Page 11 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
Dropping his umbrella and hat on one of the tables, Carrington strode across the room to stand before her.
“A pleasure to meet you,” he said. She liked his voice. It was deep and resonant, his accent crisply English.
“How do you do, sir.” Belatedly, she remembered to offer him her hand.
His fingers engulfed hers as he bent forward, raising her hand to his lips. He looked deep into her eyes, and she noticed that his own were a hunter’s green, fringed with thick black lashes.
The warm texture of his mouth caressed her skin in a manner that made Belle’s pulse quicken. She felt a spark of acute physical awareness pass between them, charging the atmosphere of the room.
As though from a great distance, Crawley’s voice came, “Oh, yes. How stupid of me! Mr. Carrington, this is?—”
“Isabelle Varens,” Sinclair filled in smoothly. “The Avenging Angel.”
The sound of that detested nickname snapped Belle back to her senses. She realized Mr. Carrington still held her hand and that she was permitting him to do so. She pulled free of him.
“I am simply Mrs. Varens.”
“That does not suit you near as well.” He smiled. He had a lazy, seductive kind of smile. “You don’t look like a ‘Mrs. Varens,’ whereas you are the nearest thing to an angel I ever expect to see.”
“When you have worked in our business long enough, Mr. Carrington, you will discover appearances can be deceiving.” Her icy remark did not appear to daunt him. But whatever retort Sinclair meant to deliver next was interrupted by Crawley thrusting himself between them.
“Now that the introductions have been taken care of, perhaps we may get on with the purpose of our meeting.”
“Certainly,” Belle said. “If you like, I could summon Shaw to bring you gentlemen some refreshment. Or you are welcome to share the brandy with me.”
“No, thank you.” Quentin frowned at the glass she held.
“I forgot, Mr. Crawley. You disapprove of women drinking strong spirits.” Belle looked at Sinclair. “And are you shocked, Mr. Carrington? Perhaps you also think I should be sipping tea.”
“Not at all. The women I know who habitually drink tea seem to be the most insipid creatures.”
A reluctant smile escaped Belle. “I have been called a good many things in my life, but at least insipid has never been one of them.”
“Beautiful. You must have been called that often,” Sinclair murmured, his gaze once more upon her face.
Belle felt as though his bold eyes caressed her, raising a fluttery sensation in the pit of her stomach. Annoyed with herself, she strove to hide her foolish reaction.
“You will find the decanter on the table over there,” she told Sinclair. “I believe the waiter left another glass.”
Sinclair retreated toward the table, stripping off his damp boxcoat as he went. So his broad shoulders had not been merely an illusion caused by the cape, Belle thought. The well-tailoredfrock coat straining across his back made it more than evident that he had no need to resort to padding. Her gaze strayed to the tight-fitting cashmere breeches that encased his tautly honed thighs. An embroidered waistcoat and military boots completed the outfit, that of a perfect gentleman. Or so it would have been if Sinclair’s neckcloth had not been so carelessly arranged. But something made Belle doubt that Sinclair was ever a perfect gentleman. Likely it was the hint of roguishness in those disturbing green eyes of his.
As Sinclair helped himself to the brandy, Quentin bent over Belle and whispered, “Well, what do you think? What is your opinion of his attributes?”
Her gaze skated over Sinclair’s muscular frame. She said in a low voice, “If you send him across the channel, I think there will be more than one Frenchwoman beckoning him toward her boudoir.”
Mr. Crawley flushed. “I wasn’t speaking of those attributes, Mrs. Varens. What I meant was, does he seem like a capable man to you?”
How on earth did Crawley expect her to answer that upon such short acquaintance? But her intuition told her that Sinclair would be very capable. His movements were characterized by a tigerlike grace, which made her think he might be good in a fight, as well as skilled in the bedchamber.
“What does it matter what I think?” she asked Crawley.
By this time their whispered conversation had caught Sinclair’s attention. He regarded them with one dark brow upraised. Quentin straightened with a guilty smile.
“Ah, er—are you ready to proceed, Mr. Carrington?”
By way of reply, Sinclair picked up his glass and rejoined them by the fireside. Belle should have anticipated the man’s next move, but she was too slow.
Sinclair lowered himself upon the bench beside her, sitting so close that his thigh brushed against hers.
