Read Online A Much Compromised Lady by Shannon Donnelly - Free Book Online
Authors: Shannon Donnelly
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feel
affronted that she thought such effort necessary. But he was having
the worst time coming up with any feeling just now other that a
deep desire to touch his lips to the curve of that determined jaw
of hers. And a wry amusement.
Would this not astonish half of London—and
leave the other half laughing—to think that a lowly Gypsy had taken
the side of the notorious and high-born Earl of St. Albans.
Easing his shoulders, he began to enjoy the
situation—and the view. His Gypsy’s eyes glittered, color blazed on
her cheekbones, and that chin of hers lifted with determination. He
would simply have to indulge her, if for no other reason than to
see what happened next.
The idiot she argued with had been making his
own intentions quite clear, and the pressure of a blade dug deeper,
causing St. Albans to wince. Another coat ruined , he
thought, deeply irritated as the warmth of blood trickled down his
spine. Well, no matter. The fellow would pay later. In kind.
Another jab and St. Albans’s temper flared
again. That did it. His Gypsy might be a tempting morsel, but she
was doing a poor job as his champion, and he was really not going
to allow himself to be skewered simply to indulge her.
Just as he braced for action, a sharp voice
cut through the gathering twilight, stopping everything.
“ Chavaia!”
Despite the odd language, the command to stop
came across as plain as if it were the King’s English. St. Albans
focused his attention on the woman who commanded so much respect
here.
Dressed in black and with the twilight
gathering close, he thought at first that she must be an old gypsy
woman. Silver streaked her hair in a dramatic bolt that added to
his first impression, and she felt for her steps with a cane.
However, as she came closer, he noted the straight figure, age
thickened, yes, but not too bent by time. And while her weathered
face made it difficult to place her exact years, he doubted if she
had reached half a century yet. A black shawl lay loose over her
black dress, but he noted her garments only with a casual glance.
Her presence demanded far more of his attention.
She had black eyes, unfocused, but they
glittered with an assessing intelligent. Sharp cheekbones, nose and
jaw showed a former great beauty was maturing into magnificent
ruins. Despite her small stature, she certainly knew how to wield
power. He always admired strength.
The annoying sting at his back vanished, and
St. Albans found himself facing this woman.
He started to look for where his Gypsy girl
had gone, but the woman captured his face between her hands. He
began to pull away, resenting and resisting such intimacy, but the
Gypsy held tight.
Putting up his own hands, he took her wrists
to pull away those roughly callused hands of hers. He did not like
to be touched. Never had. Oh, he could enjoy a woman’s body well
enough, but that was an entirely different thing than having
this...this familiarity pushed upon him.
However, the woman would not let go, and he
would look a fool to struggle with her.
So he dropped his hands and stared back at
her, one eyebrow lifted, waiting and wishing for her to finish her
nonsense. Some rubbishing Gypsy superstition, no doubt.
It took an effort not to grow restless under
that blank and empty black-eyed gaze. Her fingers began to roam
over his face. He fought down the uneasy feelings that stirred
inside him, the sense she honestly was seeing more than he cared to
reveal. The urge to fling off her hands grew stronger, almost
overruling his control. He clenched his back teeth and vowed this
woman would not stare him down.
And in that thought, he realized the
truth.
Devil a bit, but she was blind. That was why
her stare slid through him, and why she used her touch as her eyes.
He relaxed, deciding he would permit this liberty with his person,
for even he had his limits of detestable behavior, and rudeness to
blind women certainly lay beyond his depths of depravity.
Finally, she let him go, and
affronted that she thought such effort necessary. But he was having
the worst time coming up with any feeling just now other that a
deep desire to touch his lips to the curve of that determined jaw
of hers. And a wry amusement.
Would this not astonish half of London—and
leave the other half laughing—to think that a lowly Gypsy had taken
the side of the notorious and high-born Earl of St. Albans.
Easing his shoulders, he began to enjoy the
situation—and the view. His Gypsy’s eyes glittered, color blazed on
her cheekbones, and that chin of hers lifted with determination. He
would simply have to indulge her, if for no other reason than to
see what happened next.
The idiot she argued with had been making his
own intentions quite clear, and the pressure of a blade dug deeper,
causing St. Albans to wince. Another coat ruined , he
thought, deeply irritated as the warmth of blood trickled down his
spine. Well, no matter. The fellow would pay later. In kind.
Another jab and St. Albans’s temper flared
again. That did it. His Gypsy might be a tempting morsel, but she
was doing a poor job as his champion, and he was really not going
to allow himself to be skewered simply to indulge her.
Just as he braced for action, a sharp voice
cut through the gathering twilight, stopping everything.
“ Chavaia!”
Despite the odd language, the command to stop
came across as plain as if it were the King’s English. St. Albans
focused his attention on the woman who commanded so much respect
here.
Dressed in black and with the twilight
gathering close, he thought at first that she must be an old gypsy
woman. Silver streaked her hair in a dramatic bolt that added to
his first impression, and she felt for her steps with a cane.
However, as she came closer, he noted the straight figure, age
thickened, yes, but not too bent by time. And while her weathered
face made it difficult to place her exact years, he doubted if she
had reached half a century yet. A black shawl lay loose over her
black dress, but he noted her garments only with a casual glance.
Her presence demanded far more of his attention.
She had black eyes, unfocused, but they
glittered with an assessing intelligent. Sharp cheekbones, nose and
jaw showed a former great beauty was maturing into magnificent
ruins. Despite her small stature, she certainly knew how to wield
power. He always admired strength.
The annoying sting at his back vanished, and
St. Albans found himself facing this woman.
He started to look for where his Gypsy girl
had gone, but the woman captured his face between her hands. He
began to pull away, resenting and resisting such intimacy, but the
Gypsy held tight.
Putting up his own hands, he took her wrists
to pull away those roughly callused hands of hers. He did not like
to be touched. Never had. Oh, he could enjoy a woman’s body well
enough, but that was an entirely different thing than having
this...this familiarity pushed upon him.
However, the woman would not let go, and he
would look a fool to struggle with her.
So he dropped his hands and stared back at
her, one eyebrow lifted, waiting and wishing for her to finish her
nonsense. Some rubbishing Gypsy superstition, no doubt.
It took an effort not to grow restless under
that blank and empty black-eyed gaze. Her fingers began to roam
over his face. He fought down the uneasy feelings that stirred
inside him, the sense she honestly was seeing more than he cared to
reveal. The urge to fling off her hands grew stronger, almost
overruling his control. He clenched his back teeth and vowed this
woman would not stare him down.
And in that thought, he realized the
truth.
Devil a bit, but she was blind. That was why
her stare slid through him, and why she used her touch as her eyes.
He relaxed, deciding he would permit this liberty with his person,
for even he had his limits of detestable behavior, and rudeness to
blind women certainly lay beyond his depths of depravity.
Finally, she let him go, and
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