The Rake's Inherited Courtesan Read Online Free PDF Page B

comfort of his inn. He’d think about it some more over dinner.
    Taking hasty decisions on an empty stomach only resulted in trouble.

Chapter Three
    A t the crunch of wheels on gravel, Sylvia turned her gaze from her beloved cliffs to the Evernden carriage rolling through the gate.
    Thirsty for one last memory, she wheeled in a slow circle, the coarse fabric of her plain, grey wool travelling cloak twisting about her legs. Above her, white against grey, crying seagulls hovered on a breeze alive with the boom of crashing surf and a smattering of rain. Weighed down by the lessons she’d learned as a child, she drank in her last view of the rambling mansion’s warm red brick framed by windswept larches. One could never go back.
    The matching chestnuts slowed to a halt at the front door. All loose-limbed athletic grace and conservative in a black coat, Mr Evernden leaped down. The wind ruffled the crisp waves of his light brown hair. His handsome face brightened when he caught sight of her.
    Warmth trickled into her stomach. Her mind screamed danger.
    He waited as she strolled across the drive to his side, then glanced at her green brassbound trunk beside her valise on the steps. ‘Is this everything?’
    She had packed only the most practical of her clothing. She nodded. ‘All I need.’
    The coachman tied her luggage on the rack at the back and Mr Evernden swept open the carriage door. ‘Are you ready, Mademoiselle Boisette?’
    He held out his hand to assist her in. A small, polite smile curved his firm mouth and green sparks danced in his eyes.
    Awareness of his size and strength skittered across her skin. She stilled, frozen by the odd sensation. Last night, his note had indicated his agreement to take her to Tunbridge Wells. After performing the harlot yesterday, dare she trust him? Prickles of foreboding crawled down her back.
    She ignored his proffered aid. ‘Quite ready, Mr Evernden.’ Maintaining a cool expression, she stepped into the well-appointed carriage and settled on the comfortable black-tufted seats.
    He followed her in, his musky sandalwood cologne heady in the confined space. Lean long legs filled the gap between the seats as he lounged into the squabs in the opposite corner. He gave her a sharp glance, then rapped on the roof and the carriage moved off with a gentle sway.
    The window afforded glimpses of white sails skimming the spume-capped grey waves of the English Channel, an impenetrable moat around the castle of her past.
    ‘Another wet day,’ he said.
    She kept her gaze fixed outside. ‘Indeed.’
    ‘Having caused us to freeze all winter I understand there are predictions that the Tomboro volcano will also ruin our spring.’
    The masculine timbre of his voice resonated a chord deep inside her. For no apparent reason, her breath shortened as if his size and strength and even his cologne pressed against her chest. She clenched the strings of her reticule in her lap. ‘So I have heard.’
    An awkward silence hung in the air.
    He cleared his throat. ‘We will stop at Ashford for lunch and arrive in Tunbridge Wells before the supper hour.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    Tunbridge Wells and Mary Jensen and her future. Her heart swelled with optimism and she touched the locket at her throat. Everything would be all right.
    An impatient sigh gusted from his corner. He shifted, stretching out his long legs until his shining black boots landed inches from the edge of her skirts.
    For all his outward appearance of ease, tension crackled across the space between them. Determined to ignore it and him, she focused her gaze out of the window.
    He eased his shoulders deeper into the corner. She glanced at him from beneath her bonnet’s brim and cast a professional eye over his attire. After all, a successful modiste kept au courant with the latest styles, male and female, and she had met few members of the ton hidden away in Dover.
    His buff unmentionables clung to his well-muscled legs, a smooth second skin