the beautiful face. That smile lit her whole being, as if the moon rivaled the sun when she was happy. Sloane thought he’d move mountains to bring it back. “Come, sweetings, do.”
Lisanne thought the clunch would fall out of the window if he leaned any farther out. She could smell the spirits on his breath even from where she stood. But she had no choice. Muttering under her breath, “Ave atque, Caesar, mortituri est te salutamus,” she raised her arms to be hoisted through the window.
When he lifted her, Sloane was surprised to find that his guest was flesh and blood after all, although she weighed about as much as a moonbeam, and her hand trembled in his like a captured butterfly. But her eyes never wavered from his and that clear blue gaze seemed to sear his very soul, like the eyes of the children of war, the children of poverty. St. Sevrin prayed this angel-child would find what she came for. Lud knew he had little enough to offer.
He kicked the fallen bottle aside and made a fairly creditable bow, for a fellow half seas over. “St. Sevrin, at your service.”
Lisanne bobbed an awkward curtsy, being out of practice since Miss Armbruster had left. She had to stifle a nervous giggle to think of worrying over drawing-room manners at a time like this. Then she took a deep breath and poured forth her prepared speech: “I am Lisanne Neville, and you can have my fortune if you’ll marry me.”
St. Sevrin decided he really had to give up drinking.
Chapter Seven
St. Sevrin sank down in a chair. It wasn’t the polite thing to do, of course, sitting before a lady, but he felt it was more courteous than falling in a heap at her feet. Many years had passed since he’d been knocked so cock-a-hoop. “Could you repeat that?”
The girl cleared her throat. “I am Lisanne Neville.” She jerked one angular shoulder toward the woods and beyond. “I am very wealthy, and I…I should like to marry you.”
Now there, he thought, that made everything clear. Clear as Kelly’s coffee. The outrageous chit just stood near the window, ready to flee, he thought, but giving him time to recover his wits and look his fill.
Miss Lisanne Neville was a tiny scrap of a thing, bird-bone thin. Those big blue eyes gave her an even more waiflike appearance as they made their own inspection. She didn’t like what she saw, he could tell by the downward pull to her soft lips, but she held her ground, only the clenched hands and white knuckles betraying her fear. Sloane had seen seasoned foot soldiers show less courage. Whatever her mission, the girl had bottom.
She also had dirt on her hem, twigs in her skirts, andsmudges down the front of her poorly fitted gown. There were leaves in her streaked blond hair, which was every which way around her face and down her back. No wonder he took her for some elven being; she even smelled of forest and earth. At least Miss Neville didn’t chatter on like most other females of his acquaintance, highborn or low.
Of course she didn’t blather; Lisanne was struck dumb now that she was face-to-face with the duke. He was everything she’d been warned about, and worse. No one had mentioned he might be half dressed. Naturally no one thought she’d come to call after midnight, either. No one had warned her he was such a firm, muscular man, obvious under the form-fitting breeches and the white shirt that was open enough to reveal reddish hairs on his chest. Did all men have hair on their chest, or only the devilish ones? Lisanne made herself look away from his body. It was even more unnerving than his frown.
Returning her gaze to his face, she could see the firm chin and well-defined planes of the hero; she could also see the lines of dissipation, the sallow complexion, the bloodshot, puffy eyes of the libertine. The duke’s auburn hair had no shine to it, and those eyes, hazel, she thought from this distance, seemed cold and weary, empty.
St. Sevrin, meanwhile, was trying to recall what he’d
Lisanne thought the clunch would fall out of the window if he leaned any farther out. She could smell the spirits on his breath even from where she stood. But she had no choice. Muttering under her breath, “Ave atque, Caesar, mortituri est te salutamus,” she raised her arms to be hoisted through the window.
When he lifted her, Sloane was surprised to find that his guest was flesh and blood after all, although she weighed about as much as a moonbeam, and her hand trembled in his like a captured butterfly. But her eyes never wavered from his and that clear blue gaze seemed to sear his very soul, like the eyes of the children of war, the children of poverty. St. Sevrin prayed this angel-child would find what she came for. Lud knew he had little enough to offer.
He kicked the fallen bottle aside and made a fairly creditable bow, for a fellow half seas over. “St. Sevrin, at your service.”
Lisanne bobbed an awkward curtsy, being out of practice since Miss Armbruster had left. She had to stifle a nervous giggle to think of worrying over drawing-room manners at a time like this. Then she took a deep breath and poured forth her prepared speech: “I am Lisanne Neville, and you can have my fortune if you’ll marry me.”
St. Sevrin decided he really had to give up drinking.
Chapter Seven
St. Sevrin sank down in a chair. It wasn’t the polite thing to do, of course, sitting before a lady, but he felt it was more courteous than falling in a heap at her feet. Many years had passed since he’d been knocked so cock-a-hoop. “Could you repeat that?”
The girl cleared her throat. “I am Lisanne Neville.” She jerked one angular shoulder toward the woods and beyond. “I am very wealthy, and I…I should like to marry you.”
Now there, he thought, that made everything clear. Clear as Kelly’s coffee. The outrageous chit just stood near the window, ready to flee, he thought, but giving him time to recover his wits and look his fill.
Miss Lisanne Neville was a tiny scrap of a thing, bird-bone thin. Those big blue eyes gave her an even more waiflike appearance as they made their own inspection. She didn’t like what she saw, he could tell by the downward pull to her soft lips, but she held her ground, only the clenched hands and white knuckles betraying her fear. Sloane had seen seasoned foot soldiers show less courage. Whatever her mission, the girl had bottom.
She also had dirt on her hem, twigs in her skirts, andsmudges down the front of her poorly fitted gown. There were leaves in her streaked blond hair, which was every which way around her face and down her back. No wonder he took her for some elven being; she even smelled of forest and earth. At least Miss Neville didn’t chatter on like most other females of his acquaintance, highborn or low.
Of course she didn’t blather; Lisanne was struck dumb now that she was face-to-face with the duke. He was everything she’d been warned about, and worse. No one had mentioned he might be half dressed. Naturally no one thought she’d come to call after midnight, either. No one had warned her he was such a firm, muscular man, obvious under the form-fitting breeches and the white shirt that was open enough to reveal reddish hairs on his chest. Did all men have hair on their chest, or only the devilish ones? Lisanne made herself look away from his body. It was even more unnerving than his frown.
Returning her gaze to his face, she could see the firm chin and well-defined planes of the hero; she could also see the lines of dissipation, the sallow complexion, the bloodshot, puffy eyes of the libertine. The duke’s auburn hair had no shine to it, and those eyes, hazel, she thought from this distance, seemed cold and weary, empty.
St. Sevrin, meanwhile, was trying to recall what he’d
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