Elizabeth Powell Read Online Free PDF Page A

face, a stark contrast to his pale blue eyes. The high planes of his cheekbones and the aquiline arch of his nose hinted at aristocratic lineage. In his heavily braided dress uniform, he radiated dignity and confidence. He didn’t look like a monster at all.
    As Amanda stared at him, she felt her anger rekindle and burn her fear away. She swallowed, hard-pressed to keep that fire under control; she mustn’t give Locke any reason to suspect that she was anything other than a featherheaded female. She opened her sandalwood fan to cool her heated skin.
    She barely heard Harry’s voice as he introduced her. “Admiral Locke, may I present Mrs. … ah … Seagrave.”
    Admiral Locke did not seem to notice the lieutenant’s hesitation; he smiled and bowed over Amanda’s gloved hand.
    “Welcome to my home, Mrs. Seagrave. I do hope you enjoy yourself this evening.” His pale eyes flicked to her abundant
décolletage
, then back to her face.
    “Admiral, this is such an honor. My late husband spoke so highly of you.” Her greeting came out in a high, breathy rush. She batted her eyelashes and tried to appear pleased by his attentions, even as her stomach roiled and she resisted the urge to yank herself away from his touch.
    “You flatter me, madam,” Locke stated, his smile widening. “May I present my sister, the Viscountess Desmond? Letitia, this is Mrs. Seagrave and her escort, Lieutenant Henry Morgan.”
    Amanda curtsied to Lady Desmond, a sharp-faced, sharp-eyed matron dressed in a fashionable slip of gold net over a green crepe gown. She towered over Amanda like a ship’s figurehead, distant and wooden, and eyed the younger woman up and down with patent disapproval.
    “
Enchantée
,” she intoned. Then she turned a dismissive shoulder to Amanda and graced Harry with a flirtatious smile. She tapped his arm playfully with her fan. “You must save at least one dance for me, Lieutenant. So rarely do I find a man whose stature complements my own. And I warn you—I don’t take no for an answer.”
    Harry blushed and stammered a polite response. Amanda hoped he knew how to swim with barracudas.
    Having exchanged the requisite pleasantries, Amanda and Harry moved past the receiving line and into the first of a series of chambers that formed the ballroom. Amanda exhaled in a slow, relieved sigh.
    “What on earth possessed you to choose that name?” Harry growled at her. “Didn’t sound strange until I introduced you. ‘Mrs. Seagrave,’ indeed. Rather transparent, don’t you think?”
    “You didn’t think so earlier.” She glared back. “I told you I’d been using the name since I came to London.”
    “Well, the name’s only part of it,” he declared. “You don’t look like widow, not by half.”
    “Don’t be such a half-wit,” she snapped, but the reproach was hollow. Harry was right. At three and twenty, Amanda considered herself a spinster—old enough to play the part of a married woman. The dress she wore,however, might be considered too
outré
, even for a widow. She did not wish to think of that at the moment. “Besides, Locke didn’t recognize me. I don’t think you should be worried about me so much as you should worry about Lady Desmond.”
    “Why?” he inquired, suspicious. “I thought her very charming.”
    “Oh, never mind.” Amanda lifted her eyes to Heaven and prayed for patience. For all his intelligence and naval acumen, Harry could be so obtuse when it came to the fairer sex. He would no doubt find himself well in over his head before the evening was over.
    Amanda was astounded by the seething, suffocating mass of over- and under-scented humanity congregated in these rooms. The throng on the stairs had been nothing compared to this. The din was incredible, like the pounding of the surf against the shore in one long, unending wave. Dozens upon dozens of white beeswax tapers illumined the area; their light reflected off the inlaid wooden floor, and the sparkling jewelry on