tightened around the grip of the pistol. In a dark moment her anger got the better of her, and she wanted nothing more than to kill him, here and now.
“If I have to go to the gallows for murder, then perhaps I should go for having actually committed the crime,” she told him.
Robert smiled at her. “If ever you intended to kill me, you would have done so five minutes ago.”
The pistol wavered. “How do you know I won’t do it now?”
He nodded over her shoulder. “Because it is too late.”
Olivia twisted slightly only to discover a giant of a man looming over her.
Before she could even utter a yelp of protest, Robert quickly stripped the pistol from her hand, but in the process, the sensitive weapon discharged.
In an explosion of powder, the bullet whizzed past his ear and tore a hole through the expensive gilt paper covering the wall behind him.
“Damn you, Robert,” she cursed, as his henchman pinned her arms behind her back and held her as one might pin a butterfly to a display case at the British Museum. “Damn your nine lives. You won’t do this to me again.”
Robert crumpled up the piece of paper on the desk and tossed it aside. He stalked toward her until they were nose to nose. “It appears, Miss Sutton, I already have.”
Chapter 3
M iss Sutton let loose with a rather eye-opening curse, the type one might expect from an unrepentant young rake about town but certainly not from the lips of a young lady of good breeding.
Then again, Robert was fast coming to his own conclusions as to Miss Sutton’s qualifications on that point.
There was a lot about the lady that left him dumbfounded. The Olivia Sutton of Pymm’s rather unflattering description and the intelligence he’d gathered had in his mind looked like all the other boring English misses he’d met. With their pale complexions and mincing manners, they caught his attention about as much as he paid heed to his morning meal—and there were only so many ways to serve kippers, and that seemed to be true of London misses.
Certainly he hadn’t expected this tempestuous handful.
While she had the look of a bookish scribbler, with her black, boring dress and ink-stained fingers, the rest of her defied that stereotype.
For one thing, her coloring was all wrong. A fiery mane of rich, thick auburn hair fell free from its halfhearted attempt at a matronly chignon.
Even her widow’s weeds, a hideous dress designed to put a man at arm’s length, hinted that beneath the black silk lay hidden a lush body. For the bleak gown could not conceal the fullness of her breasts straining the front buttons or how the skirt fell over the seductive curves of her hips. She might hide behind her weeds and books, but he doubted even a Spanish mantuamaker could conceal such a ripe body.
A paphian hidden beneath a bluestocking’s guise.
And her eyes. Wherever had that color come from? No demure blue for this one. More like the Spanish sky over the high plains of Castile—rich and azure, so clear and deep that one almost thought one was looking at the heavens.
And right now they burned at him as if she furiously wished she hadn’t hesitated to pull the trigger of her pistol and send him to his just reward.
Preferably one where he stayed dead.
“Ouch!” Aquiles cried out, shaking one hand and hanging on for dear life to the little wildcat with his other. “She bit me.”
To make matters worse, she connected the heel of her sensibly shod foot with the poor man’s shin. Aquiles appealed silently to Robert to do something, anything—for Robert knew only too well, his batman held all women in high esteem, even when they were robbing him blind or leaving him bartered and bruised, as Miss Sutton seemed intent on doing.
“Enough of that,” he told her. His sharp reproach stilled her—for the time being.
In the tense silence of the room, Robert heard the aftermath from the pistol shot—the house had gone into a state of
“If I have to go to the gallows for murder, then perhaps I should go for having actually committed the crime,” she told him.
Robert smiled at her. “If ever you intended to kill me, you would have done so five minutes ago.”
The pistol wavered. “How do you know I won’t do it now?”
He nodded over her shoulder. “Because it is too late.”
Olivia twisted slightly only to discover a giant of a man looming over her.
Before she could even utter a yelp of protest, Robert quickly stripped the pistol from her hand, but in the process, the sensitive weapon discharged.
In an explosion of powder, the bullet whizzed past his ear and tore a hole through the expensive gilt paper covering the wall behind him.
“Damn you, Robert,” she cursed, as his henchman pinned her arms behind her back and held her as one might pin a butterfly to a display case at the British Museum. “Damn your nine lives. You won’t do this to me again.”
Robert crumpled up the piece of paper on the desk and tossed it aside. He stalked toward her until they were nose to nose. “It appears, Miss Sutton, I already have.”
Chapter 3
M iss Sutton let loose with a rather eye-opening curse, the type one might expect from an unrepentant young rake about town but certainly not from the lips of a young lady of good breeding.
Then again, Robert was fast coming to his own conclusions as to Miss Sutton’s qualifications on that point.
There was a lot about the lady that left him dumbfounded. The Olivia Sutton of Pymm’s rather unflattering description and the intelligence he’d gathered had in his mind looked like all the other boring English misses he’d met. With their pale complexions and mincing manners, they caught his attention about as much as he paid heed to his morning meal—and there were only so many ways to serve kippers, and that seemed to be true of London misses.
Certainly he hadn’t expected this tempestuous handful.
While she had the look of a bookish scribbler, with her black, boring dress and ink-stained fingers, the rest of her defied that stereotype.
For one thing, her coloring was all wrong. A fiery mane of rich, thick auburn hair fell free from its halfhearted attempt at a matronly chignon.
Even her widow’s weeds, a hideous dress designed to put a man at arm’s length, hinted that beneath the black silk lay hidden a lush body. For the bleak gown could not conceal the fullness of her breasts straining the front buttons or how the skirt fell over the seductive curves of her hips. She might hide behind her weeds and books, but he doubted even a Spanish mantuamaker could conceal such a ripe body.
A paphian hidden beneath a bluestocking’s guise.
And her eyes. Wherever had that color come from? No demure blue for this one. More like the Spanish sky over the high plains of Castile—rich and azure, so clear and deep that one almost thought one was looking at the heavens.
And right now they burned at him as if she furiously wished she hadn’t hesitated to pull the trigger of her pistol and send him to his just reward.
Preferably one where he stayed dead.
“Ouch!” Aquiles cried out, shaking one hand and hanging on for dear life to the little wildcat with his other. “She bit me.”
To make matters worse, she connected the heel of her sensibly shod foot with the poor man’s shin. Aquiles appealed silently to Robert to do something, anything—for Robert knew only too well, his batman held all women in high esteem, even when they were robbing him blind or leaving him bartered and bruised, as Miss Sutton seemed intent on doing.
“Enough of that,” he told her. His sharp reproach stilled her—for the time being.
In the tense silence of the room, Robert heard the aftermath from the pistol shot—the house had gone into a state of
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