Ways to Be Wicked Read Online Free Page B

despite the fact that she’d kept her money in her damned reticule—even as he felt the disappointment of it keenly. For she was right, of course. Gallantry played a role in his offer to help her. But it wasn’t the primary role by far. And Tom was certain he wouldn’t trust himself if
he
was a woman. In particular, not after he’d exchanged warm reminiscences with a gun-and knife-wielding highwayman.
    “Very well, then. Let me just say that I do not ‘regret’ the fact that you. . . ‘inserted’ me, Mademoiselle. Or. . . ‘sat upon me.’ ”
    She studied him for a moment, head tilted slightly.
    “Do you mock my English, Mr. Shaughnessy?” She sounded mildly curious.
    “Why, yes, I believe I do. A little.
Un peu.
” He was surprised to feel a little bit of his temper in the words.
    To his astonishment, she smiled then. A full and brilliant smile, a genuine smile, which scrunched her eyes and made them brilliant, too, dazzling as lamps. It was the kind of smile that made him believe she laughed often and easily, in other circumstances, the kind of smile he felt physically again, as a swift and strangely sweet twist in his gut.
    He was suddenly desperate to make her do it often.
    But finding himself uncharacteristically speechless, he bowed and left her.
    His mind oddly both full and jumbled, following the rest of the decidedly less-interesting guests into the inn for luncheon.
    If not for the fortifying dose of surprisingly good French wine provided by Mr. Tom Shaughnessy, Sylvie would still be trembling now. All of her money was gone, the letter from her sister was gone, and a sort of delayed fear had overtaken her at lunch. She’d been able to push it away the way she did any sort of discomfort in order to take her through her encounter with the highwayman.
    But now she could scarcely choke down the watery soup and indifferent bread and tough grayish meat.
Peh.
The English knew nothing of cooking, that was certain, if luncheon was any indication.
    She peeked up from her silent meal—no one attempted to engage her in conversation, nor did she feel equal to making an attempt of her own. Mr. Shaughnessy seemed to have thawed the curate and the married couple, and the four of them appeared to be laughing together over some English witticism.
    She jerked her head away from them, focused again on her gray meat.
    She could not recall the last time she’d needed to look away from a man to recover her composure. Certainly Etienne was handsome, admired and swooned over by all the other dancers in the
corps de ballet.
Desired by all of them. But the sight of Etienne had never stopped her breathing.
    And when she had seen Tom Shaughnessy, it was as though someone had taken a tight little fist and rapped it between her lungs.
    In the full sunlight, Tom Shaughnessy’s eyes had seemed nearly clear, like a pair of windows. Silver, she would have called them. His face could only be described as beautiful, but it wasn’t soft: it was too defined; there were too many strong lines and corners and interesting hollows, and there was a hint of something pagan about it. His surname and his wavy red-gold hair implied Irish ancestors, but his complexion, a pale gold, suggested that something a bit more exotic also swam in his veins: Spanish blood, perhaps. Or Gypsy. This last would not have surprised her in the least.
    And then there was that smile. It blinded, the smile. She considered that perhaps that was its purpose; he used it as a weapon to scramble wits and take advantage of a moment. It made a dimple near the corner of his mouth. A tiny crescent moon.
    And his clothes—a soft green coat no doubt chosen for its unorthodox color, a dazzling waistcoat, polished boots and brilliant buttons—all might have looked just shy of vulgar on someone else. On him they seemed somehow as native as wings to Mercury’s ankles.
    And she’d seen as they had all stood in the hot sunlight next to the mail coach a glint in his sleeve, and