Lord Perfect Read Online Free PDF Page B

progeny. He fit no more easily into the world into which
he was born than his namesake falcon might fit in a canary cage. His
ambition in life wasn't simply to follow in the footsteps of his
father and his father's father and a long line of Dalmay men before
them.
    While the possibility of being different had never
occurred to Benedict, he could respect the ambition and admire the
dedication to the one goal.
    Still, this did not satisfactorily explain why he was
here, in one of the drearier parts of Holborn, no less.
    He did intend to find Peregrine a drawing master.
    But it could not be Bathsheba Wingate. Atherton would
draw the line at his son's taking lessons from one of the Dreadful
DeLuceys—especially this one.
    "There it is!" Peregrine pointed to a
watercolor of Hampstead Heath.
    As Benedict took it in, the pressure on his chest
returned. It was as though a fist pressed against his heart.
    This was everything a watercolor should be: true not
only in line and form and tint, but in spirit. It was as though the
artist had snatched a moment in time.
    It was beautiful, hauntingly so, and he wanted it.
    Far too much.
    Not that his desire for it signified in the least. What
signified was, the artist couldn't teach Peregrine. One didn't hire
notorious women to educate impressionable children.
    A drawing master ,
Lord Hargate had said, not a drawing mistress .
    "Well, is it any good?" Peregrine said
anxiously.
    Say it's barely adequate. Pedestrian. Mediocre. Say
anything but the truth and you can walk away and forget her.
    "It's brilliant," Benedict said.
    He paused to reestablish the connection between his
brain and his tongue.
    "Too good, in fact," he went on. "I
cannot believe she will waste her time giving lessons to unruly
children. Obviously she must be seeking more advanced students. I am
sure the girl meant well. It was flattering of her, in fact, to offer
her mother's services. However—"
    The shop door opened, a woman hurried out and down the
steps, glanced his way… and tripped.
    Benedict moved instinctively to block her fall, and
caught her before she could plunge to the pavement.
    Caught her in his arms.
    And looked down.
    Her bonnet, dislodged, hung rakishly to one side.
    He had an unobstructed view of the top of her head, of
thick curls, blue-black in the afternoon light.
    She tipped her head back, and he looked down into
enormous blue eyes, fathoms deep.
    His head bent. Her lips parted. His hold tightened. She
made a sound, the smallest gasp.
    He became aware of his hands, clamped upon her upper
arms, and of the warmth under his gloves… and of her breath on
his face—because his was inches away from hers.
    He lifted his head. He made himself do it calmly while
he fought to breathe normally, think normally.
    He searched desperately for a rule, any rule, to make
the world come out of chaos and back into order.
    Humor will relieve an awkward moment.
    "Mrs. Wingate," he said. "We were
speaking of you. How good of you to drop by."

    HE RELEASED HER, and Bathsheba backed away and
straightened her bonnet, but the damage was done. She could still
feel the pressure of his fingers through layers of muslin and wool.
She still felt his breath on her lips, could almost taste him. She
was too aware of the scent of him, of maleness and skin-scent teasing
her nostrils. She tried to ignore it, tried to concentrate on the
safer fragrances of starch and soap.
    He smelled clean, scrupulously clean. It had been a very
long time since she'd been so close to a man who was scrupulously
clean and starched and crisply pressed.
    And now she knew he had a small scar under his chin,
directly below the left corner of his mouth. It was thin, very
slightly curved, and three-quarters of an inch long.
    She didn't want to know he had a scar or what he smelled
like. She didn't want to know any more about him. She had hardly
noticed men in the three years since Jack's death, and before that,
she'd never taken much notice of anyone but Jack. It