Frovtunes’ Kiss Read Online Free Page B

She resisted a peek over her shoulder. Was he following, as she had intended? She listened for the clip of pursuant footsteps, but heard only the dull roar of voices and the musicians on the terrace.
    Then there he was, not behind, but right in front of her, stepping out from behind a topiary elephant. Flashing that disturbing set of dimples, he pinned her with a stare as piercing as cut crystal. “Good evening.”
    His voice was deep, as fiery and rich as brandy and altogether too intimate. The sort that made pulses race, cheeks flame.
    She pulled back, and the wineglass she’d been holding slipped from her fingers. It shattered against the paving stones, sending up a shower of white wine.
    â€œGood heavens,” she mumbled, instantly forgetting all the carefully rehearsed witticisms with which she had planned to seduce information from this man. “How horribly clumsy of me.”
    When he didn’t immediately respond, she wanted to dissolve into the footpath. Oh, whatever had made her—inexperienced, country-bred Moira Hughes—think she could charm a confession out of a scoundrel the likes of Graham Foster?
    She braved an upward glance, straight into those clear blue eyes, which on second thought possessed an intriguing hint of green. Not to mention laughter. Yes, Graham Foster’s eyes smiled down at her even before his lips parted and curled.
    Something bracing and sharp tripped her heartbeat. She whisked her gaze away. Would he recognize her eyes within the mask’s slits?
    â€œThe fault was entirely mine, I assure you,” he finally said in that too smooth, far too sensual voice. On either side of a broad grin, the dimples that had flashed in her dreams last night cut even deeper crevasses into his cheeks. “The shattering glass didn’t catch you, did it?”
    â€œThe glass?” She gazed at the ground, at bits of crystal sparkling in the lamplight, then at her wine-soaked hems. “Oh, dear. I’m quite all right, but my dress is ruined. Your trousers, too, I’m afraid. Oh, what a mess.”
    â€œAt least we can be thankful it wasn’t port.”
    â€œLadies don’t generally drink port, sir.”
    â€œDon’t they? A pity.” He leaned in closer, and she caught the scent of his shaving soap, crisp and invigorating, like clean canvas sails stretched in a high-seas wind. “I believe ladies should grasp at life, and convention be damned.” The last word plummeted to a growl that raised a shiver down her spine.
    She stepped back. “I should call someone to clean these fragments away.”
    â€œNo need. Here comes a footman now.”
    Indeed, a man in livery trotted down the terrace steps, broom and dustpan in hand.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” Moira said to the servant.
    â€œIt’s what the good man’s paid to do.” Graham Foster took possession of her elbow in his broad palm. “Come, we’ll find you another glass, shall we?”
    â€œOh, but…” She trailed off. Hadn’t she come here for this specific purpose? To strike up an acquaintance with the new Baron Monteith, beguile him, and steal inside his conscience. An unshakable suspicion convinced her that Mr. Smythe had been withholding vital information yesterday. Could he have been acting upon his new employer’s orders?
    Goodness, Moira Hughes, you’re in it up to your ears now, aren’t you?
    As he guided her along the garden path, a sense of laughter hovered about him—in his eyes, in his voice, even in the way he claimed her arm with a breezy familiarity that set her on her guard.
    They passed one of a half dozen refreshment tables ranged through the gardens. Upon arriving earlier, she had set about quieting her growling stomach by discreetly consuming an entire Cornish hen, a healthy slice of roast venison, asparagus in cream sauce, potato pudding, and several ratafia biscuits so luscious she’d nearly sighed