Only Scandal Will Do Read Online Free PDF

find no purchase on the slick counterpane. The man advanced, his lips beneath the mask quirked in a wicked smile.
    “And I thought you were enjoying yourself, my lady.” He chuckled in his chest again. “But I see you are still reluctant. Come, let me help you forget your troubles once more.”
    “Nooo!” She scrambled off the bed, making for the door, praying wildly that it was unlocked.
    He snared her in one arm, pulled her back to the bed and threw himself down on her. “You are the most spirited lady I have ever had the pleasure of seducing,” he said, gathering her into his arms. “If I wasn’t afraid of yet another scandal, my dear, I would set you up as my mistress and we could play these delicious games to our hearts’ delight.”
    Duped! He’d never once believed her story. And she had let this scoundrel touch her... Twisting, she fought back as he pressed her into the soft covers. With ease he gripped her hands, raised them above her head. God, but he was strong! He pushed her gown up to her hips and an insistent hardness pressed against her legs as he tried to part them. Panic gave way to cold fury.
    “Take your person off me this instant,” she spat at him, still struggling with every ounce of energy left. “Or I vow I will see you die by my hand or my brother’s. I care not which. I tell you for the last time that I am Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam and if you ruin me you bring equal ruin down upon you and your entire family.”
    The dark circles behind the glittery mask–all she could see of his eyes–widened and he tilted his head to the side as though puzzled. Perhaps the deadly calm with which she’d spoken or her icy certainty had finally penetrated his lust-maddened brain. She winced when he probed her wrists, explored the abrasions left by the kidnappers’ rope. His mouth pursed, then he loosened his grip on her hands.
    She shot a hand out and ripped into his cheek with her nails, leaving three long red gashes spouting blood. The man cursed and straightened, releasing her to clutch his injured face.
    Kat leaped from the bed, sprinted to the corner and grabbed the stoneware pitcher from the washstand. She swung the jug around with all the force she could muster, not waiting to see where it landed but aiming high. The solid clunk as the heavy pottery connected with the back of his head reverberated down her arm. The pitcher burst into a torrent of pieces, pattering like rain onto the soft blue rug and the dark red-clad body now sprawled unmoving at her feet.
    Grabbing up the basin, she bent cautiously toward the motionless figure. She raised her weapon, but the man did not stir. A flicker of guilt made her search for signs of life, and with the slight rise and fall of his back, relief coursed through her. Clutching the basin, she rose, skirted the still figure and stepped to the door.
    Slow and silent, she turned the knob, praying to every saint imaginable that the door was not locked. When it opened toward her a scant quarter inch, she breathed a grateful sigh. She eased it shut and leaned her head against the cool wood, trying to steady her heartbeat. Think, she must think. Plan. Glancing down at her gown–dirty, crumpled, stained with blood–a wave of giddiness overtook her. She closed her eyes and concentrated on gathering the dregs of her courage.
    A measure of calm returning, she surveyed the room again, assessing what, if anything, she might use in her escape. Without the benefit of surprise, the earthenware bowl would prove useless as a weapon. Stepping toward the washstand to replace the basin, a sharp prick of pain brought her up short. Shards from the broken pitcher had cut her foot, and with a sigh she remembered her captors had taken her shoes. She must go out into the London streets barefoot, looking like a fugitive from a slaughterhouse, but it could not be helped.
    With the basin returned to the stand, Kat peered around once more, irked that there was nothing she might use.