Read Online The Sins of Viscount Sutherland by Samantha James - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Samantha James
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I? The night of the play, you came to my home.”
“Upon your invitation,” she reminded him.
“Hmmm. I must say, you were certainly readily agreeable. And you’ve cast off your widow’s weeds. What is a man to think?”
“I suspect you’re about to tell me.”
“I am a man who knows women, Claire. There are men of whom you should be wary.”
“Men like Riggs?”
“Indeed.”
“Men like you?”
“Men exactly like me.”
It wasn’t a boast. No, merely a statement of fact. She hadn’t expected such bald-faced candor.
He studied her. Something passed over his face. “I cannot quite put my finger on it, dear Claire . . . You are a widow, yet there is—how shall I put this?—a freshness, almost an innocence about you that is . . . refreshing. And almost a challenge.”
Claire’s heart climbed to her throat.
“I am not the only man who will find it so. I’ve no interest in girls—yes, girls—who come to London for their come-out. Those in search of a husband.” He shook his head. “Be wary, Claire. Be very wary.”
Her cheeks were suddenly burning.
“Surely you can’t be as awful as all that.”
His laugh was almost harsh. “Ah, darling, you betray your youth, for despite your widowhood, you are young, and newly brought into this den of lions. Heed me, lest you become too caught up in it.”
A maddening smile now curled his lips. Claire’s heart was pounding, fast and hard. She had the uneasy sensation Gray sensed her self-doubt.
“Men like Riggs, Claire”—he shrugged—”they are after no more than a dalliance.”
“And you?” she dared. “Are you after no more than a dalliance?”
He gave a sudden, biting laugh. “Oh, Claire, I’ve hidden nothing about my reputation. I’m the worst of all. Now come here. Your hair has come down.”
He left no time for protest. Instead he turned her bodily around. His fingers weaved into her hair. And the silliest thought went through her mind.
He twined it as expertly as did her maid.
When he was done, he spun her around. Claire’s pulse was racing. He was so close, no more than the span of a hand separated them.
“No more clandestine meetings in the dark, Claire.” That wickedly devilish smile widened. “Unless they’re with me.”
Chapter Seven
T he weekend of the Duke of Braddock’s country house party approached. If she could have cried off, she would have. So he would be amenable to a dalliance, would he? Was he so confident in his ability to lure her in?
He was no one’s fool. She mustn’t allow him to get the best of her. She mentally ticked off the mounting reasons she despised him.
His arrogance.
His mockery.
His presumption.
For he did presume to know her, which infuriated her.
But she could hardly go about the business of making the man fall for her if she stayed in London. Ah, but the question still remained. Could she entice him ?
By heaven, he would not get the better of her. She had backbone enough to meet and match him.
Claire shared Penelope’s coach. Pen had dashed off a note to the Northrups. They were indeed eager to see her. The trip required a stay at an inn. It was a pleasant journey through the countryside. The sun’s rays dappled over the fields. The landscape was rich in color, verdant green, and the sun a bright, vivid blue. The air was clean and fresh; there was no stench of coal and smoke, as in London.
It was lovely . . . and yet a melancholy longing rose up inside her. Rolling through the countryside reminded her of Wildewood. How much she missed it!
At noon of the next day they crossed over a stone bridge and the gently swirling waters of a stream below shortly before turning into the lane that led to the house. At Braddock’s estate, both she and Penelope pressed their noses up against the coach window, agog. They sped through soaring iron gates, down a wide lane bordered by trees, past vast green lawns and well-manicured gardens.
“It looks like a fairy princess must
“Upon your invitation,” she reminded him.
“Hmmm. I must say, you were certainly readily agreeable. And you’ve cast off your widow’s weeds. What is a man to think?”
“I suspect you’re about to tell me.”
“I am a man who knows women, Claire. There are men of whom you should be wary.”
“Men like Riggs?”
“Indeed.”
“Men like you?”
“Men exactly like me.”
It wasn’t a boast. No, merely a statement of fact. She hadn’t expected such bald-faced candor.
He studied her. Something passed over his face. “I cannot quite put my finger on it, dear Claire . . . You are a widow, yet there is—how shall I put this?—a freshness, almost an innocence about you that is . . . refreshing. And almost a challenge.”
Claire’s heart climbed to her throat.
“I am not the only man who will find it so. I’ve no interest in girls—yes, girls—who come to London for their come-out. Those in search of a husband.” He shook his head. “Be wary, Claire. Be very wary.”
Her cheeks were suddenly burning.
“Surely you can’t be as awful as all that.”
His laugh was almost harsh. “Ah, darling, you betray your youth, for despite your widowhood, you are young, and newly brought into this den of lions. Heed me, lest you become too caught up in it.”
A maddening smile now curled his lips. Claire’s heart was pounding, fast and hard. She had the uneasy sensation Gray sensed her self-doubt.
“Men like Riggs, Claire”—he shrugged—”they are after no more than a dalliance.”
“And you?” she dared. “Are you after no more than a dalliance?”
He gave a sudden, biting laugh. “Oh, Claire, I’ve hidden nothing about my reputation. I’m the worst of all. Now come here. Your hair has come down.”
He left no time for protest. Instead he turned her bodily around. His fingers weaved into her hair. And the silliest thought went through her mind.
He twined it as expertly as did her maid.
When he was done, he spun her around. Claire’s pulse was racing. He was so close, no more than the span of a hand separated them.
“No more clandestine meetings in the dark, Claire.” That wickedly devilish smile widened. “Unless they’re with me.”
Chapter Seven
T he weekend of the Duke of Braddock’s country house party approached. If she could have cried off, she would have. So he would be amenable to a dalliance, would he? Was he so confident in his ability to lure her in?
He was no one’s fool. She mustn’t allow him to get the best of her. She mentally ticked off the mounting reasons she despised him.
His arrogance.
His mockery.
His presumption.
For he did presume to know her, which infuriated her.
But she could hardly go about the business of making the man fall for her if she stayed in London. Ah, but the question still remained. Could she entice him ?
By heaven, he would not get the better of her. She had backbone enough to meet and match him.
Claire shared Penelope’s coach. Pen had dashed off a note to the Northrups. They were indeed eager to see her. The trip required a stay at an inn. It was a pleasant journey through the countryside. The sun’s rays dappled over the fields. The landscape was rich in color, verdant green, and the sun a bright, vivid blue. The air was clean and fresh; there was no stench of coal and smoke, as in London.
It was lovely . . . and yet a melancholy longing rose up inside her. Rolling through the countryside reminded her of Wildewood. How much she missed it!
At noon of the next day they crossed over a stone bridge and the gently swirling waters of a stream below shortly before turning into the lane that led to the house. At Braddock’s estate, both she and Penelope pressed their noses up against the coach window, agog. They sped through soaring iron gates, down a wide lane bordered by trees, past vast green lawns and well-manicured gardens.
“It looks like a fairy princess must
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