The Seduction of Phaeton Black Read Online Free

evening? Perhaps a flying phantasm or two?”
    “Nothing much, sir.” She hesitated.
    Phaeton removed her gloves and chafed icy hands between his. “Tell me, Lizzie.”
    “Well, sir, a very beautiful woman approached me. Pale she was and stood real close, wanting a bit of warmth.” Lizzie pulled at the collar of her dress and began a raspy struggle for air. “I don’t remember much after—”
    He pulled her onto his lap. Gently, he brushed back loose curls to expose a lithesome neck and two perfectly dainty puncture wounds.
     
    A dull ache of drums nagged at the back of her head. She moved to stretch and found her wrists tied to the arms of an oversized upholstered chair. Her pulse throbbed under the bindings. Assessing her circumstances, she closed her eyes and feigned a long awakening.
    “Good morning, my dove.”
    She sensed the unmistakable power of his essence. He was a channeler. A mortal being haunted by demons, or enchanted by fairies. Hard to say which, perhaps both. Genteel society would likely call him a wretched man afflicted by a mental disorder. Wretched? Possibly. But a rare gent he was, and no doubt gifted in peculiar ways.
    Aware of a bubbling tea kettle and the familiar clink of china cups set on saucers, she opened an eye to observe the dark-haired man from last evening. The man who had thrust into her woman parts. Deep inside, she could still feel the effects of his churlish prick.
    The shadowed niche of the alley had afforded scant illumination. This morning she revised her assessment of him. A bit swarthy, he hadn’t shaved as yet and wore no cravat. His waistcoat remained unbuttoned, but she could see enough to know he was nicely made. Genuinely handsome, if a bit untamed.
    His nose was strong and straight, but in profile appeared slightly beakish. His mouth was full and, yes, sensuous and kissable. Hair much too long to be fashionable, but there was something about the mode. Bohemian, perhaps? She examined his body as he moved around the stove. He was a nice size. Large enough but not imposing. And that rude shaft was plenty of male.
    “If you are quite finished with your assessment of me, I would like to begin one of my own.”
    She closed her eye. Blood accelerated through every pathway in her body.
    “You must know you have nothing to fear from me.”
    Still, a throb of alarm surged in her ears. She shifted her head and forced herself to open both eyes. He stood close by, scratching a raised brow.
    “If I have nothing to fear, why have you made me your prisoner?”
    “Ah, the ties.” He tugged a side of his mouth upward. “For my own protection.”
    She strained against her bindings as he circled the chair. “While the Darjeeling steeps, why don’t we revisit our precious moments together, last evening?”
    He had a kind of unruffled, arrogant way about him. She squirmed in the chair. “I prefer an Oolong. Or a nice, smoky Lapsang Souchong.”
    His eyes crinkled, but his expression otherwise remained stoic. “You know your tea, Miss, but I shall not be diverted. Evening last, I was having a chase down Savoy Row after a pesky, flirty little phantasm when I was abducted by an equally trifling, yet forward olive-skinned maiden who put a dagger to my neck and proceeded to abuse me.”
    His gaze wandered between several undone buttons that exposed much of her flimsy chemise. “Care to explain?”
    In the blink of an eye, she moved into a trance. Transporting herself back a few hours, she recalled a whisper of chimera and a tingle of demon. Her eyelashes dropped lower. “I sense unfathomable powers and yet almost unendurable exhaustion. Not death, but a weakness of spirit.” She looked up into his eyes. “And great sadness.”
    He studied her. “You have abilities?
    She nodded quickly and shook off the spell. “My mother had gifts. A Cajun witch, powerful, beautiful.”
    “A Vauda ?”
    She eyed him suspiciously before nodding. “You know the sang mélangé français