Read Online The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) by Bonnie Vanak - Free Book Online

back into the old position. She stammered polite introductions, but misspoke, saying, "Graham, the Duke of Caldwell."
    She'd called him by his first name. Flustered, she quieted.
    Bernard shook his head mildly, haughtily amused. "Forgive Lady Jillian, Your Grace. She is usually not so gauche."
    The duke did not return his smile. His eyes grew cold. "I rather think her introduction was correct. Graham is my name—a name I ask certain people to call me."
    Bernard blanched. "I apologize. I did not realize Lady Jillian was familiar enough to address you by your given name."
    "We shared a wonderful dance, and that certainly makes her familiar enough," he replied, glancing at her.
    "I do hope she didn't step on your toes, as she did mine," Bernard said lightly, to Jillian's mortification.
    "On the contrary, I found Lady Jillian quite accomplished at dancing. We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves."
    Jillian shot him a warning look. Graham ignored it, his dark eyes dancing now.
    "Do you dance often, Mr. Augustine?" he inquired.
    "I'm afraid I'm not as skilled at dancing as some," Bernard admitted. "I do not enjoy it."
    "Indeed?" The duke lifted his dark brows.
    "Dancing is necessary, but it can be quite dull," Bernard continued, oblivious to the conversation's subtext. Graham refused to let up.
    "I daresay you are wrong, Mr. Augustine. With the right partner—such as Lady Jillian—a man must find it a very pleasurable experience." His sensual, full lips lifted in a crooked half smile. A hot flush lit Jillian's cheeks.
    Graham couldn't help biting back a chuckle. Bloody hell, Jillian had spirit. He sensed it brimming beneath her calm surface, stifled by her upbringing. The dull gray gown she wore hid everything. She looked like a stern governess. But the covering intrigued him as he imagined stripping it slowly from her to reveal ivory-white skin that gleamed as it had last night in the dull glow of the brothel's lamps, kissing each inch of her white skin, coaxing a throaty little cry from her long, slender throat now concealed in a froth of severe lace.
    Ah, but the passion he'd coaxed from her last night... surely it still burned within her. He hid a smile, contenting himself with mentally stripping Lady Jillian nude, waltzing with her on the mattress, this redheaded woman with green eyes blazing with desire... laughing at him in the desert as she trapped him there—
    His fantasy ended abruptly. Graham's smile faded. He must leave their liaison a secret and swear off ever meeting her again. Every cell inside him warned she was dangerous. Even the question she'd innocently asked: Why did you not turn and walk away?
    It mattered not. After tonight, after he found his quarry, nothing would matter. Not even one sweet night in her soft arms. Passion and heat. That would die with him as a memory when he hanged.
    His icy composure broke. Never again to taste her, to experience such bliss as they had, tangled as one...
    The self-important little prig who called himself Bernard was saying something. Graham forced a smile to his lips and inclined his head.
    "Lady Jillian and I plan to honeymoon in Bath, Your Grace. Have you ever taken the waters there?"
    What? Jillian was to marry this pasty-faced fop? Shock gripped Graham, but he managed a noncommittal answer as he stared at her. Two delicate roses of color stained her cheeks. She looked away.
    An unexpected surge of male possessiveness shook him. If she'd known of her engagement, why had she surrendered her innocence to him, a virtual stranger? In a whorehouse?
    Unless she had a good reason for not remaining a virgin... His troubled gaze returned to Jillian. Ah God, she was beautiful, her slender figure standing so proud, those delightful white shoulders he'd adored kissing now hidden by ugly, dull gray.
    Jillian paled. She gave a curtsy and murmured, "Please excuse me." Then, pivoting on her heel, she turned and pushed off through the crowd, as if to leave the ballroom.
    Bernard shrugged.