Ways to Be Wicked Read Online Free Page A

returned her gaze to his she reached out her hand for the proffered flask, as though the pigeons had cemented her decision. She lifted it fastidiously up to those soft lips and took a sip.
    Her eyes widened. He grinned.
    “I wonder what you were expecting, Mademoiselle. Whiskey? Do I strike you as the whiskey sort? It’s French—the wine, is. Go ahead and swallow it. It wasn’t cheap.”
    She held it in her mouth for an instant; at last, he saw her swallow hard.
    He bowed, then, and it was a low, elegant thing, all grace and respect. “Mr. Tom Shaughnessy at your service. And you are Mademoiselle...?”
    “Madame,” she corrected curtly.
    “Oh, but I think not ...For I have splendid
intuition.
” He used the French pronunciation. The word was spelled just the same in English and in French, and meant precisely the same thing: a very good guess. “And
I
think you are a mademoiselle.”
    “You presume a good deal, Mr. Shaughnessy.”
    “I’ve always had luck with being presumptuous. One might even say I make my living being presumptuous.”
    She scanned him, a swift flick of her green eyes, up and down, drawing conclusions about him from his face and clothes and adding those conclusions, no doubt, to the impressions she’d already gleaned from his acquaintance with the highwayman. He saw those green eyes go guarded and cynical. But oddly. . . not afraid. Yes, this was a mademoiselle, perhaps. But not an innocent one, either, if she could draw a cynical conclusion about the sort of man he was. It implied she knew rather a range of men.
    “It was brave, what you did,” he said.
    “Yes,” she agreed.
    He smiled at that. He could have sworn she almost did, too.
    “Do you have any money?” he asked. A blunt question.
    Again, that stiff spine. “I do not believe this is business of yours, Mr. Shaughnessy.”
    “A knitting needle and widow’s weeds are all very well and good, but money, Mademoiselle, is everything. Have you enough to continue on to your destination? The highwayman took your reticule, did he not?”
    “Yes, your
friend,
Mr. Biggsy, took my reticule. I might not have been so brave had I known the price of my bravery.”
    “Were you perhaps clever enough to sew your money into your hem?” He pressed. “Or into your sleeve, along with your weaponry? If one travels unaccompanied by a maid, one best be resourceful in other ways.”
    She was silent. And then: “Why are you interested in my money, Mr. Shaughnessy?”
    “Perhaps, as a gentleman, I’m merely concerned for your welfare.”
    “Oh, I think not, Mr. Shaughnessy. For you see, I, too, have
intuition.
And I do not believe you
are
a gentleman.”
    As dry and tart as the wine he’d just passed to her. And just as bracing. Perhaps even—and this surprised him—a little stinging.
    “All right then: Perhaps I’m concerned because you are beautiful and intriguing.”
    She waited a beat, studying him with her head tilted again.
    “‘Perhaps’?” She repeated. And up went one of those delicate chestnut brows, along with the corners of her mouth. As though she had struggled against her nature, and her nature had won.
    A little thrill of pleasure traced his spine. Ah, there
was
a coquette in there; he had sensed it. But it was like viewing her through a fogged windowpane; he wanted somehow to rub away the fear and mistrust to bring the real woman, the vibrant, no doubt interesting woman, into view.
    Her color looked better now; there was a healthier flush in her cheeks. Then again, good French wine will do that for a person.
    “I can help you,” he said swiftly.
    “I thank you for your. . .
concern
...Mr. Shaughnessy,” she all but drew quotation marks around the word, “but I do not wish assistance from. . . you.”
    As in,
you would be the last man in the world I would turn to, Mr. Shaughnessy.
    And given the circumstances, he could hardly blame her. He respected her wisdom in deciding not to trust him—this was not a foolish woman,