Page 48 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
She enjoyed the image of him—delectable man—reflected in the spectacular oval mirror. His hair disheveled, dipping over his broad brow. His eyes, promising sensual pleasures his fingers surely complemented. His lips, broad and lush, luring her. If she turned, she could have his mouth. His arms. Him.
But she pushed away—and he would not let her go. “This is who I am now.”
“Not her. Never her.”
“Yes. So very exactly her.”
His eyes turned black with denial. “Looks are only skin deep, especially when comparing your oldest sister to you.”
“She and I…share much.”The anger, the pain, the losses.
“This is so dangerous. Someone can discover who you really are.”
“Someone? No. Only you, I’d say.”
He set his jaw. There was the determination again that defied her. The anger that deterred her. “Tell me how you plan to kill the scullery maid.”
She groped for an answer.
“How?” He cupped her shoulders. “Shoot her? You cried trying to shoot a goose!”
“Stop.” Tears of anger blotted her vision.
“No? Not shoot her? So you’d poison her? Charmaine would know how to deliver a dose. But you? You have no idea how to administer a poison!”
She could not stop her tears, but saw Tate opening his arms to her. Grateful, sad at her lack, she went to him and told him the one thing she did know. “I must learn what happened to Diane.”
“Then learn, and take what you can in the knowledge.”
“I have not heard from Gaspard with the address of the scullery maid.”
“Very well. I will go tomorrow to rue du Four and ask him about it. If he has it, fine. If not”—he sent a hand to the air—“then that’s the end. We go home.”
She would not allow him to bully her. “I won’t—”
But he kissed her in a crushing declaration. “A lie. I taste the proof on your lips. I shall see you tomorrow at the turn for Pont Neuf.”
Then he bowed like a gentleman—and left.
*
After a fewminutes in which she cursed his stubbornness, she returned to the game.
That night, after one in the morning, she’d won a pot with no money, but one small ruby ring and three slips of paper. The first promised a prize-winning racehorse, another was three cases of fine cognac, the last a week in the man’s Loire chateau.
She tore up that last one, nonetheless declaring her night a success on two counts. First, she had met a late arrival to the party and the card game. Monsieur Sylvain Jarre was the controlling partner in his family’s bank. He was young and darkly debonair, but everything about him was small. His eyes were beady, his nose a pencil, his hair thin, and his stature shorter by an inch than hers. However, he clearly had heard of her. Moreover, he had a desire to pursue her. She invited him to her reception on Friday, three days hence.
Second, she’d also controlled her maddening impulse to kiss Tate Cantrell more than once.It was once, wasn’t it?
She lay in her bed an hour later, breathless, panting, and admitted she could not deny herself the final sensual relief he had refused her.
She had to count small victories, yes?C’est la vie.
She needed all she could get.
*
Tate followed herhome in his own carriage. Anger ate at his good nature. She defied him at every turn. What did he have to do to make her see that she had to leave with him or she would die?
