth. Who could match such a staggering achievement?
Certainly not the likes of Jonathan Talbott.
Her mind formed that forbidden word again. Fucking. What William had done to her. What she wanted again. She tightened her thighs until she needed to close her eyes. Surely someone would read the depravation reflected there. She touched the place beneath her high lace collar where he had bruised her with his ravishing, suckling kiss.
That they had quarreled afterward was a fact she decided to alter. They had . . . disagreed. He was hardly going to ignore her, not with his ambitions. And he was still her choice.
“I’m quite well,” she said, upon collecting her wits. “Excited by the prospect of this gala. I’ve never been to a masquerade.”
“There’s no trick, really,” said Mr. Talbott. “Just smile that pretty smile of yours, and keep from letting anyone know who you
Only a sharp twitch across his shoulders revealed any emotion. Perhaps surprise. Disapproval. A tremor of anger. Whatever the origin, it was nothing to the sharp grunt of his climax and the raw shudder of contentment that had rolled through his body. But Catrin had no patience to interpret subtle clues from a man who was usually so brazen—not when her thoughts boiled together in a mass of want.
When had this conversation strayed beyond the mere negotiations she claimed?
She reached for the doorknob.
“You can’t go out like that.” His brogue was thick and low.
“I’ll do what I like.” She flicked her gaze toward the desk. Papers were strewn along its surface and on the surrounding floorboards. “If the last hour isn’t proof of that, I don’t know what is.”
She needed to leave. She needed to flee. She was drowning again, especially when she pushed out of his office. Only this time, she knew nothing about the waters in which she swam.
Nine
A masked gala.
Perfect, actually, for a woman who wanted fewer eyes following her every move, and a shield from the gossip that inevitably followed. With any luck, she would not even recognize William Christie if he also accepted an invitation.
In the carriage across from Lady Julia, feeling lower than a poor relation, Catrin almost snorted at her own silliness. Of course she would recognize him. As distinct as the spires of Big Ben, his towering frame and workingman’s scowl had become her social landmarks. Failing to see him would be like surveying a field of woolly white sheep, so placid as they chewed and milled, while willfully missing the wolf prowling in their midst. When compared to mere men, he was a whole other species.
Again she stifled a chuckle.
“Is all well, Miss Jones?” asked Jonathan Talbott. A cousin of Lady Julia’s from her mother’s side, he was several years younger than Catrin and of far fewer means than the rest of his family. His love for dice, cards, and ponies surpassed his skill. Without a title to recommend him, he possessed elegant manners and little else. But if she wanted mere manners, she would have returned to her father’s parish.
Good gracious, when had she become such a hoyden? Gradually, she knew. With a stab of disloyalty, she suspected her boredom extended further back across the years. Aldith had been safe and predictable. Her grief upon his death had been genuine, as had her need to escape its aftermath. She had changed daily across five years of living for necessity, duty, and survival. Now other concerns left her bored.
And that was before William had pushed her back across his desk. She was doomed to melancholy at the very least, because no matter the man, he would need to live up to the sparkling, drugged pleasure of the frustrating Mr. Christie’s mouth. Who could match such a staggering achievement?
Certainly not the likes of Jonathan Talbott.
Her mind formed that forbidden word again. Fucking. What William had done to her. What she wanted again. She tightened her thighs until she needed to close her eyes. Surely someone would read the depravation reflected there. She touched the place beneath her high lace collar where he had bruised her with his ravishing, suckling kiss.
That they had quarreled afterward was a fact she decided to alter. They had . . . disagreed. He was hardly going to ignore her, not with his ambitions. And he was still her choice.
“I’m quite well,” she said, upon collecting her wits. “Excited by the prospect of this gala. I’ve never been to a masquerade.”
“There’s no trick, really,” said Mr. Talbott. “Just smile that pretty smile of yours, and keep from letting anyone know who you
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