The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux (Lords of Disgrace) Read Online Free PDF Page A

kept his eyes closed and inhaled a discreet hint of bay-rum cologne and leather polish. ‘Collins?’
    ‘Yes, sir?’ Typically there was no hesitation over the correct way to address him.
    Cris opened his eyes and turned over on to his back. Collins did not so much as raise an eyebrow at the sudden violence of the swear word.
    ‘Muscle strain, sir?’
    ‘The pain you get when you over-exercise.’ Cris levered himself up against the pillow. ‘The kind that makes you think your muscles are full of ground glass.’
    ‘Massage,’ Collins pronounced, blandly ignoring the reaction that threat of torture provoked. ‘I have unpacked your possessions in an upstairs room and the bed is made up, sir. I thought you would wish to transfer there before nightfall. It is five o’clock and the ladies are all in the front room just at the moment.’
    Collins was considerably more than a valet. He numbered code breaking, five languages and lethally accurate knife-throwing amongst his less public skills, although he was also more than capable of turning out the Marquess of Avenmore in a state of perfection for any social occasion.
    Now he shook out Cris’s heavy silk banyan and waited patiently while, swearing under his breath, Cris got out of bed. Collins did, however, wince at the sight of the borrowed nightshirt.
    ‘I’ve already been carried through the house and dumped in the bath stark naked in front of every female in the place.’ Cris eased his arms into the sleeves of the robe and allowed Collins to tie the sash. ‘I thought it courteous to cover myself.’ The more he thought about it, the more embarrassing it became. He had no reticence about his own body, but being dropped nude and dripping like a half-stunned fish, in front of a gaggle of single ladies was...not good form.
    The other man muttered something about stable doors and bolted horses and dropped a pair of backless leather slippers on the floor for him to shuffle his feet into.
    ‘I feel as though I’m a hundred and four,’ Cris grumbled as he made his way across to the door.
    ‘If you came ashore here, I would suggest that you had not been swimming like a centenarian.’ Collins opened the door and tactfully did not offer his arm. ‘Top of the stairs, first on the right, sir.’
    ‘I was swimming like a damn fool, I know that.’ Cris walked straight up the stairs without stopping. Swearing in Russian certainly helped. ‘You must have assumed I had drowned.’
    ‘I saw no signs of a struggle on the beach when I found your clothes, sir.’ Collins followed him into the bedchamber and shut the door. ‘I therefore concluded you had entered the sea of your own volition. I confess to a degree of anxiety, especially as you had gone out so early and I had not thought to look for you for some time. I questioned the local fishermen, but they had seen nothing. They did, however, inform me of the direction of the currents and I was about to ride along the clifftops in the hope of sighting you when the message arrived.’
    ‘I was distracted.’ Cris ignored the tactful murmur of Quite, sir. However discreet he had been, and, in fact, there was nothing to be discreet about, it was close to impossible to keep secrets from Collins. Ominously, the bed was covered with towels and the man was pouring oil into his palm. With grim resignation Cris stripped off and lay face down. ‘If you could stop short of actually making me scream I would be obliged. There are ladies around.’
    Collins took hold of his right calf and started doing hideous things to the muscles with his thumbs. ‘Yes, sir. An interesting household.’
    ‘Mrs Perowne is the widow of a man who leapt off a cliff rather than be arrested and hanged for smuggling and associated crimes.’
    ‘Indeed, sir? Very novel. If you could just bend your knee... Miss Holt, the owner, seems a kindly lady.’
    ‘Is she the owner? I assumed Mrs Perowne was.’ Brown eyes, hot, sweet mouth, the promise of oblivion