Every Scandalous Secret Read Online Free PDF Page B

Evans?” The words came out of her without intention, sounding too wistful—too desperate.
    He cleared his throat. “ ’Course I do.”
    She smiled nervously. “I do, too.”
    He was polite enough not to flee immediately, but he soon claimed a farmer’s early bedtime and retired for the night.
    And Mr. Wade was watching, an eyebrow raised.
    That was enough humiliation for one night, she thought, thanking her hostess for the lovely evening and taking a candle from a footman in the hall to find her way to her bed.
    But in the entrance hall, she could still hear the wind and rain lashing at the windows, at the front door of the mansion. And she wasn’t tired. Instead of ascending one side of the curved double staircase, she went straight, through the long central corridor of the house, to the two-story conservatory that framed the back of the house in iron and glass. Globe lamps hung along several of the paths, illuminating trees that touched the very top of the glass ceiling and disappeared as if into the darkness of night. Walking forward, feeling the wetness of fern leaves brushing her arms, she could see the rain running in rivulets down the glass, but nothing beyond, with the world in darkness.
    “Do you like storms?”
    She whirled about, almost dropping her candle. Mr. Wade blocked her path. His dark clothing seemed to fade into the background, leaving his face and hair lit with the golden glow of light. His eyes, ever amused, studied her.
    “It is impolite to sneak up on a woman,” she scolded, trying to hide the way he’d set her heart pounding.
    “I was not sneaking. I could even hear the shells crunch under my feet along the path.”
    “Well, I could only hear the storm. And what if someone saw you following me?”
    “They didn’t.”
    “I am alone—you should not be here.” But oh the excitement of it surprised her, called to her.
    “Other girls have female relatives at these house parties, to make sure they’re tucked in safe each night. But not you.”
    “That is how I’m different—I’m not a young girl. I’m far too mature—”
    “And on the shelf?”
    “—to be held to such strict standards,” she finished, trying not to smile. “There are enough married and widowed ladies about to see to any chaperoning necessary.”
    “But none of them are here right now,” he murmured, taking another step toward her.
    The candlelight gleamed in his hair, shadowed his cheekbones. He looked teasing and dangerous all at once—it played with her nerves, setting off a tremble deep in her stomach as if he fingered the strings of a violin. She’d never experienced the like of it before.
    “We didn’t finish our conversation,” Mr. Wade said.
    “There is nothing left to talk about,” she answered calmly. “I posed for a painting, but you cannot prove it to your friends.”
    “Not yet,” he agreed pleasantly. “But I will. Until then, we can talk.”
    She knew he would attempt to use her words against her, but she doubted he could. Let him try to confuse her with the pretty phrases he used on gullible, green girls fresh from the schoolroom. She had asked about him before leaving London—he was not a gifted scholar, lacked even the will to be interested in his finances. But he always had plenty of coin. Did his brother give him an allowance?
    In a low voice, he said, “When I first saw the painting, I came to a complete stop, unable to move.”
    She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His words and the gravelly timbre of his voice had an unsettling effect on her in the shadowy dampness of the conservatory.
    “There were many men as stunned as I, of course, for the painting was a new attraction. But there you were, reclining above us all, your skin golden with candlelight against a black background.”
    She swallowed, surprised to notice the tightness in her chest, the way she felt too warm even though the storm beyond chilled the conservatory, letting in drafts that seemed to swirl