Too Tempting to Resist Read Online Free PDF

to be raising the roof slates with their scolding shouts.
    Assuming the last storm hadn’t blown most of them away.
    “Don’t look at me,” she huffed, resisting the childish urge to stick out her tongue at the first Viscount Leete, whose weak chin and piggy little eyes had unfortunately been passed down to Harry. “It wasn’t me who created a…monster.”
    A monster whose rapacious need for self-gratification was getting more and more out of control.
    Turning away, she walked for the front door, her heels clicking over the stone tiles. At least they had been freshly swept—not that the expected guests would notice such niceties. Rich food and strong drink were all they cared about, along with enough vile-smelling tobacco to add another layer of grime to the plaster ceiling.
    The echo of her steps reverberated off the paneling, urging her to hurry. The first of the revelers would be arriving at any moment, and the last thing she wanted was a face-to-face encounter.
    Eliza was acquainted with most of the men on the guest list. Like Harry, they were crass, crude, spoiled young aristocrats, too old to be forgiven for their self-indulgent posturing, too young to have acquired any polish or charm. For the most part, they contented themselves with lascivious grins when she passed by, but several had been so rag-mannered as to attempt a few drunken gropes in the corridors. Impecunious widows were seen as fair game. Something to be used and tossed aside, like a soiled towel.
    Oafs.
    She kicked the door closed behind her, taking savage satisfaction in the loud thunk of the ancient oak slamming shut.
    “Thank God I need not join them in the dining room,” she informed a twittering sparrow. “While they drink and smoke and tell their stupid, vulgar jokes, I shall enjoy the civilized peace and quiet of my own chambers, along with a book.” Perhaps one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. A crumbling castle filled with debauched wastrels, dastardly villains, clanking chains, and eerie noises would certainly complement her current mood.
    Ducking behind a hedge, Eliza crossed the lawns and followed a winding gravel path to a small stone cottage screened by a high-walled garden. Half a century ago it had been the bailiwick of the under gamekeeper, but now it was her own private place of refuge. A safe harbor in a sea of storms. A place where she could let down her guard and be herself.
    Whoever that may be.
    For longer than she could remember, she had dutifully done all the things asked of her, allowing her own dreams and desires to be bartered, piece by piece, to pay for the pleasure of others.
    “Maybe there is no real me left,” she murmured, chilled by the depressing thought.
    After fumbling for the key hidden under one of the flowerpots—filled with petunias, which meant “Your presence soothes me”—Eliza unlocked the door and stepped inside.
    A warm, syrupy light spilled in through the west bank of windows, and as the first rays touched her shoulders, she felt the tension melt from her muscles. The sight of her worktable, a colorful confluence of paints, brushes, papers, and specimen clippings bunched in jars of water, was always a balm to her spirits. It was cheerful, a sentiment sadly lacking in the main house.
    “To hell with Harry and his dissolute friends,” she murmured, determined to keep her brother’s follies from intruding on the rest of her day.
    Hanging her shawl on a coat peg, she began to roll up the sleeves of her muslin dress. The garment was, she acknowledged, an unflattering cut and a bit worse for wear. The fabric had been worn by countless washings to a gossamer soft texture, and the sprigged roses had faded to pale pastels. But it was exceedingly comfortable—the paint spatters were like old friends, whose rowdy exuberance always made her smile.
    Catching a glimpse of her face in the mullioned glass, Eliza had to look twice. It wasn’t often that she saw her mouth curled upward in a smile. Spots of