Read Online The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount by Julia London - Free Book Online Page A

look.
    Oh no. Oh dear. The furniture had been placed awkwardly about the room, a table there, an ottoman here, and two overstuffed chairs shoved side by side against a wall. With her foot, Phoebe pushed the ottoman away from its place by the door. Then she moved the table near the ottoman, and followed that by pushing the two chairs into a grouping. She was considering the placement of a side cart when she heard footsteps behind her and quickly snatched up her sketchbook and whirled around.
    At the threshold was one of the Darby brothers she had seen from her view in the workroom. He was her age, perhaps a bit younger. He was dressed in a coat of black superfine, with his hair cut short and curled around his face, as was the current fashion. He was a handsome man—but not as handsome as his older brother.
    He smiled darkly when he saw her. “What have we here?” he asked, wandering insouciantly into the room as he boldly took her in.
    His manner made her tense; she knew his expression, had seen it directed at her many times in her life, and it made her feel exposed.
    “My, my,” he said, his gaze lingering on her bosom. “Who is this woman, this beauty, wandering about Wentworth Hall when the other ladies gather like a gaggle around my brother? You are not known to me,” he said, raising his tobacco brown gaze to hers.
    “I beg your pardon, sir,” Phoebe said with a curtsy. “I am Madame Dupree. I have been retained as a modiste—”
    “A what?”
    “A dressmaker.”
    He frowned a little at that. “You’re the seamstress? I thought seamstresses were little old women with bowed backs and gray hair,” he said as his gaze dipped to her bosom again.
    Phoebe gathered her shawl and held it just below her throat to block his view of her flesh.
    “Where is your husband, Madame Dupree?” he asked brazenly, looking up, peering at her. “Has he no care for you? He should not allow his beauty to be sent off alone. Where is he?”
    The young man was sorely lacking in etiquette—a gentleman would never question her so boldly. “I am widowed,” she said simply.
    “A widow, eh?” He smirked. “A widow is a man’s dream, they say, for she does not require marriage or a fee for her favors.”
    Phoebe blanched, appalled.
    But the younger Darby chuckled and pointed at her sketchbook. “If you are a seamstress, what are you doing here?”
    “Ah…” She glanced around. “Just admiring things.”
    “Admiring what? Are you a thief, seamstress?”
    “Certainly not!” Phoebe exclaimed. “I was looking at the furniture.”
    “Why?” he asked as he strolled in a circle around her.
    Phoebe debated what to say, and finding nothing plausible, she finally admitted the truth. “It was poorly arranged.”
    He gave a bark of surprised laughter. “I beg your pardon?”
    Phoebe lifted her chin. “It is not very inviting, in truth.”
    He laughed again. “You are a curious thing, are you not? What have you got there?”
    Phoebe glanced at her book. “My…my sketchbook.”
    “A sketchbook?” he said, his smile going deeper. “And what have you sketched, Widow Dupree? Let’s have a look,” he said, holding out his hand.
    She instantly moved the sketchbook out of his reach. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I would rather not.”
    “I hardly care if you would or would not,” he said easily, gesturing for her to give him the book.
    “It is private.”
    His gaze turned dark with anger. “You do not refuse me, madam. I am the son of the Earl of Bedford, and you are a servant in my house. You will do as you are told if you want to retain your employment. Now let me have a look.”
    She was shocked to be treated so rudely, but moreover, she was furious. “No, sir,” she said politely but firmly, even though her heart was racing. “I prefer not—”
    With a growl, he suddenly grabbed it from her hand.
    “Stop that!” she cried, lurching for it. “That belongs to me!”
    The young man opened it. And grinned with