All About Love Read Online Free PDF Page A

bare. His gaze locked on them, tantalizingly revealed, then concealed beneath her nightgown. Small, naked, intensely feminine feet. Slowly, he dragged his gaze back up to her face.
    While he’d studied her, she’d been studying him. Her dark eyes roamed his face, taking in, it seemed, every line. Then she turned away.
    Lucifer bit back an urge to call to her. He wanted to thank her—she’d been a madonna of kindness and caring—but if he made a sound, he’d scare her out of her wits. He watched her stop by the sleeping woman; setting her candlestick down, she lifted a blanket, shook it out, then tucked it around the other woman. As she turned away, candle once more in hand, the soft light lit her smile.
    She started for the door, but, as if she’d heard his silent plea, she halted before she passed the bed. She looked his way, then, hesitantly, drew nearer. And nearer.
    Holding the candle aside so his face was screened by her body, she rested against the bed a foot away and studied his face anew. He fought to keep his lids steady; he could only just see her face. Her eyes were fathomless, her expression unreadable.
    Then she released her grip on her shawl. Slowly, she reached out. With her fingertips she lightly traced his cheek.
    Lucifer felt like he’d been branded—and he recognized the brand. He surged up on one elbow, seizing her wrist, transfixing her with a glare.
    She gasped; the sound echoed through the room. The candlelight wavered wildly, then steadied. Eyes dilated, she stared at him.
    He tightened his grip and held her gaze. “It was you.”

Phyllida stared into eyes so vibrant a dark blue they were nearly black. She’d seen them earlier, but they’d been hazed with pain, unfocused; they’d been startling enough then. Now, focused mercilessly on hers, clear and brilliant as a dark sapphire, they stole her breath away.
    She felt like she’d been the one hit by the halberd.
    “You were there.” His gaze held her trapped. “ You were the first to reach me after the murderer hit me. You touched my face, just as you did then.”
    She kept her expression blank. Thoughts popped up, then sank, flotsam thrown up by her whirling mind. His fingers clamping about her wrist had shocked her; they’d locked before she could react. She twisted her arm, trying to ease from his hold; he tightened his grip enough for her to sense his strength and the futility of struggling.
    She felt light-headed. She’d forgotten to breathe.
    Dragging her gaze from his, she did. Staring at his lips, she wondered what to say. How could he know just from a touch? He had to be guessing.
    Draped in shadow, his face was even more compelling than she recalled. The impact of him—his conscious physical presence—was potent; he appeared altogether more dangerous, and he’d appeared dangerous enough before. He was decently covered in one of her father’s nightshirts, but the collar was open, exposing a V of chest—dark hair curled invitingly in the gap.
    The realization that she was standing by a gentleman’s bed staring at his chest, in the small hours, in her nightgown, slammed into her. Heat prickled across her skin. Gladys was near, but . . .
    She glanced across the room. As if sensing her hope that Gladys wouldn’t wake and hear him, he eased onto his back, pulling her across him.
    Phyllida bit back another gasp. “Be careful of your head,” she hissed.
    His eyes gleamed. “I’ll be careful.”
    His voice was deep; it almost purred. He kept extending his arm, the one shackling her wrist. She had to lean across him, balancing the candlestick in her other hand. Inexorably, he drew her on.
    She swallowed as her breasts neared his chest. Heart thudding, she scrambled onto the bed.
    He smiled in triumph. “Now you can tell me what you were doing so secretively in Horatio’s drawing room.”
    The command was blatant. Phyllida lifted her chin. At twenty-four, she wasn’t about to be bullied. “I don’t know what you