Page 12 of Lord Ramsey's Red-Headed Ruin
“I wish I knew why I don’t,” she admitted with laughter in her tone.
“You trust me,” he concluded, and faced her, the sight of her drowsy, sensuous—and totally at ease in the drape of the thin white gown he’d given her.
“That must be the reason.” She tipped her head to one side. “I was good at what I did because I had a sense of others. Their veracity. Their desires. I feel the same with you.”
“I’m honored.”
“Don’t be. My acceptance is not one I confer, but one I see.” Her gaze traveled over his banyan and his knee-length white shirt beneath. He’d worn only the shirt to bed. Why not? She knew what accoutrements a male possessed—and he had promised not to use any of them with her. “Come back to bed, Ram, and tell me about yourself. We’ll be warm, and you can lure me to sleep with that bass voice.”
She beamed at him and turned on her heel for the bed. She climbed in, plumped up a few pillows behind her, pulled up covers to her collarbone, and sat back against the tall oaken frame.
He followed.
“What would you like to know?” he asked when he was settled.
“Why you are really here. Aside from the need to help Scarlett Hawthorne in London and others here in France. One who does this kind of work is no ordinary man.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Why?” she challenged him with a toss of her bouncy red curls. God in His wisdom had granted her looks as vibrant as her person.
He cast his eyes away. He’d watched her much too long. She must not think him attracted to her. Yet he could spend hours eating up her color, her drama, her valor.
She arched two long, elegant red brows. “What?”
*
“You have themeans to become a leader of society. A woman of substance. Yet you have chosen to become a woman of danger. Why?”
“This discussion was to be about you.” She was not irritated, but amused. “I don’t like agendas being turned.”
“I am not attempting to hurt you,” he told her as he plopped a pillow over his lap.
“If that pillow is there for the reason I think it is,” she said as she slid him a knowing look, “then I am glad you are not turning the agenda even more.”
He cocked a brow. “I find this position comfortable, madame.”
“Very well.” She applauded him even though he fibbed, then clasped her fingers together atop the covers. “Me? I am easy to understand. I grew up with my Aunt Cecily in Paris. We were condemned to Carmes Prison because my aunt was themistress of the old Duc d’Orleans who became so liberal. Guilt by association tarnished us. In Carmes, my aunt became Josephine Beauharnais’s friend. There, guilt by association saved us. So those who wished for my aunt’s favor in Carmes merged with those who found Madame Beauharnais lovely and talented.”
“And skilled at attracting powerful men,” he added.
“My aunt once was good at that. No longer does she seek that. But Madame Bonaparte is definitely skilled at being passed around from one man to another—or was.” She said it all with disgust she could not hide.
“But your aunt lives off her past reputation in court.”
Amber was pleased he knew that. Her aunt was very different from Josephine. She would explain it as best she could.
“My Aunt Cecily has long since stopped trying to charm important men. Perhaps if I had recognized that she truly loved the old Duc d’Orleans when I was young, I might have a different opinion of how women gain influence in a society where they have little to begin with.” She sighed and toyed with the cotton fabric of the coverlet. “But I have seen how Madame Bonaparte gained influence with Paul Barras after he helped to overthrow Robespierre. She is beautiful and intelligent.”
He arched both brows. “Wily.”
Amber nodded. “So was Barras. After supporting her for a while, he needed someone to take over Josephine and assume her mounting debts.”
“Bonaparte fell for it.”
“For her,” she said. “Sleeping with a man has its benefits.”
“Just as your sleeping with me does,” he joked.
