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attitude provoked him beyond reason. Didn't anyone understand how much she needed someone to look
after her? She shouldn't be allowed to wander through London by herself. She shouldn't be here alone
with him, for God's sake. He could have ravished her ten times over by now.
As he continued to study her, he realized that beneath the cloud of frills and the spectacles, there was an
attractive woman.
She would be appealing if she didn't dress like a spinster. He raised his hand to her puffy cap, his
fingertip brushing an edge
of lace. "Why do you always wear this thing on your head?"
Sara's lips parted in surprise. 'To keep my hair in place."
He continued to finger the edge of lace. A curious tension seemed to fill the room. "Take it off."
Sara could hardly find her breath for a moment. His intense green eyes remained on hers. No one had
ever looked at her this
way, making her hot and cold and unbearably nervous. She leapt up from the chair and backed away a
few steps. "I'm afraid
I don't have time to indulge your whims, Mr. Craven. My work is finished for now. I must go. Good
evening."
She fled the room, leaving behind all her possessions, even her reticule. Derek looked at the little
drawstring bag and waited for her to come back. After a minute had passed, he knew she would return
for it later, when there was no chance of confronting him. He picked up the bag and sat more fully on the
desk, swinging a leg nonchalantly. He loosened the silken cord and looked inside. A few pound notes ...
the tiny notebook and pencil ... the pistol. Derek smiled wryly and delved deeper into the reticule
until he found a few coins and a handkerchief. Extracting the neatly pressed square of linen, he held it to
his face. He hunted
for the scent of perfume or flower water, but there was none.
Lodged at the bottom of the reticule was the extra pair of spectacles. Derek examined them minutely, the
round lenses, the
dainty steel frame, the small curved earpieces. He squinted through them at the words she had written.
After he folded the spectacles, he placed them in his coat pocket and closed the reticule. When Sara
discovered the spectacles were missing, she would assume she had left them somewhere, as she often
did. It was the first act of outright thievery he had committed in ten years. But he had to have them. He
wanted to own a little piece of her.
Leaving the reticule as Sara had placed it on the desk, Derek jammed his hands into his pockets and
began to walk with no particular destination in mind. He thought of the way Worthy had sung Sara
Fielding's praises yesterday. Not even Lily
Lawson, with all her sparkling allure, had been able to elicit such devotion from the factotum.
"She is a lady of quality," Worthy had said in response to one of Derek's sarcastic barbs. "Miss Fielding
treats everyone she encounters with kindness and courtesy, even the house wenches. Before she leaves
the club in the evenings, she voluntarily
writes letters dictated to her by some of the illiterate members of the staff, so that they might send word
to their families. When she saw that the hem of Violet's gown needed mending, she asked for a needle
and knelt down on the floor to fix it. One of the maids told me yesterday that when she tripped with a pile
of linen in her arms, Miss Fielding stopped to help her gather it up "
"Maybe I should hire her," Derek had interrupted sarcastically.
"Miss Fielding is the most gentle, tolerant woman who has ever set foot in this club. And perhaps I should
take this opportunity
to tell you sir, that the staff has been complaining."
"Complaining," Derek repeated without inflection.
Worthy nodded stiffly. "That you have not been according her the proper degree of respect."
Derek had been dumfounded. "Who the hell is paying their salaries?"
"You, sir."
"Then tell them I don't hand out a bloody fortune in order to hear their opinions! And I'll talk to their
saintly Miss Fielding
any damn way I want to!"
"Yes, sir." With a barely audible sniff of disapproval, Worthy had turned on his heel and gone down the
stairs.
Oh, Worthy was indeed taken with her. Everyone was. Derek had never dreamed that his territory
would be so gently and thoroughly invaded or that his employees would be such willing traitors. Sara
Fielding's mysterious charm had captivated everyone in his club. They all strove to please and
accommodate her. During the hours she sat at Worthy's desk, they tiptoed quietly through the halls as if
in mortal fear of distracting her from her work. "She's writing now," Derek had heard one of the
housemaids tell another reverently, as if some holy sacrament were being performed.
