One Illicit Night. Sophia James
moment Cristo saw consciousness return and she tried to sit up, the uncertainty in her movements as she swiped away her hair transporting him back to his room at the Château Giraudon. He swallowed and heard a question directed at him. By Asher’s wife, he determined, and there was more than the normal quotient of curiosity in her voice.
‘Pardon?’ He was dazed, caught in the quandary of choice. The woman they named Eleanor Westbury had not tried to find him again with her glance, but had kept her eyes carefully downwards, her small hands wringing the fabric in her copious skirt, and the line of her bodice heaving with breath that was too uncertain.
The muscles of her femininity coiled around his fingers, the scent of sex and release and want and the naked glory of her body unresisting and easy.
Shaking with the effort of remaining so still, Cristo was wary as the glance of Emerald Welling-ham met his in question.
‘Do you know her? ‘
He shook his head, not risking speech, and listened as Beatrice-Maude related to Taris exactly what was happening in a low monologue.
Why would she do that when the scene was right in front of him?
Another truth hit him as he turned: because his brother could not see any of it. When he looked to Ashe for the clarification of what he suspected, his oldest brother nodded. Almost imperceptibly.
The world turned on its axis, skewered by time and knowledge, no little truths these. No tiny unimportant discoveries.
The French whore who had been brought naked and willing to his bed was none other than a married English lady of the very first order and his brother Taris was blind.
‘Here is Martin Westbury, the Earl of Dromorne, now.’ Emerald spoke again and with interest Cristo sought out the man she had identified.
He watched as Eleanor’s husband, old and grey and confined to a chair, was wheeled to her side, watched how her fingers curled into his when he came there, the affection evident in such an action making him turn away.
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