Cheryl Holt Read Online Free PDF Page B

had he judged her to be too skinny? She was rounded on top, and he would bet she’d be rounded on the bottom, too. Her hips would curve out from that tiny waist and extend down into long, lean legs, legs that could wrap around a man’s waist and squeeze tight when he was . . .
    Vicar’s daughter! Vicar’s daughter!
The refrain screamed out like a fire bell, admonishing him as to hermodest condition, and he lurched straighter, as if slouching before her was improper.
    “Well?” she asked haughtily.
    The answer to his dilemma, when it dawned on him, was so naughty—but so ingenious—that he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. He must be more fatigued than he’d suspected.
    Though Ian was the bastard by birth, John was the one who’d deserved the designation. His comportment was regularly deplorable; his father had maintained that he went out of his way to be exasperating, which he did. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he was an unrepentant, unremitting blackguard.
    He had the very mode by which to scare her off, and her egress wouldn’t be difficult to achieve. Obviously, she’d heard stories about his reputation and repute. If he acted heinously, she wouldn’t be surprised. Monstrous behavior was exactly what she would expect from him. A flagrant proposal, which she would be honor bound to refuse and would never accept in a thousand years, would goad her into a maidenly swoon, and he would promptly have her fleeing in terror.
    If he was sufficiently vulgar, she’d be too mortified to ever return, so he’d never again have to be confronted by her righteous opinions or condescending disposition.
    This was going to be so simple. And so amusing.
    Poor Miss Fitzgerald. She was about to be shocked senseless.
    “Well . . .” he echoed, pensively tapping a finger to his lip, and assessing her as a cat might study a canary trapped in a cage. A calculated grin creased his cheeks. Instantly, she noticed the transformation in his demeanor and took a reflexive step back, but he wasn’t about to let her escape. Not when he’d courteously weathered her diatribe. He vacated his perch on the desk, and approacheduntil he was so indecently close that the toes of his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt.
    Amazingly, she retreated no further, bravely standing her ground.
    “I might be persuaded to alter my course,” he said.
    “How?” Hesitantly, she smiled, eager to hope that her arguments had been effective.
    He gazed into her brown eyes, momentarily distracted by how limpid they were, how penetrating. Her skin was smooth as silk, her cheeks rosy and delicate, and . . .
    Vicar’s daughter!
The alarm rang again, and he visibly snapped himself back to the successful culmination of his machination.
    He was a master at effrontery—he’d had his entire life to practice—so the unsophisticated, wholesome Miss Fitzgerald hadn’t a chance against his rehearsed insolence.
    “My decision was fiscal, not personal. So if I’m to change it, you’d have to provide me with a special remuneration.”
    “What do you mean?”
    She was so guileless, so innocent and sincere. He almost hated to deceive her, but he was an indisputable cad and always had been. “If I let your friends stay,” he cajoled, luring her in for the kill, “you’d have to reimburse me for my troubles.”
    “What troubles do they cause you?” she huffed. “They’re old, sick, and overburdened.”
    “I would sustain a financial loss if they remain”—he fought to appear contemplative, then earnest—“but I’d be amenable to forgoing the income if you could do something to make it worth my while—so to speak.”
    “Me? I don’t have any money.”
    “Well, I wasn’t referring to money.”
    “What then?” She was still without a clue as to where he was deliberately and crassly leading her.
    “A reparation that would be more likely to”—he paused, winked—“tickle my fancy.”
    Over in the corner, he could see Ian stir,