Derek hardened his jaw. "A lady of quality," he snorted aloud. He'd had his pleasure between the thighs
of women with far superior pedigrees, ladies born with blue blood and illustrious names, generations of
privilege and wealth behind them. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl aikidobyd.xlx.pl
attitude provoked him beyond reason. Didn't anyone understand how much she needed someone to look
after her? She shouldn't be allowed to wander through London by herself. She shouldn't be here alone
with him, for God's sake. He could have ravished her ten times over by now.
As he continued to study her, he realized that beneath the cloud of frills and the spectacles, there was an
attractive woman.
She would be appealing if she didn't dress like a spinster. He raised his hand to her puffy cap, his
fingertip brushing an edge
of lace. "Why do you always wear this thing on your head?"
Sara's lips parted in surprise. 'To keep my hair in place."
He continued to finger the edge of lace. A curious tension seemed to fill the room. "Take it off."
Sara could hardly find her breath for a moment. His intense green eyes remained on hers. No one had
ever looked at her this
way, making her hot and cold and unbearably nervous. She leapt up from the chair and backed away a
few steps. "I'm afraid
I don't have time to indulge your whims, Mr. Craven. My work is finished for now. I must go. Good
evening."
She fled the room, leaving behind all her possessions, even her reticule. Derek looked at the little
drawstring bag and waited for her to come back. After a minute had passed, he knew she would return
for it later, when there was no chance of confronting him. He picked up the bag and sat more fully on the
desk, swinging a leg nonchalantly. He loosened the silken cord and looked inside. A few pound notes ...
the tiny notebook and pencil ... the pistol. Derek smiled wryly and delved deeper into the reticule
until he found a few coins and a handkerchief. Extracting the neatly pressed square of linen, he held it to
his face. He hunted
for the scent of perfume or flower water, but there was none.
Lodged at the bottom of the reticule was the extra pair of spectacles. Derek examined them minutely, the
round lenses, the
dainty steel frame, the small curved earpieces. He squinted through them at the words she had written.
After he folded the spectacles, he placed them in his coat pocket and closed the reticule. When Sara
discovered the spectacles were missing, she would assume she had left them somewhere, as she often
did. It was the first act of outright thievery he had committed in ten years. But he had to have them. He
wanted to own a little piece of her.
Leaving the reticule as Sara had placed it on the desk, Derek jammed his hands into his pockets and
began to walk with no particular destination in mind. He thought of the way Worthy had sung Sara
Fielding's praises yesterday. Not even Lily
Lawson, with all her sparkling allure, had been able to elicit such devotion from the factotum.
"She is a lady of quality," Worthy had said in response to one of Derek's sarcastic barbs. "Miss Fielding
treats everyone she encounters with kindness and courtesy, even the house wenches. Before she leaves
the club in the evenings, she voluntarily
writes letters dictated to her by some of the illiterate members of the staff, so that they might send word
to their families. When she saw that the hem of Violet's gown needed mending, she asked for a needle
and knelt down on the floor to fix it. One of the maids told me yesterday that when she tripped with a pile
of linen in her arms, Miss Fielding stopped to help her gather it up "
"Maybe I should hire her," Derek had interrupted sarcastically.
"Miss Fielding is the most gentle, tolerant woman who has ever set foot in this club. And perhaps I should
take this opportunity
to tell you sir, that the staff has been complaining."
"Complaining," Derek repeated without inflection.
Worthy nodded stiffly. "That you have not been according her the proper degree of respect."
Derek had been dumfounded. "Who the hell is paying their salaries?"
"You, sir."
"Then tell them I don't hand out a bloody fortune in order to hear their opinions! And I'll talk to their
saintly Miss Fielding
any damn way I want to!"
"Yes, sir." With a barely audible sniff of disapproval, Worthy had turned on his heel and gone down the
stairs.
Oh, Worthy was indeed taken with her. Everyone was. Derek had never dreamed that his territory
would be so gently and thoroughly invaded or that his employees would be such willing traitors. Sara
Fielding's mysterious charm had captivated everyone in his club. They all strove to please and
accommodate her. During the hours she sat at Worthy's desk, they tiptoed quietly through the halls as if
in mortal fear of distracting her from her work. "She's writing now," Derek had heard one of the
housemaids tell another reverently, as if some holy sacrament were being performed.
Derek hardened his jaw. "A lady of quality," he snorted aloud. He'd had his pleasure between the thighs
of women with far superior pedigrees, ladies born with blue blood and illustrious names, generations of
privilege and wealth behind them. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]