For Love of a Gypsy Lass by Juliet Chastain Page B

the light so she could see how large an amount he was giving before he threw it in the little pot on the edge of the stage.
    “Would you sing more Haydn?” He asked loudly.
    She frowned. Then she looked at him appraisingly, he thought, and as though she was unimpressed with what she saw. What had happened? Perhaps she was playing with him. But she nodded.
    “’Oh Tuneful Voice?’” she asked, her voice cool.
    “Yes,” Harry said, somewhat subdued. “Please.”
    She shrugged and turned away from him to favor a farm laborer, who, with a shy smile, had quietly put a farthing in the pot.
    “Does that song suit you?” she asked the man.
    “Aye,” he said, blushing. “I’d like it very much.”
    She smiled at him and curtsied. “Then I shall sing it especially for you.”
    Harry clenched his fists. He had an unreasoning desire to knock the laborer down. But when the Gypsy began to sing, his jealousy was forgotten. It had been a long time since he had heard music that pleased him like this did. He’d only occasionally heard singing to compare in the private concerts in the homes of his highborn, wealthy acquaintances.
    She did not look at him this time. Yes, she must be playing with him. That she wanted him had been clear when she had locked eyes with him and the color rose to her cheeks.
    Unbidden, he found desire rising in him yet again. Harry watched her bodice rise and fall with her breath. He longed to run his lips over the soft skin of her throat, to open that gold dress and caress what lay beneath. He had to have her.
    He would approach her after the performance was over. He was desperate to find out more about her, desperate to talk with her, to touch her, to hold her. What on earth had come over him? Had she cast some kind of spell on him? He would do anything—including ignoring his conscience and offering her money, every penny he had with him—a goodly sum—for a night’s pleasure. He would borrow from his friend, John, to make the sum more generous.
    As she curtsied and turned to walk off the stage, Harry called out “Oh please, some more.” She turned back and he held up another gold guinea and signaled to her to come closer. She came and bent to him, revealing the swell of her breasts above her dress, bringing them dangerously, deliciously close. He clenched his hands to keep from touching her. He longed to feel her warmth, her softness.
    He spoke softly. “Sing one more for me, my darling, and then let us two make another kind of music tonight.”
    Frowning, she stood up, ignoring the golden coin that shone dully in the light of the lanterns.
    “You mistake me, sir, for something I am not,” she said, her voice like ice, and turned on her heel and walked off the stage and into the darkness.
    John, who stood beside Harry, laughed heartily.
    “I never thought I’d see the day when a woman refused you. And I never thought I’d see a woman with a patch on her skirt and worn slippers turn down not only you but a gold guinea as well.”
    Harry scowled. It was true. No woman had ever really refused him. And he had never before behaved in such an unprincipled manner to any member of the fair sex. He cursed himself, telling himself he was an idiot. But his desire for her still raged within him. He carelessly tossed the guinea in the pot.
     
     
    Chapter Two
     

     
    “What did that handsome Gadjo with his fine clothes want with his gold coin?” Cambio pushed his guitar to his back.
    Talaitha tossed her head. “The same as so many others.”
    “But he is a great lord. I could see his carriage with four matched horses up by the road. There was a crest on the door and a footman in a powdered wig. And it is not everyday that we are given a gold guinea. And he would have given more if you—”
    “I am not a piece of goods to be bought and sold.”
    “Yes, yes, but you could have been more gentle. I think some sweet and flattering words and he would have—”
    “No.”
    Cambio looked past her