The Devil May Care (Brotherhood of Sinners #1) by Lara Archer Page B

no doubt.
    Cardross lingered pointedly over her other hand as he took his turn to kiss it. “So wonderful to have you back, darling Salomé,” he declared. “We’ve been bereft, and of course worried sick about you. So many different stories reached us—strange things—we did not know what to believe.”
    “I took ill for a time, that is all,” she said. “I am most well-recovered now, mon cher .” Cardross seemed to expect something more, so she braced herself against the training of a lifetime of reserve, and brushed a hand down his coat sleeve, favoring him with what she hoped was an alluring smile. “And most eager to resume my life in full.”
    Cardross grinned brilliantly at that, and du Bourge regarded her from beneath his thick lashes with a look of naked anticipation.
    Some giant fist had seized her heart and was squeezing hard. Surely any moment now, someone would cry out, Look at that ridiculous girl—can’t you see she’s a fraud! An English governess! A virgin! A little nun!
    Cardross, though, merely resumed his attention to her hand, his lips working their way slowly up towards the crook of her elbow. His mouth was unpleasantly damp, leaving a trail of slime like a garden snail’s. Her shoulders tensed, and her arm itched to pull free. Frustrating, that her body’s incendiary response to Sebastian’s touch seemed to be specific to him alone.
    Closing her eyes as though Cardross’s caresses plunged her into ecstasy, she tried to conjure up the sensations Sebastian had aroused in her, that heated, loosening feeling. That was how a woman like Salomé responded to men.
    Before the caresses could proceed further, Sebastian himself appeared, proffering a steaming cup of the spiced rum.
    “Give it a rest, Cardross,” he reproved mildly. “Other men would like a chance, and they won’t appreciate the slobber. Besides, the lady requires refreshment.” He nudged the mug against the hand Cardross was mauling.
    Cardross released her with a shrug. “Forgive me, my dear,” he said, giving one last caress with his eyes. “But you are impossible to resist, as always.”
    She snapped open her fan to cover her face, and pretended to take a sip of her rum. And nearly choked—the fumes hit her like a punch to the face. Did these people really drink this stuff? If so, their first cup must have seared their digestive tracts into insensitive scar tissue.
    Before she could attempt an actual swallow, Lady Barham sauntered up with yet another gentleman in her wake.
    Rachel’s stomach clutched—this man she had no name for. Her mind scrambled over the details: silver hair, elegant, perhaps fifty-five, with ice-gray eyes and a hard mouth. Expert tailoring in his bottle-green coat. Trim waist and straight, slim legs, remarkable in a man his age.
    Panic swelled. She had no idea who he was.
    “Oh, Salomé, darling,” exclaimed Lady Barham, “you must meet my friend Lord Henry Walters. Lord Henry, this is our beloved Salomé Mirabeau, returned at last!” She giggled conspiratorially. “Though in truth, dear girl, I should never in good conscience introduce you to him, for Lord Henry is the greatest reprobate the world has ever known.”
    The alleged great reprobate took no offense at this remark, and took Rachel’s hand and kissed it with perfect delicacy. “Don’t listen to a word she says,” he drawled. “I’m harmless as a lamb.”
    “As am I,” she whispered, turning loose one of the coy smiles Sebastian had taught her.
    She hoped her answer would read as playfully ironic, and not as the simple truth it actually was.
    Lord Henry chuckled—hopefully for the right reasons.
    Sebastian snapped a bow as Lady Barham made the necessary introductions. “Lord Henry Walters!” he exclaimed. “How excellent we’ve chanced to meet at last.”
    Sebastian’s smile was warmer than his wont, but his eyes were sharp. The accessing look Lord Henry gave him in return was particularly hard and chill, despite the