Pure Sin Read Online Free PDF Page A

at Flora and her father. When she heard their ages, she thought for a moment before declaring, "I think Belle-mere and Maman are like that. But Maman went to France to live with Bellemere. She hates the dirt, Papa said. And we don't have pav-ed streets," she went on, pronouncing the word with two syllables. "I like my pony Birdie, and I've never seen a pav-ed street. Have you?"
    "The city I live in has many paved streets, but I like the country too," Flora replied. "What color is your pony?"
    "She's a paint. My cousin Raven taughted me to ride. Do you want to see her? Birdie likes cookies." Grabbing a handful of cookies, she'd already begun sliding off her chair.
    George Bonham politely declined the invitation, preferring a peaceful brandy and a cigar after their long ride, so Flora went alone with her small guide. Lucie brought Flora up to the nursery first—because she needed her riding boots, she said with the seriousness of a well-learned injunction—and after exchanging her moccasins for boots, she proceeded to introduce Flora to all her nursemaids—who were hovering now in a different locale; her favorite toys merited introductions as well. She was enchanting like her father, Flora thought, charming with ease as she took Flora in tow, and, beginning with Birdie, gave her a grand tour of the ranch, the countryside, and the spacious house.
    The progression of the tour was informal, dictated by Lucie's schedule and fancy, and in the process of looking for Lucie's misplaced riding quirt the next day, Flora found herself standing in the doorway of Adam's bedroom.
    A sudden heat raced through her senses, uncontrollable, heedless of circumstance, and she wondered at her loss of restraint. It was only an empty room, she told herself, an austere chamber with hardly any indication of the man who inhabited it. But she felt the hot sensation regardless of the monkish atmosphere, as if Adam were standing before her, reaching out to touch her.
    Lucie was chattering at her side, tugging at her hand to guide her within. And as Flora stepped over the threshold into the room, she was struck by his fragrance. It pervaded the large chamber, subtle, seductive; his skin and hair smelled like this—of pine and mountain sage, with undertones of bergamot.
    "See," Lucie was saying, and Flora shook away the overpowering weight of fragrant memory. "That's me."
    A small pastel portrait on a gold easel held a place of honor on a bedside table, and an exquisite rendition of Adam's daughter smiled up at her. The polished wood surface was otherwise bare, as was the matching table on the opposite side of the oversize mahogany bed. Her gaze dwelled for a moment on the plain white seersucker coverlet crisply tucked under the pillows and around the mattress, the corners almost military in their preciseness, and she found herself jealously wondering how Isolde looked against such pristine purity. She'd seen Isolde's room yesterday when Lucie had brought her in to show off the shiny green eyes on the gilded swans decorating her mother's bed; Flora had taken note of the fashionable Winterhalter portrait over the mantel of a delicate woman with flaxen hair and a sultan's ransom in diamonds adorning her bosom. Adam had married a very beautiful woman.
    Isolde's rooms were ornamented lavishly in swathed silk and gold tassels, gilded stucco work shimmering on the woodwork, the walls richly covered in rose damask. The suite was filled with pillow-strewn furniture upholstered in pale silks, expensive porcelains and bric-a-brac in lavish array adorned every tabletop, small gold-framed paintings of bucolic landscapes covered the walls. The scene was reminiscent of a stage set, a rococo palace. Or an expensive bordello.
    In sharp contrast to such drama, Adam's room held only a glass-fronted bureau, a small desk, a leather sofa, before the fireplace, a Feraghan carpet in subdued shades of navy and wine, the massive bed. A utilitarian room stripped of personality—or