Dancing With A Devil Read Online Free PDF Page B

carriage prattled down the street and past St. James Square, he reconsidered if he could ever trust a woman enough again to open his heart and soul. His carriage rounded the corner and the canal became visible in the distance. With the stone wall rising to one side of the canal and the trees lining the banks, it reminded him of the small sliver of the Oise he had just been able to make out from a crack in his cell wall in Bagne de Toulon.
    He curled his hands into fists, then spread his fingers out and examined his nails. It had taken over a year, but the ridges and constant blue tinge underneath the nail had faded finally. No one would look at them now and wonder what had happened. If he allowed himself to remember too long his time in the dark, dingy rat-infested cell, the intense sharp pain of each nail being yanked out one by one would shoot through his fingers and up his arms like it was happening again. He had been starved, beaten and mentally sliced to shreds, all because he had trusted a woman.
    Yet every woman was not Gwyneth. His gut twisted with the knowledge. It did not matter. His head knew this, but it did not matter. No. Much better to be lonely for the rest of his life than to risk getting close to anyone ever again.

Most debutantes would have been thrilled if the Duke of Clarington had singled them out for conversation at a ball. Not Audrey. Long ago, she had realized she was not like most other debutantes. If she had wanted to marry simply for money, then she would be thrilled to be trapped conversing with Lord Clarington and his friend Lord Spencer, but she wished to marry for love. She peeked at Lord Clarington’s hard-set face and shuddered. She could never love him. He appeared colder than a frozen pond. She stole a look at Lord Clarington’s friend, Lord Spencer. He had a smile on his face, but it was a practiced smile. The vain peacock probably sat in front of a looking glass for hours to get the effect he desired.
    How long had it taken him to pick out the blue-and-white striped jacket he wore tonight? Hopefully not long since it obliterated the boundaries of good taste for evening attire, not to mention the elaborate peeks jabbing his cheeks appeared quite painful. As for Lord Clarington, it did not matter what he wore, because his pinched face and cold eyes told her everything she needed to know.
    As the men stood directly in front of her and argued over which one of them was the best huntsman, she raised her fan and flicked her gaze across the guests at the Allreds’ ball. She searched the grand ballroom to see whether her father still watched her, while simultaneously she hoped to catch a glimpse of Trent and discover that by some happy fate he had decided to attend the ball tonight.
    She started her examination at the right side of the room, which shimmered with warm light provided by hundreds of candelabra and dozens of enormous crystal chandeliers. Near one of the large white columns that circled the perimeter of the marble dance floor she caught site of broad shoulders and light hair. Could it be Trent? Gripping her fan, she discreetly rose on her tiptoes to see the man’s face.
    As she got a good look, disappointment filled her. How could she have mistaken his almost white hair for Trent’s beautiful golden hair? Wishful gazing she supposed.
    Where was Trent? Perhaps the more pressing question at this moment was where was her father? If he was preoccupied in conversation and no longer watching her like a hawk maybe she could slip away and hide in the powder room until the supper dance. Then Lord Thortonberry would come to claim her for their dance, and at least she did not have to worry about pretending with him or being concerned her father would try to get a marriage offer from him since Lord Thortonberry was a longtime family friend and most definitely not interested in her.
    As the notes of the cotillion drifted over the balmy orchid-scented air to her, the dance floor drew her gaze