Tea for Two by Cathy Maxwell & Liz Carlyle

Author:Cathy Maxwell & Liz Carlyle
Language: ron
Format: mobi
Published: 2010-12-16T13:25:43+00:00

Liz Carlyle

Be easy, even forward,in making new acquaintances.

—Lord Chesterfield, 1776

The Fine Gentleman's Etiquette

De Rohan approached Hyde Park via Constitution Hill, then took the footpath which ran west

above the Serpentine. At this hour, the park was all but empty. A few moments of brisk walking

took him well beyond the most public areas of the park, toward the paths more often frequented

by those who wished to put their horses through their paces and by those who desired privacy. It

was the latter who most interested de Rohan, and for the first time in a fortnight, it seemed he

might be in luck. As he quietly approached the place where the path ran through a clump of

rhododendron—the very one in which he'd seen the woman the previous day—he heard the low

murmur of voices. Male voices—one almost imperceptibly edged with Cockney the other a low

hard growl, followed by a cynical, familiar laugh.

At last! They had been working on this police corruption case for months. With a calm sense of

certainty de Rohan circled around so that he might approach at a point rather less obvious. By

God, he'd nearly sell his soul to the devil if he could just get a good look at the both of them.

Better still would be an opportunity to watch money change hands. It would be proof of his

suspicions. And he would make a most credible witness.

The exhilaration thrummed through his blood. But halfway through the knot of high shrubs, he

realized he was not alone. Farther along the path was a bench, tucked neatly into a roughly

sculpted niche. On it sat a woman—damn it, the woman. She was reading a bloody book! De

Rohan felt a moment of alarm. It worsened when the voices suddenly rose. Through a thinning

veil of greenery he saw the woman jerk to her feet. Had she heard him? Or the bribery which was

occurring not a stone's throw past her shoulder?

His greater fear was confirmed when he rounded the corner. She was not looking at him. Instead,

her head was cocked to one side, and she was staring in the direction of the murmurs. Murmurs

which now seemed to be moving nearer …

Disconcerted, de Rohan set a foot wrong, and the gravel shifted noisily beneath his shoe.

With a soft, startled cry the woman dropped her book and spun toward him, her dark red skirts

whirling about her ankles. A broad-brimmed hat with a long red plume helped obscure her

identity—but not from him.

"Wot the 'ell?" came the Cockney voice from the other side of the bushes.

Her hand flew to her lips, and she opened her mouth as if to speak. But heavy footsteps were

striding toward them. So de Rohan did the quickest—and the stupidest—thing he could think of.

What he'd burned to do for the last seven days. In one swift motion, he dragged the woman hard

against his chest, spun toward the shadows, and covered her mouth with his.

CATHERINE HAD MEANT to scream. She really had. Right up until the instant that the square

yard of rock-solid chest thudded against hers, sending her bonnet askew and melting her knees to

jelly.

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