Fortune's Lady by Patricia Gaffney

stood for a moment and silently regarded the kneeling, all-but-naked figure of a nymph, perpetually pouring water from a stone ewer.
    â€œAre you cold?” asked Riordan suddenly.
    Cass searched his face for a leer, a swiftly hidden glimmer of lechery or amusement, but could see nothing except innocent concern. Still, the similarity between her gown and the kneeling nymph’s was not lost on her—nor, she believed, on him. She shook her head and they continued their slow stroll. She was glad to be outside where it was dark, away from all the searching eyes. It made her feel slightly more in control, which was a good thing. Fortunately, Mr. Wade had been the aggressor and contrived their tête-à-tête, because up to now, mysteriously and unaccountably, she’d hardly been able to utter a word to him. She supposed it was because he was so handsome—“an exceptionally handsome man,” Quinn had written. And yet handsome men were common in the circles she frequented, and she was never tongue-tied among them. Her cheeks burned when she thought of the way she’d stared at him. Her conversation now was scarcely more eloquent than it had been inside, she realized suddenly, and cast about in her mind for a suitable topic.
    They had come to the bottom of the garden, where a solitary iron stool was situated against a profusion of shrubbery. Riordan seated Cass and then stepped a few paces away, telling himself he didn’t need his wits muddled now by the naked expanse of bosom her much-maligned gown exposed. There had been a moment by the fountain when he was sure she was remembering another fountain, one in the Tuileries a year or so ago. An image of her came to him, wet and naked, head thrown back, water running down her throat and her breasts….
    He mentally shook himself. He was much too aware of this woman physically. Following her out of the club, his enjoyment of the unfettered view of her from behind had been tempered in an odd, sobering way by the knowledge that there wasn’t a man in the house who wasn’t entertaining the same lecherous thoughts about her that he was.
    Enough. This was business. He was here to discover whether or not she could be trusted. To do that, he had to stop thinking like a randy schoolboy and start thinking like Colin Wade.
    â€œYou have a very slight, very charming hint of a French accent, mademoiselle,” he opened casually. “Have you spent time in that country?”
    â€œMost of my life, although we spoke English at home. My family is English.”
    â€œAh. Allow me to say you wear the new French fashion most beautifully.”
    Her chin came up. “Thank you.” She suspected he was baiting her.
    â€œThe English, of course, are quite backward in such things. They see these French styles as harbingers of atheism and social collapse. You mustn’t pay them any mind. In a year’s time, I daresay every woman in London will be wearing a Galatea gown or Diana dress.”
    Cass felt absurdly comforted. “You’re very kind. But if I’ve been embarrassed tonight, the fault is my own. I’ve only been in England a short time, not long enough to gauge the national tolerance for nudity, it would seem. I assure you, in Paris this dress is thought quite modest.”
    â€œIndeed?”
    His tone was friendly, but the frank, admiring glance he swept across her seated figure was anything but brotherly. “Oh, yes,” she rushed on. “Ever since Marie Antoinette was painted in her robe du matin, without evidence of stays or even a corset, Parisiennes have been disrobing with great enthusiasm.” She frowned; that hadn’t come out quite right.
    â€œI suppose it’s amusing to enter into the skin of the ancients by showing as much as possible of one’s own,” Riordan drawled, enjoying himself.
    She let that pass. “It raised quite a furor, of course; people were shocked that the queen