Petals in the Storm Read Online Free PDF

tried to compare the countess to his memories. This woman appeared to be about twenty-five years old; Margot would be thirty-one, but she might look younger than her age.
    Surely the countess was taller than Margot, who had been only a little above average height? But Margot's bearing and vitality had made her appear taller than she actually was. It had been a surprise how far he had had to bend over the first time he kissed her....
    Sharply he retreated from his chaotic emotions and forced himself to continue his analysis. This woman's eyes seemed to be green, and she had an exotic, foreign look. But she was wearing a green gown, and Margot's eyes had been changeable, shifting from gray to green to hazel with her mood and costume.
    The resemblance was uncanny, and there were no differences that could not be ascribed to time or faulty memory. He had the wild thought that this might be Margot herself. Though she had been reported dead, perhaps a mistake had been made; news was often mangled as it traveled. If Margot had been living on the Continent all these years, she might no longer have the air of an Englishwoman.
    Yet the countess's behavior implied that they were strangers. If she was Margot, she must surely recognize him, for he looked much the same. If so, he couldn't believe that she wouldn't acknowledge him, if only with a curse.
    Instead, she stood with a faint, amused smile during Rafe's lengthy inspection. The silence had gone on too long, and as the supplicant, it was up to him to make the next move.
    He fell back on The Duke, who was never at a loss for words. With a deep bow, he said, "My apologies, Countess. I was told that you were the most beautiful spy in Europe , but even so, the description did you less than justice."
    She gave a rich, intimate laugh. Margot's laugh. "You speak very prettily, your grace. I have heard of you also."
    "Nothing to my discredit, I hope." Rafe decided that it was time to use his vaunted charm. Stepping toward the countess, he smiled and said, "You know why I am here, and it is a serious business. Let us not stand on formality. I would prefer that you use my given name."
    "Which is?"
    If she was Margot and this was an act, she was performing it superbly well. His smile showing signs of strain, he lifted her hand and kissed it. "Rafael Whitbourne. My friends usually call me Rafe."
    She snatched her hand back as if he had bitten it. "Surely a rake should not have been named for an archangel."
    At her words, Rafe's doubt vanished. "My God, it
is
you, Margot," he said in a wondering voice. "You are the only one who ever dared mention my lack of similarity to archangels. It was a good quip; I've used it myself many times. But how the devil did you come to be here?"
    She gave a languid flutter of her fan. "Who is this Margot, your grace? Some vapid little English girl who resembles me?"
    Her denial triggered a surge of the greatest anger Rafe had known in years. He could think of only one sure way to determine the identity of the woman in front of him. With a swift movement, he closed the distance between them, drew her hard against him, and kissed her mocking mouth.
    It was Margot; he knew it in his bones. Not only because of the way her body curved into his, or the familiar softness of her lips, but because of a unique, elusive essence that was unmistakably hers.
    Even without that recognition he would have known, because he had never met another woman whose touch produced such a blaze of desire. As passion burned through him, he forgot why he was in Paris , forgot the reason for this embrace, forgot everything but the miracle in his arms.
    Margot shivered, and for an intoxicating instant she yielded, her body pliant and her mouth opening under his. The years seemed to fall away. Margot was alive, and all was right with the world for the first time in a dozen years....
    The moment was over almost before it began. She tried to pull away, but he held her tight a little longer while he