Lady Be Good Read Online Free PDF Page B

beneath the desk for him?”
    The skin tightened at the corners of her eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t mention it,” she said.
    He almost laughed. How odd that he should find this pickpocket diverting. But for a woman who’d gotten herself into a great deal of trouble tonight—removing and replacing her mistress’s bracelet, breaking into her master’s locked study, hiding beneath his desk to eavesdrop, and perhaps worse (for a pickpocket, surely, did not break into studies
only
to eavesdrop?)—for all these redoubtable sins, she nevertheless did a brilliant job of playing the breathy naïf.
    He admired a good performance. After all, he played the hero on regular occasion.
    “A gentleman wouldn’t mention it,” he said. “Alas, I already warned you. I’m a rogue.”
    This time, she believed him. He sensed her reassessment, her subtle change of posture and tone. “Lord Palmer,” she purred. “I don’t expect your approval, of course. But Mr. Everleigh and I . . . That is, you must know that I’m one of the hostesses here, what they call an ‘Everleigh Girl’—”
    She was still trying to cozen him. Make him believe he’d interrupted her plan to surprise her lover. To disconcert her—for clearly he hadn’t managed it yet—he lifted his hand to cup her cheek. “Indeed. I believe I’ve seen your face before.” He stroked her jaw. “An advertisement for Pearson’s soap, was it?”
    She went still. Her skin was satin-smooth, warm, almost feverish to the touch. She smelled, he realized, like a garden in hot weather, climbing roses and jasmine and honeysuckle warmed by a noonday sun.
    Their eyes locked. She blushed, then looked away. “That was Miss Ames in the advertisements,” she said. “I am not one of the girls who wins such honors.”
    He studied her—the casual grace of one spiralingblack ringlet; the faint trace of freckles on the crest of her round cheek. “I can’t imagine why.”
    That was empty flattery, of course. He knew why the advertisers favored other girls. This woman before him had no special beauty, apart from the angelic magic of her eyes—and a certain sensual grace in the way she held herself, slim and erect—and the softness and warmth and scent of her skin.
    None of which would translate in photographs.
    He retreated a step. “I still don’t know your name.” Not a creative remark. But his brain felt oddly unfocused, as though he had just taken a few fingers of whisky.
    “Ah.” She turned back to him, and he was oddly relieved when their eyes met and she looked, once again, quite ordinary to him. “You see that it’s hardly worth knowing, though. Miss Ames models for Pearson’s. You will find Miss Snow on the boxes of Ruben’s Tooth-powder, and Miss Lowell and Miss Rousseau smiling on bottles of Mr. Munson’s Tonic. I am the lowest in our ranks—I know it very well. But if you imagine this would protect me from jealousy, you’re mistaken. Should the girls come to know of my . . . special friendship with Mr. Everleigh, I assure you they would make my life a misery.” She paused here, slightly breathless—a state that drew his attention, no doubt deliberately, to the snowy rise of her modest but excellently formed décolletage.
    It felt wrong to be so riveted by her performance. He had far more important tasks than parrying words with a woman who made her living batting her lashes at the wealthy. Yet . . . what harm in admiring her? She was as cool under pressure as a professional soldier, but her talentsclearly ran toward charm and coercion. She would fit his purpose splendidly. A fine spy.
    “Such a peculiarly impassioned plea,” he said, “when all I ask is your name.”
    “I . . .” Her face briefly went blank, as she groped for a new script to guide her.
    He decided to help. The most predictable narrative was also the most credible. Grasping her by the waist, he eased her deeper into the shadows. Unwittingly, she helped by backing into the wall.
    It was