The Ruin Of A Rogue Read Online Free PDF Page A

quite a small amount.
    “Oh dear,” she whispered at the conclusion of the negotiation. “I don’t have any money with me.”
    Marcus had foreseen this. He’d escorted rich women all over Europe and found one thing they had in common, regardless of nationality: They never carried ready cash.
    “Usually when I go shopping the merchant sends me the account,” she continued, “but I’ve never been in a shop quite like this.”
    “Frogsham is not a man to issue credit, but allow me to take care of this trifling sum.”
    “I shall repay you, of course.”
    “No need.”
    “I insist.”
    Marcus never expected to see those few shillings again. Wealthy ladies tended to forget insignificant debts and he had no intention of dunning her. The excursion had been a success. Frogsham, the rogue, had happily overcharged him for the Warner that Marcus had himself placed on the shelf the day before. But he’d beaten the man down on the heads, one of which probably was Roman. Thank God Miss Brotherton had decided against the pendant. She might not recognize a phallus, but he didn’t count on the same innocence from Lady Windermere.
    With a wrinkle of her aristocratic nose, she accepted the package crudely wrapped in newspaper. Miss Brotherton had no notion of life outside the rarefied confines of Mayfair though she had, he fancied, quite enjoyed the exposure to Frogsham’s specialized pawnshop.
    He let her precede him into the narrow lane and guided her to the broader thoroughfare of Warwick Street. A gentleman should always walk on the traffic side, to protect his lady from the dirt cast up by passing vehicles, but she got ahead of him, just in time for the appearance of a coalman’s dray careering at excessive speed. The cart hit a bump and lurched onto the pavement for foot travelers, within feet of the oblivious heiress. Marcus threw his arms around her and dragged her to safety. “Take care,” he yelled at the disappearing tradesman.
    She trembled in his arms. “That man nearly hit me,” she said. “I could have been killed.”
    “I trust it wouldn’t have come to that.” He held her closer, discovering a slender waist under the sensible cloth of her winter redingote. Very nice. He stroked her back to soothe her, barely resisting the temptation to explore the curves of her hips and behind.
    “Thank you for saving me.”
    The driver of the cart, hired in advance and alerted by Frogsham’s errand boy, had performed his task with impeccable timing. She clung to him and he made no effort to relinquish her. One object of the charade had been to get this skittish virgin accustomed to his touch.
    Yet along with satisfaction at the success of the ruse came the thought that if he should, by a miracle, succeed in winning Miss Brotherton’s hand, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. He didn’t want to let her go. Along with the promised half crown, that coal hauler was going to win a rebuke for doing his job too well. Any closer and Marcus would have been too late. Anne Brotherton could have been badly hurt, and the notion annoyed him far beyond the threat to his plans.
    Silky hair, revealed by a bonnet knocked askew, tickled his face, and a clean lemon scent filled his nostrils. Virtue and innocence were qualities he rarely encountered, and he had the absurd urge to protect them. To protect her. Absurd because he himself posed the greatest threat. He strengthened his embrace.
    She was the one to break away. “My parcel!” she cried. It lay in a pool in the gutter.
    With considerable damage to his boots, Marcus waded into the muddy swill and retrieved the sodden package.
    “I don’t think you want to carry this,” he said. “My gloves are already ruined so save yours.” Gingerly he lowered his nose. “And it smells. We’d better return to Frogsham and have it repacked.”
    “My book!” she wailed. “It will be all wet.”
    “Don’t despair. It’ll dry off and be readable, if not beautiful.”
    “I