The Demon's Mistress Read Online Free PDF

that. What did he plan?
    She did know about rascally dancing. If she let her mind slide back to her folly with Maurice, she could remember times when he’d used the dance to full advantage. After all, where else could a slightly disreputable man get close enough to a lady to tempt her to folly?
    The music started and they began the steps. For the moment it was just a dance, giving her room to think.
    She hadn’t anticipated him planning to kill himself.
    She hadn’t anticipated him being dangerous.
    She hadn’t anticipated the need for introduction.
    She hadn’t anticipated his perfect management of the situation, or how he matched the steps of society as skillfully as he matched the steps of the dance.
    She should have expected all of it. Heavens, social duties were part of an officer’s life. And yet, she had failed to anticipate his social skills.
    What else had she neglected?
    That he would be wary.
    As she met his eyes in the dance, she recognized that. Of course her quixotic actions must appear suspicious. As they joined hands and passed, she wondered what he feared. What did he think she wanted for her twenty thousand pounds?
    And what—even more fascinating—would he be willing to do for it?
    She danced back toward him, wicked thoughts stirring despite every attempt to bury them deep in her mind. They linked arms in an allemande, and turned, eye to eye, bodies moving in harmony.
    A sudden awareness rippled through her of exactly what she could demand from him in service—for six long weeks. She knew her rare color was building, and spun off to the next gentleman with relief.
    She’d never thought of such a thing when she’d planned this. Never! She must immediately put it out of her mind. It would be both foolish and wicked. She was supposed to be rescuing him, not exploiting him, and he was eight years her junior.
    She fiercely concentrated on the present, on the weaving steps of the dance. She couldn’t help but watch, however, as he danced with other women in the set. She was not alone in her reaction. Each one, young or old, responded with a brightening of the eyes, a widening of the smile.
    He was a flirt. A handsome, instinctive flirt whom women could not resist responding to. She’d not anticipated that, either. She’d known the world would assume she was buying youth, but not that she had been charmed out of her wits and money.
    The idea was so repulsive that she wanted to cry halt now. He could have the money and go to hell or heaven—
    Then he was back to partner her. As they stepped together, first one way then the other, he said softly, “Am I supposed to fall madly in love with you, or is this a more considered affair?”
    Mouth dry, eyes locked with his, she said, “Madly in love. Why not?” If she was going to be thought a fool, she’d rather be thought a mad one.
    His eyes held hers, and then, as the dance moved him on, he lingered for a speaking moment. Fascinated, she realized she was doing the same thing, and hastily looked at her new partner, Sir Watkins Dore, to see an understanding smile.
    â€œA handsome rascal,” the middle-aged man remarked, “but penniless and with a taste for the bottle and the tables, dear lady. A word to the wise.”
    From there on, Maria passed through the dance unable to block the mortifying awareness that everyone thought they were witnessing a powerful attraction between an older woman and a charming young rascal.
    She couldn’t blame Vandeimen. He was following her instructions to the letter. Though smiling and polite, he had somehow muted his effect on the other ladies, and turned it all on her. Often her eyes collided with his intent ones. It was hard for her not to believe that she had suddenly become the center of his universe.
    When the dance ended and she curtsied as he bowed, she knew all eyes were on them. It was excruciatingly hard not to say something cutting, or