Read Online Teresa Medeiros by Thief of Hearts - Free Book Online
Authors: Thief of Hearts
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schedule:
0800—Resist torture. 0830—Throw
self overboard. 0900—Be eaten by sharks
. No sacrifice too great for the noble Admiral and His Majesty’s Royal Navy!
Acrid smoke burned Gerard’s throat. His pleasure spoiled, he snuffed out the cheroot and hurled it into the darkness, quenching it as ruthlessly as Lucien Snow quenched all traces of his daughter’s spirit whenever she was in his exalted presence.
Gerard exhaled sharply as a figure appeared in the window, silhouetted against the lamplight. He scowled. The girl was as slight as a wraith, yet the gentle curves outlined beneath the fabric of her demure nightdress were unmistakably those of a woman. Her pale hair, caught in two long plaits, gleamed like braided silver in the moonlight.
She was angled toward the gatehouse and he wondered if she might be searching the night for him. Impossible though it was, he would have almost sworn their gazes met and mingled through the darkness before she reached up and snatched the drapes shut, her outrage a palpable thing.
Gerard might have been amused had he not been so consumed by his thwarted plans. While he could afford no distractions, he also couldn’t allow himself to forget that the Admiral’s daughter wasn’t dry tinder, but a damp fuse on a keg of gunpowder—slow burning, unpredictable, and dangerous.
C HAPTER S IX
A T PRECISELY 0600 THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Smythe came tapping at the gatehouse door. Believing there was little need to guard Miss Snow’s precious life while she dressed and coiffed herself, Gerard dragged the quilt over his head and ignored the butler’s polite queries as to his state of wakefulness until he finally went away. Gerard crawled out of bed after nine o’clock, his head pounding from too little sleep and too many misgivings.
After giving himself a meticulous shave, polishing his spectacles, and breakfasting on a stale torte, he reported to the great house for duty only to discover that instead of exploring Ionia as he’d hoped to do, he was to accompany Miss Snow on some trivial errand.
From what he could gather from the frantic menservants, their negligent young mistress had misplaced a valuable resource—the recently published memoirs of Admiral Lord Howell. As penance, she was to be sent to Lord Howell’s country estate to secure another copy. Her father had determined she could make themost efficient use of her time by letting the visit double as a social call to Lord Howell’s daughter Sylvie.
Gerard was waiting in the entrance hall, tapping his hat impatiently against his thigh, when Lucy came tripping down the stairs in a pair of delicate sandals. The white muslin of her simply cut dress was gathered in tiny pleats beneath her breasts and complimented by a pastel pink stole. Her straw bonnet sported matching satin ribbons. She painted such a portrait of girlish charm that Gerard could not help smiling.
Until he saw her eyes. Her gaze was a blast of early winter that might have withered a lesser man. Taking a wary step out of her path, he donned his hat and swept a mocking hand toward the front door.
Without missing a step, she slapped a brass spyglass into his palm. “Perhaps in the future, Mr. Claremont, you’d care to use this for your nocturnal spying.”
If a footman hadn’t scampered to open the door, Gerard was convinced she would have walked right through it.
Watching her pert rump twitch beneath the clinging muslin, he muttered “And a good morning to you, too, Miss Snow,” before plunking the spyglass down on a pier table and following.
The morning dazzled Gerard’s eyes as they waited for the carriage to be brought around from the stables. Sunlight poured down like manna from a heavenly vault of azure blue, blistering the crowns of the maples to fiery peach. Gerard breathed deeply, savoring the crisp fragrance of autumn. Not even being forced to dance attendance on the Admiral’s brat could spoil his ravenous appetite for fresh air and
0800—Resist torture. 0830—Throw
self overboard. 0900—Be eaten by sharks
. No sacrifice too great for the noble Admiral and His Majesty’s Royal Navy!
Acrid smoke burned Gerard’s throat. His pleasure spoiled, he snuffed out the cheroot and hurled it into the darkness, quenching it as ruthlessly as Lucien Snow quenched all traces of his daughter’s spirit whenever she was in his exalted presence.
Gerard exhaled sharply as a figure appeared in the window, silhouetted against the lamplight. He scowled. The girl was as slight as a wraith, yet the gentle curves outlined beneath the fabric of her demure nightdress were unmistakably those of a woman. Her pale hair, caught in two long plaits, gleamed like braided silver in the moonlight.
She was angled toward the gatehouse and he wondered if she might be searching the night for him. Impossible though it was, he would have almost sworn their gazes met and mingled through the darkness before she reached up and snatched the drapes shut, her outrage a palpable thing.
Gerard might have been amused had he not been so consumed by his thwarted plans. While he could afford no distractions, he also couldn’t allow himself to forget that the Admiral’s daughter wasn’t dry tinder, but a damp fuse on a keg of gunpowder—slow burning, unpredictable, and dangerous.
C HAPTER S IX
A T PRECISELY 0600 THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Smythe came tapping at the gatehouse door. Believing there was little need to guard Miss Snow’s precious life while she dressed and coiffed herself, Gerard dragged the quilt over his head and ignored the butler’s polite queries as to his state of wakefulness until he finally went away. Gerard crawled out of bed after nine o’clock, his head pounding from too little sleep and too many misgivings.
After giving himself a meticulous shave, polishing his spectacles, and breakfasting on a stale torte, he reported to the great house for duty only to discover that instead of exploring Ionia as he’d hoped to do, he was to accompany Miss Snow on some trivial errand.
From what he could gather from the frantic menservants, their negligent young mistress had misplaced a valuable resource—the recently published memoirs of Admiral Lord Howell. As penance, she was to be sent to Lord Howell’s country estate to secure another copy. Her father had determined she could make themost efficient use of her time by letting the visit double as a social call to Lord Howell’s daughter Sylvie.
Gerard was waiting in the entrance hall, tapping his hat impatiently against his thigh, when Lucy came tripping down the stairs in a pair of delicate sandals. The white muslin of her simply cut dress was gathered in tiny pleats beneath her breasts and complimented by a pastel pink stole. Her straw bonnet sported matching satin ribbons. She painted such a portrait of girlish charm that Gerard could not help smiling.
Until he saw her eyes. Her gaze was a blast of early winter that might have withered a lesser man. Taking a wary step out of her path, he donned his hat and swept a mocking hand toward the front door.
Without missing a step, she slapped a brass spyglass into his palm. “Perhaps in the future, Mr. Claremont, you’d care to use this for your nocturnal spying.”
If a footman hadn’t scampered to open the door, Gerard was convinced she would have walked right through it.
Watching her pert rump twitch beneath the clinging muslin, he muttered “And a good morning to you, too, Miss Snow,” before plunking the spyglass down on a pier table and following.
The morning dazzled Gerard’s eyes as they waited for the carriage to be brought around from the stables. Sunlight poured down like manna from a heavenly vault of azure blue, blistering the crowns of the maples to fiery peach. Gerard breathed deeply, savoring the crisp fragrance of autumn. Not even being forced to dance attendance on the Admiral’s brat could spoil his ravenous appetite for fresh air and
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