Edith Layton Read Online Free Page A

close shave.
    Too bad he couldn’t shave his eyebrows too, he mused, staring into the mirror, those two rusty wingsswooping in a frown. Shave them down to the skin, the way he’d heard some eccentric nobleman had done to his redhead son—to erase all trace of the supposedly unlucky, unpopular color. A man could be bald and be more fashionable than a redhead, if only because that was more common. But he’d look stranger without his brows. He sighed. They’d have to do; they were a darker shade of copper than his head, anyway.
    He gazed into his own troubled eyes, and then away from that bleak blue stare. He looked like himself and there was no help for it. He’d done all he could. He was an old campaigner. Preparation was done; he was armed and ready. It was time to go into battle. He’d have his breakfast, then pay his morning call—which was the reason for his getting dressed. No, he thought, it was the reason for his getting up today.
     
    Rafe had dressed for a visit to a lady, but all he could see were men. Her salon was filled with them. Lady Annabelle, her beaming mama, the Countess Wylde, and a meek maidservant were the only women in the room. He could hear Annabelle’s clear laughter. He could catch glimpses of that lovely face, but only from between her other morning callers as they crowded around her. Some sat, some stood, some lounged against the fireplace or windows to show off their clothing. There were eight other men in the small front room. Finely dressed, socially facile gentlemen. Rafe quelled an impulse to call for his hat andmarch out again. He stayed where he was, silent and glowering at his own helplessness. The other men were practiced flirts. He could only stand and listen, waiting for an opening. He had something to say.
    But no way to say it.
    The conversation prattled on. One fellow told a joke, another capped it. A languid lord related an anecdote and laughed at the end, which was the only way anyone could tell it was a joke. An elderly earl told a pointless story, and a young fop praised Annabelle’s eyes again. Rafe stirred. It was time to call for his hat and leave. Because even though he was a man who could wait motionless for hours if need be—he didn’t see the need anymore. Nothing he could say could match what these men were saying. Most of the conversation was inane, but all of it was acceptable social discourse. He couldn’t compete. He didn’t have the gift of small talk.
    But neither did he want to leave yet. A man couldn’t win a battle he didn’t fight. Rafe squared his shoulders, braced his legs, and waited.
    He positioned himself so he could watch her, and he did, carefully. When he got over the shock of her loveliness, he could observe her. The lady Annabelle was a few years older than most women in the ton who were still available for marriage. This was because of her disappointment in love, but it was singular, and a thing that detracted from her perfection in the eyes of many gentlemen. Not Rafe. He watched her with fascination, as always. She was all delicacy and grace.
    She wore a jonquil yellow gown this morning.Her soft raven curls trembled when she laughed. Her skin was snowy white and clear, her retroussé nose charming, her lips pink and pouting, even when she was not. She was everything dainty, entirely feminine.
    Rafe had passed too many years in the sole company of men not to be fascinated by such a wholly alien creature. The thought of putting his hands on that little body aroused him even as it alarmed him. Such fragility made him feel too rough, too big, too clumsy. But he knew about women. He might never have really loved or been loved by any female, but he’d liked many and been fortunate enough to have a few like him. The generous or incautious ones shared their bodies. Others rented them. The tiniest one could accept almost any man, and sometimes, if he was lucky, wear him out as well. This dainty woman held out that promise—and the hope of