Outrageous Read Online Free PDF Page A

not with joy.” Art chortled until he wheezed. “Yer nose was too big before it was ever broken. Yer hair’s all wild, like some forest animal. Ye have the Powel chin—too square—and yer blessed mother’s eyes—too yellow. ’Course, I don’t understand it, but the women are always lining up for a peek in yer codpiece. Ye haven’t said what happened with the lady…what’s her name?”
    “Lady Marian Wenthaven.” Griffith rubbed his forehead and wished his headache would subside. “She’s some relative of the earl’s.”
    “Ye haven’t said what happened with Lady Marian,” Art repeated, “but I bet I know. I bet I know.”
    A sense of foreboding stopped Griffith as he prepared to lie down, but it couldn’t stop him from asking, “Know what?”
    “Fat ol’ Lady Marian made a grab for ye.” Art grabbed the air. “Ye fought the ol’ hag.” He fought with shadows. “And the ugly bitch slammed her ham fist into yer face.”
    Interrupting Art’s imitation of womanly dismay, Griffith said, “She’s not fat, old, or ugly.”
    Art straightened and his gaze sharpened. “Oh?”
    Griffith flopped onto the feather mattress and arranged the pillows behind his back. The activity gave him time to make his plans.
    He knew what Art was doing. His beloved body servant had for some reason decided Griffith should marry again, and he scouted every prospect most carefully. Now he fished for information, and if Griffith told him Marian was attractive, Art would be on him like stink on a pig farm. Worse, if Griffith told him she wasn’t attractive, and Art caught sight of her, he’d know Griffith had lied. He’d construe the worst explanation for Griffith’s evasion, so Griffith dared show no appreciation for Marian’s appearance.
    Not that he liked lithe women who smiled too much. Or was it too expressively? He told Art, “She’s young.”
    Art pounced on the scrap of information. “How young?”
    Lesser folk had to utilize words for the emotions Marian’s smiles expressed. Griffith best remembered her scornful smile. Head tilted down, eyes amused, full lips curled just at the corners, a charming dimple in each cheek. “Twenty? Twenty-five years, perhaps?”
    “The right age for ye,” Art enthused. “Since ye’re all of twenty-eight. What color is her hair?”
    Nay, Griffith best remembered her dare-you smile. Shoulders thrown back, chest extended, all her white teeth flashing, a charming dimple in each cheek. “Red.”
    “Red hair?” Art frowned. “Englishwomen don’t have red hair. Must be bright, ugly red from that dye women use.”
    Griffith squinted, pretending to think about it, but he remembered. He remembered too well. “It’s not dyed.”
    “Copper, then?”
    “Red,” Griffith said firmly. “But some men might call it pretty.”
    “Like flame, then,” Art said with satisfaction.
    “Mm.” Ah, but Griffith remembered her amused smile. Amused eyes slanted up, rosy cheeks lifted, full lips, white teeth, a charming dimple in each cheek…She’d been amused at him. How would she look when they laughed together? “Heated flame,” Griffith mumbled.
    Art lifted Marian’s weapon—the purse—from the floor. “What color are her eyes?”
    “Green.”
    “That’s it,” Art crowed, leaping in the air like a toad on a hot rock. “When a lad knows the color of a lass’s eyes, he’s in love.”
    “What?” Griffith roared, throwing aside the rag.
    “When a lad—”
    Griffith rolled out of bed and took a step toward Art. “I heard you! You gander-head, I don’t even like the woman. She’s immodest, rude, violent, flighty—”
    “Sounds like the woman for ye,” Art sang as he prudently backed away.
    “She’s not my type.” Griffith drew a deep breath and contained his outrage. Keeping careful eye contact with his sniggering servant, he explained, “You know I like a domestic woman, adept with a needle, content to stay home. I don’t like a woman who casts her gaze about