full light of day, and Serena understoo d — beyond the lure of his sexual virtuosit y — w hy Beau St. Jules never slept alone.
"Who first called you Glory?" she asked, wanting to know what woman had so aptly named him. At the sharp rise of his brows, she added, "I've overheard all the stories from the Tothams' son. He was forever trying to ape your rakish ways. 'Lady C. was seen emerging from the maze at Chatham with Glory R., her expression one of deep satisfaction,' " Serena quoted with a quirked grin. "Mrs. Totha m devoured the scandal sheets too."
"Do I know them?" Beau blandly inquired, interested in deflecting her query.
"Hardly," Serena answered, entertained by the notion of Beau St. Jules seated across the tea table from the self-righteous Maud Totham. "Tell me about your name."
"Rochefort?" Reaching for his breeches, he swiftly pulled them on, an unconscious defense perhaps, female inquisitive-ness invariably provoking evasion.
"If you don't want to tell me," Serena playfully chided, "just say so."
His gaze swiveled to her, his fingers arrested on the buttons at his waist. "I don't want to tell you."
"I could always sleep under the stairs again," she said in a seductive purr.
"You'd have to get out of here first."
"Are you threatening me?" A mischievous glint shone in her eyes and she wondered what it would be like to truly challenge the Earl of Rochefort. He'd killed a man in a duel last year, she knew; Neville had talked of little else for a fortnight.
Dropping into a chair, he surveyed her from under half-lowered lashes. "Just pointing out your physical limitations, lollipop," he murmured.
"Do you always bully your women?"
"I've never had to."
"Which brings us back to your nickname."
He sighed. "If I tell you will this interrogation cease?"
She smugly nodded.
Exhaling softly, he said, "A lover once referred to my height as glorious and the name caught on."
She snorted in disbelief. "Liar."
"She liked tall men."
"Certai n p arts of tall men."
An infinitesimal pause ensued before he carefully said, "Perhaps."
"Perhaps?" Her grin was knowing, impertinent.
"Jesus," he softly breathed , "you're persistent."
"You're not going to tell me, are you?"
"There's nothing to tell." Nothing at least that he could reveal without shocking the virginal Miss Blythe.
"I can find out."
He grinned. "Out in the middle of the ocean?"
"Later then."
Later didn't matter to him. Once they reached Italy there was no later. "Suit yourself," he mildly replied, relieved to hear Gallic curses outside in the corridor. "Ah . . . here comes Re m y."
Seconds after the imprecations reached their ears, the door opened and a scowling young man still buttoning his shirt cuffs stepped into the stateroom. "I don't suppose it occurred to you that I was sleeping," he muttered, glaring at his employer.
"Don't you knock?" Beau remarked, his voice dulcet, his lounging pose unaltered by his che f’s gruffness.
First surveying Serena seated in bed with the sheet clutched under her chin, Remy returned his gaze to Beau. "You sounded excite d , milord," he impudently replied.
"Mind your manners, Remy," Beau cautioned, his tone soft as velvet. "Miss Blythe's my guest and she's hungry."
"I should have stayed in London," Remy grumbled. "Where you never eat at home."
"But then you wouldn't see the pretty signorina in Naples." Re m y's penchant for a young modiste had been prominent in his decision to accompany Beau.
"Touché, milord," the young Frenchman murmured and, apparently warmed by the memory of his lover, he smiled. "So the mademoiselle is hungry," he pleasantly said, as if his previous stormy behavior hadn't transpired and, bowing with infinite grace, he courteously inquired, "What would you like to eat, Miss Blythe?"
"Nothing, that is ... I couldn't ... I don't wish to put you to any trouble," Serena stammered, thoroughly intimidated by Remy and even more so by the immodest circumstances of their meeting. "Beau shouldn't
"Who first called you Glory?" she asked, wanting to know what woman had so aptly named him. At the sharp rise of his brows, she added, "I've overheard all the stories from the Tothams' son. He was forever trying to ape your rakish ways. 'Lady C. was seen emerging from the maze at Chatham with Glory R., her expression one of deep satisfaction,' " Serena quoted with a quirked grin. "Mrs. Totha m devoured the scandal sheets too."
"Do I know them?" Beau blandly inquired, interested in deflecting her query.
"Hardly," Serena answered, entertained by the notion of Beau St. Jules seated across the tea table from the self-righteous Maud Totham. "Tell me about your name."
"Rochefort?" Reaching for his breeches, he swiftly pulled them on, an unconscious defense perhaps, female inquisitive-ness invariably provoking evasion.
"If you don't want to tell me," Serena playfully chided, "just say so."
His gaze swiveled to her, his fingers arrested on the buttons at his waist. "I don't want to tell you."
"I could always sleep under the stairs again," she said in a seductive purr.
"You'd have to get out of here first."
"Are you threatening me?" A mischievous glint shone in her eyes and she wondered what it would be like to truly challenge the Earl of Rochefort. He'd killed a man in a duel last year, she knew; Neville had talked of little else for a fortnight.
Dropping into a chair, he surveyed her from under half-lowered lashes. "Just pointing out your physical limitations, lollipop," he murmured.
"Do you always bully your women?"
"I've never had to."
"Which brings us back to your nickname."
He sighed. "If I tell you will this interrogation cease?"
She smugly nodded.
Exhaling softly, he said, "A lover once referred to my height as glorious and the name caught on."
She snorted in disbelief. "Liar."
"She liked tall men."
"Certai n p arts of tall men."
An infinitesimal pause ensued before he carefully said, "Perhaps."
"Perhaps?" Her grin was knowing, impertinent.
"Jesus," he softly breathed , "you're persistent."
"You're not going to tell me, are you?"
"There's nothing to tell." Nothing at least that he could reveal without shocking the virginal Miss Blythe.
"I can find out."
He grinned. "Out in the middle of the ocean?"
"Later then."
Later didn't matter to him. Once they reached Italy there was no later. "Suit yourself," he mildly replied, relieved to hear Gallic curses outside in the corridor. "Ah . . . here comes Re m y."
Seconds after the imprecations reached their ears, the door opened and a scowling young man still buttoning his shirt cuffs stepped into the stateroom. "I don't suppose it occurred to you that I was sleeping," he muttered, glaring at his employer.
"Don't you knock?" Beau remarked, his voice dulcet, his lounging pose unaltered by his che f’s gruffness.
First surveying Serena seated in bed with the sheet clutched under her chin, Remy returned his gaze to Beau. "You sounded excite d , milord," he impudently replied.
"Mind your manners, Remy," Beau cautioned, his tone soft as velvet. "Miss Blythe's my guest and she's hungry."
"I should have stayed in London," Remy grumbled. "Where you never eat at home."
"But then you wouldn't see the pretty signorina in Naples." Re m y's penchant for a young modiste had been prominent in his decision to accompany Beau.
"Touché, milord," the young Frenchman murmured and, apparently warmed by the memory of his lover, he smiled. "So the mademoiselle is hungry," he pleasantly said, as if his previous stormy behavior hadn't transpired and, bowing with infinite grace, he courteously inquired, "What would you like to eat, Miss Blythe?"
"Nothing, that is ... I couldn't ... I don't wish to put you to any trouble," Serena stammered, thoroughly intimidated by Remy and even more so by the immodest circumstances of their meeting. "Beau shouldn't
Similar Books
