Sinful in Satin Read Online Free PDF Page B

quickly enough that she noticed his eyes were no longer on the drawing, but on her.
    Her color rose, but not too much. She glanced in his eyes for an instant. That quick, penetrating look acknowledged what he had been doing, and why, and displayed no shock or dismay. And so, as with last night, he did not try to hide his appreciation and interest the way he normally would.
    Speculations about the possibilities began spinning in his mind. Pleasant ones. Erotic ones. Too complicated, though. She was beautiful and desirable, and the interest was mutual—that was certain—despite her feigned indifference. But whether she followed her mother’s path, or indeed started a brothel, or just lived in virtuous isolation, she was not for him.
    She returned her attention to her drawing, as if she had reached the same conclusion. “You knew her well, if you know she had a talent with art. I only realized it myself the last few months I lived with her back then.”
    “One only has to see one drawing to know if there is talent.”
    “And you only saw one of hers? Or did you see more?”
    He hesitated. He was long practiced in revealing as little as possible about most things, especially if they mattered to someone else and touched on his missions. Even casual comments could come back to haunt one and lead to problems.
    “She would draw and paint when she came here,” he said. “So I saw a few more than one over time.”
    “Are they here? These drawings?”
    “I expect so.”
    She gazed around the chamber, and toward the rooms invisible to her beyond and above. “Perhaps I will see them too, when I have time to investigate the contents of this house. First I must see to other things, however. Like this chamber.”
    He almost asked what she intended for the chamber, and all those shelves. Instead he returned to his bucket, and mounted the steps.
    Investigate . It had been an odd word for her to use. Whatever her reason for that kind of examination, it would be wise for him to make sure he investigated first.
     
     
    B oot steps sounded in the stairwell, getting fainter as Mr. Albrighton carried his water to his chamber.
    She had hoped that upon realizing she would do nothing to make him comfortable, he would take himself off to someplace where at least basic service would be provided. Instead he had not appeared to mind doing for himself this morning, and had continued to show more interest in her than was proper. He had also deliberately engaged her in conversation, as if to prove he could.
    She suspected that if she were too obvious in her efforts to encourage his removal, he might deliberately stay. He might decide it was a contest that he of course had to win.
    She probably had achieved nothing by being rude this morning, and perhaps had only goaded him on in his plan to dally. A little more subtlety might be in order.
    She did not like being rude and, she suspected, she had not even been very good at it. She certainly had not held the pose once he entered this sitting room. But then it was hard to act like a person hardly existed when that person made one’s blood race when he stood right next to you, and his mere breath sent delicious shivers down your back.
    She pictured him up there, waiting for that cold water to heat in a small attic chamber. How long had he been using that room while in London this time? Not long, she guessed, if he did not even have linens for his bed and washing.
    She set aside her sketch and went up to her own chamber. She pulled cloths out of the wicker linen chest and made a stack of sheets and towels. She needed to protect whatever mattress was up there, after all. Nor did she want him dripping water all over the floor. Giving him linens was not actually accommodating his presence in this house, or acting like his servant. If she made him live like a prisoner, that chamber would eventually be as fetid as a prison cell.
    She did not actually tiptoe up the front stairs to the attic, but she tried to