prove myself.”
“Then I ask again—what do you want of me? I have nothing a rake would desire.” She knew that was true. Her late husband had
made it clear that she was much too thin to stir a man’s lust. And her hair wasn’t the bright guinea gold coveted by most
gentleman but was marred by Hibernian highlights. Sheffield had mocked the reddish tint, calling it the stain of her Irish
mother.
She closed her eyes for an instant, hearing his drunken shouts cursing the king, the country, the Little Corsican—anyone but
himself—for the empty coffers that forced him to marry for money. She had been no happier about the arrangement than he was.
A lofty title was paltry recompense for the abuse she had suffered.
God rot his cruel bones.
The man had been a bully and a lout. She was not at all sorry he was dead.
When she lifted her lashes, she saw that the earl had come closer. Close enough for her to breathe in the masculine scent
of sandalwood and spiced tobacco. Close enough for her to feel the heat of his body caress her cheek.
“On the contrary, Lady Sheffield. You have
exactly
what I want.”
His silky murmur sent a shiver skating down her spine. Reaching her belly, it did a slow, curling somersault as his sapphire
gaze darkened to a deeper brilliance. What madness had come over her? It was utterly unreasonable to respond in such a physical
way to a rogue.
Don’t.
Oh, don’t stare at his sin-black hair, curling around the chiseled line of his jaw. Don’t wonder how the glossy strands would
feel twined around her fingers.
Ciara smoothed her hands over her gown, unconsciously tightening the silk around her hips.
His eyes followed the gesture, and he smiled. “Not your fine bosom, or your long legs or your shapely derriere, but your learned
mind.”
She fell back a step, mortified to find herself stammering like a schoolgirl. “I… my… you… are speaking outrageous nonsense,
sir. You know absolutely nothing about my person.”
“No? I’m rather expert at assessing a lady’s charms, even when they are buried in the depths of a dowdy gown. One can tell
much from the curve of a neck, or the lithe grace—”
“That’s enough,” she interrupted, trying to quell the flutter in her belly.
“Aren’t you curious to hear more?” he asked softly. “Most females like to hear a man appreciate their beauty.”
No—I’m not curious!
But for some perverse reason, the words remained stuck in her throat.
“As I was saying, you’ve a lovely, lithe grace to your movements. Your hips sway just enough to provoke… improper thoughts.
As for your bosom…”
Her hand flew to her chest.
“Your breasts look to have the lush roundness of perfectly ripe peaches,” he went on slowly, as if savoring the sweetness
of each syllable. “Soft, yielding—”
“Please get to the point of this visit, Lord Hadley,” said Ciara, finally regaining control of her voice. “My patience is
wearing thin.”
“A pity it is not taking that ill-fitting nun’s collar along with it.”
“Sir!”
The earl took another step closer. “Is it true what they say?”
To her dismay, she felt a rush of heat color her face.
“About your intellect,” he added.
Ciara dragged her gaze away from his mouth, supremely sensuous in its curl of silent laughter. “Enough of your insolent arrogance,
sir,” she whispered, shoving the package back at his chest. “Whatever your game, it has gone too far.”
The earl touched her hand. “Forgive my teasing. It’s hard to resist the temptation when anger brings such a lovely glow to
your features.”
“And you are not a man much given to resisting temptation, are you?”
For an instant, the look of unholy amusement seemed to fade from his features.
“Well, I, too, am sorely tempted to give in to an urge,” she added. “The one prompting me to consign you and your cursed papers
to the flames of hell.”
“You may wish a quick glance at
“Then I ask again—what do you want of me? I have nothing a rake would desire.” She knew that was true. Her late husband had
made it clear that she was much too thin to stir a man’s lust. And her hair wasn’t the bright guinea gold coveted by most
gentleman but was marred by Hibernian highlights. Sheffield had mocked the reddish tint, calling it the stain of her Irish
mother.
She closed her eyes for an instant, hearing his drunken shouts cursing the king, the country, the Little Corsican—anyone but
himself—for the empty coffers that forced him to marry for money. She had been no happier about the arrangement than he was.
A lofty title was paltry recompense for the abuse she had suffered.
God rot his cruel bones.
The man had been a bully and a lout. She was not at all sorry he was dead.
When she lifted her lashes, she saw that the earl had come closer. Close enough for her to breathe in the masculine scent
of sandalwood and spiced tobacco. Close enough for her to feel the heat of his body caress her cheek.
“On the contrary, Lady Sheffield. You have
exactly
what I want.”
His silky murmur sent a shiver skating down her spine. Reaching her belly, it did a slow, curling somersault as his sapphire
gaze darkened to a deeper brilliance. What madness had come over her? It was utterly unreasonable to respond in such a physical
way to a rogue.
Don’t.
Oh, don’t stare at his sin-black hair, curling around the chiseled line of his jaw. Don’t wonder how the glossy strands would
feel twined around her fingers.
Ciara smoothed her hands over her gown, unconsciously tightening the silk around her hips.
His eyes followed the gesture, and he smiled. “Not your fine bosom, or your long legs or your shapely derriere, but your learned
mind.”
She fell back a step, mortified to find herself stammering like a schoolgirl. “I… my… you… are speaking outrageous nonsense,
sir. You know absolutely nothing about my person.”
“No? I’m rather expert at assessing a lady’s charms, even when they are buried in the depths of a dowdy gown. One can tell
much from the curve of a neck, or the lithe grace—”
“That’s enough,” she interrupted, trying to quell the flutter in her belly.
“Aren’t you curious to hear more?” he asked softly. “Most females like to hear a man appreciate their beauty.”
No—I’m not curious!
But for some perverse reason, the words remained stuck in her throat.
“As I was saying, you’ve a lovely, lithe grace to your movements. Your hips sway just enough to provoke… improper thoughts.
As for your bosom…”
Her hand flew to her chest.
“Your breasts look to have the lush roundness of perfectly ripe peaches,” he went on slowly, as if savoring the sweetness
of each syllable. “Soft, yielding—”
“Please get to the point of this visit, Lord Hadley,” said Ciara, finally regaining control of her voice. “My patience is
wearing thin.”
“A pity it is not taking that ill-fitting nun’s collar along with it.”
“Sir!”
The earl took another step closer. “Is it true what they say?”
To her dismay, she felt a rush of heat color her face.
“About your intellect,” he added.
Ciara dragged her gaze away from his mouth, supremely sensuous in its curl of silent laughter. “Enough of your insolent arrogance,
sir,” she whispered, shoving the package back at his chest. “Whatever your game, it has gone too far.”
The earl touched her hand. “Forgive my teasing. It’s hard to resist the temptation when anger brings such a lovely glow to
your features.”
“And you are not a man much given to resisting temptation, are you?”
For an instant, the look of unholy amusement seemed to fade from his features.
“Well, I, too, am sorely tempted to give in to an urge,” she added. “The one prompting me to consign you and your cursed papers
to the flames of hell.”
“You may wish a quick glance at