would probably not be back before midnight, if then. For all she knew, he’d hie to the West Indies in search of the fictitious cigar—precisely as though Dain truly were Beelzebub, and Bertie one of his devoted familiars.
The brother out of the way, Dain had just silently warned the café’s patrons to mind their own business. If he took her by the throat and choked her to death then and there, Jessica doubted any one of them would leap to her rescue. She doubted, in fact, that any of them would dare utter a peep of protest.
“How much did Le Feuvre tell you the thing was worth?” he asked. It was the first word he’d uttered since giving the coffee shop owner their order. When Dain entered an establishment, the proprietor himself rushed out to attend him.
“He advised me not to sell it right away,” she said evasively. “He wished to contact a Russian client first. There is a cousin or nephew or some such of the tsar’s who—”
“Fifty pounds,” said Lord Dain. “Unless this Russian is one of the tsar’s numerous mad relations, he won’t give you a farthing more than that.”
“Then he must be one of the mad ones,” said Jessica. “Le Feuvre mentioned a figure well above that.”
He gave her a hard stare. Gazing into his dark, harsh face, into those black, implacable eyes, Jessica had no trouble imagining him sitting upon an immense ebony throne at the very bottom of the pits of Hades. Had she looked down and discovered that the expensive polished boot a few inches from her own had turned into a cloven hoof, she would not have been in the least amazed.
Any woman with an ounce of common sense would have picked up her skirts and fled.
The trouble was, Jessica could not feel at all sensible. A magnetic current was racing along her nerve endings. It slithered and swirled through her system, to make an odd, tingling heat in the pit of her belly, and it melted her brain to soup.
She wanted to kick off her shoes and trail her stockinged toes up and down the black, costly boot. She wanted to slide her fingers under his starched shirt cuff and trace the veins and muscles of his wrist and feel his pulse beating under her thumb. Most of all, she wanted to press her lips to his hard, dissolute mouth and kiss him senseless.
Of course, all such a demented assault would get her would be a position flat on her back and the swift elimination of her maidenhead—very possibly in full view of the café’s patrons. Then, if he was in a good humor, he might give her a friendly slap on the bottom as he told her to run along, she reflected gloomily.
“Miss Trent,” he said, “I am sure all the other girls at school found your wit hilarious. Perhaps, however, if you would stop batting your eyelashes for a moment, your vision would clear and you would notice that I am not a little schoolgirl.”
She hadn’t been batting her eyelashes. When Jessica did play coquette, it was purposely and purposefully, and she was certainly not such a moron as to try that method with Beelzebub.
“Batting?” she repeated. “I never bat , my lord. “This is what I do.” She looked away toward an attractive Frenchman seated nearby, then shot Dain one swift, sidelong glance. “That isn’t batting,” she said, releasing the instantly bedazzled Frenchman and returning to full focus upon Dain.
Though one could hardly believe it possible, his expression became grimmer still.
“I am not a school boy , either,” he said. “I recommend you save those slaying glances for the sorts of young sapskulls who respond to them.”
The Frenchman was now gazing at her with besotted fascination. Dain turned and looked at him. The man instantly looked away and began talking animatedly with his companions.
She recollected Genevieve’s warning. Jessica couldn’t be certain Dain had any active thoughts of reeling her in. She could see, however, that he’d just posted a No Fishing sign.
A thrill coursed through her, but that was only to be
The brother out of the way, Dain had just silently warned the café’s patrons to mind their own business. If he took her by the throat and choked her to death then and there, Jessica doubted any one of them would leap to her rescue. She doubted, in fact, that any of them would dare utter a peep of protest.
“How much did Le Feuvre tell you the thing was worth?” he asked. It was the first word he’d uttered since giving the coffee shop owner their order. When Dain entered an establishment, the proprietor himself rushed out to attend him.
“He advised me not to sell it right away,” she said evasively. “He wished to contact a Russian client first. There is a cousin or nephew or some such of the tsar’s who—”
“Fifty pounds,” said Lord Dain. “Unless this Russian is one of the tsar’s numerous mad relations, he won’t give you a farthing more than that.”
“Then he must be one of the mad ones,” said Jessica. “Le Feuvre mentioned a figure well above that.”
He gave her a hard stare. Gazing into his dark, harsh face, into those black, implacable eyes, Jessica had no trouble imagining him sitting upon an immense ebony throne at the very bottom of the pits of Hades. Had she looked down and discovered that the expensive polished boot a few inches from her own had turned into a cloven hoof, she would not have been in the least amazed.
Any woman with an ounce of common sense would have picked up her skirts and fled.
The trouble was, Jessica could not feel at all sensible. A magnetic current was racing along her nerve endings. It slithered and swirled through her system, to make an odd, tingling heat in the pit of her belly, and it melted her brain to soup.
She wanted to kick off her shoes and trail her stockinged toes up and down the black, costly boot. She wanted to slide her fingers under his starched shirt cuff and trace the veins and muscles of his wrist and feel his pulse beating under her thumb. Most of all, she wanted to press her lips to his hard, dissolute mouth and kiss him senseless.
Of course, all such a demented assault would get her would be a position flat on her back and the swift elimination of her maidenhead—very possibly in full view of the café’s patrons. Then, if he was in a good humor, he might give her a friendly slap on the bottom as he told her to run along, she reflected gloomily.
“Miss Trent,” he said, “I am sure all the other girls at school found your wit hilarious. Perhaps, however, if you would stop batting your eyelashes for a moment, your vision would clear and you would notice that I am not a little schoolgirl.”
She hadn’t been batting her eyelashes. When Jessica did play coquette, it was purposely and purposefully, and she was certainly not such a moron as to try that method with Beelzebub.
“Batting?” she repeated. “I never bat , my lord. “This is what I do.” She looked away toward an attractive Frenchman seated nearby, then shot Dain one swift, sidelong glance. “That isn’t batting,” she said, releasing the instantly bedazzled Frenchman and returning to full focus upon Dain.
Though one could hardly believe it possible, his expression became grimmer still.
“I am not a school boy , either,” he said. “I recommend you save those slaying glances for the sorts of young sapskulls who respond to them.”
The Frenchman was now gazing at her with besotted fascination. Dain turned and looked at him. The man instantly looked away and began talking animatedly with his companions.
She recollected Genevieve’s warning. Jessica couldn’t be certain Dain had any active thoughts of reeling her in. She could see, however, that he’d just posted a No Fishing sign.
A thrill coursed through her, but that was only to be
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