The Pretender Read Online Free PDF Page B

bodice and pulled her hair, all the while crudely pushing himself at her like a rutting ram.
    Agatha had struggled silently against her own debilitating fear and his superior strength. She'd dared not call out for one of her servants to break down the door to help her, for she'd only condemn her own staff to an appearance before the magistrate if they laid hands on a lord's son. That would not end well, especially when Lord Fistingham
was
the local magistrate.
    It hadn't been until Reggie had her down on the sofa, fixed on pinning her whilst he undid his breeches, that a long-ago event had flashed through her mind and she knew what she must do.
    When they were young, Jamie had suddenly decided that she needed to learn to protect herself and had demonstrated how to disarm a man completely with one simple action.
    With all her might, Agatha kicked out. Her knee had missed, for she was hampered by Reggie's weight on her skirts. But her thigh had made satisfying contact all the same.
    Most satisfying indeed. Reggie's face had gone greenish-white and he had rolled off her with a breathless wheeze. She'd clambered out with practiced ease through a large window, leaving her foe writhing on the floor behind her.
    When she'd left Appleby early the next morning, her household staff had still been trying to clean the vomit from the carpet.
    Remembering that day, Agatha realized that she was rubbing her wrists, although the bruises had been gone for over a week.
    She shuddered. Absently rebraiding her hair, she forced herself to focus her mind on the enormous task confronting her.
    How to turn a chimneysweep into a gentleman in a single week?
    He must be able to converse, to dine, to dance, to walk even, as if he were born to the gentry. It was a daunting task, without the remotest chance of succeeding. Agatha dropped her braid and flopped back onto her pillow.
    One thing at a time. She had spent the evening with him, going over a few highly useful phrases that would get him by with the household help for the next few days. He had learned quickly and relieved her mind about his ability to master conversation.
    The simplest change would be to transform the outside. Already he had proven to be acceptable-looking, even a bit devastating. With the proper clothes and a modicum of manners, he ought to pass well enough.
    After all, it wasn't as though she were trying to find him a wife. She needn't prove anything about him but that he was an ordinary fellow.
    If only she hadn't claimed he was a musician…
    Curling her body around her pillow, Agatha sleepily tried to plot her way out of that one until she drifted off again.
    Simon stepped out of the shadows to look down on Agatha. Even in the near darkness, he could see her sleep-flushed cheeks and one round shoulder peeking from the neckline of her gown.
    What was her game? She was a consummate actress, with her fresh country ways and her direct sexuality. He had waited for another invitation tonight, half-expecting her to dispense his "reward" for remaining to help her.
    Instead, she had brightly wished him a good evening and instructed a bemused Pearson to have breakfast ready promptly at seven.
    Simon didn't know much about the habits of mistresses, but he had always pictured them a lazy bunch, sleeping their days away whilst awaiting their paramours at night.
    The house creaked a midnight protest around him. He had searched every inch of it in the last few hours, barring the servants' quarters. But other than some rather incriminating inscriptions in the books lining his own room—"To James, my dear schemer, Love, A"—he had found nothing useful so far.
    Agatha shifted restlessly beneath her covers and Simon stepped back into shadow. He was finished here, and he had much to take care of before he could remain in this house for a week. He should go.
    This room held nothing more of interest to him. Nothing but the woman in the bed. She was a mystery that he was fast becoming obsessed