Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

The linen lifted another quarter inch, revealing the pale skin of her thighs.

At least close your eyes. Give her privacy. He was no longer a lad waiting by the window of the mill to catch a glimpse of her as she

arrived with her father.

Another quarter inch . . .

But she dropped the shift, letting it fall back to her calves. “Was that enough of a show for you?”

He scrambled rather gracelessly back to dodge the door swinging open from her adjoining room.

He tried to look nonchalant, perhaps a bit imposing, though he doubted how effective he was with either. His breathing he could

control, but not the heat that colored his face, and not the lingering hunger that possessed his body.

“Learn anything?” she asked, her hands planted on her hips, a single brow raised.

That he could see the outline of her nipples through the thin, white linen. That they were a dusky pink. That they were jutting in the

cold. Why the devil wasn’t she wearing flannel?

“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? To spy on me and find proof that I’m working for the revolutionaries?”

“How long have you known I was there?”

There was a flush of something on her cheeks as well. Amusement? Arousal? “You groaned.”

“I did not.”

Now there was definitely amusement on her face. “The first time my dress came off. And you had the door practically halfway open

by the end.”

Absolute disaster. But he wasn’t about to let her know that. “Why didn’t you get the dress?”

“I did get a dress.”

“The white one.”

Her bare toes dug into the carpet, and she fingered the linen of her shift. “I didn’t need it. And Kate is already beyond generous to let

us stay here despite the risk we pose. Why do you care?”

Why did he care? Why was he still upset she didn’t choose the dress she loved? He reached out a finger, tracing it along where the

neckline of the ivory dress had fallen. Over the rounded slope of her shoulder, across the sharp angle of her collarbone, ending at

the slight valley that dipped between her breasts. “Because I don’t know what to make of you.”

Her chest lifted and fell with shuddered quickness. “I am a woman. A woman who has made some terrible mistakes.” Her eyes

dropped from his, and regret and something darker crossed her features. “But I am a still just a woman.”

She lifted her eyes to him again, and their gazes locked. The blue of her eyes was nearly gone, hidden by the black of her pupils.

Clayton jerked his hand away and clenched it behind him. Did he have so little pride? That all she had to do was gaze up longingly

at him and he’d throw himself at her feet? He refused to return to being the same lad who jumped at every footstep in gaol because

he was convinced she’d gotten help and come for him. “Did you have any luck on the code?”

She blinked twice and her breathing slowed. She rubbed her arms as if to warm them. “No. I think I need your help. I tried the things I

know, but I can’t find any pattern to know where to start. Did you find Arshun?”

“Not yet.”

“How will you?”

By using Olivia. Either she was working for the revolutionaries and she’d eventually try to make contact with them . . .

Or the revolutionaries would try to find her.

Either way, Clayton had his bait.





chapter Fifteen

“If you need to use the chamber pot, I’d hurry and do it now before your glowering escort returns,” Kate whispered behind her fan.

She’d changed from breeches into a simple yet elegant gown of crimson silk edged with black fur. “Really, the man is taking his role

of overprotective betrothed far too seriously.”

Olivia couldn’t keep her gaze from sliding to where Clayton stood conversing with a group of soldiers. His eyes lifted immediately,

sweeping over her before returning back to the group.

Her hand skimmed the neckline of her ivory gown. When the box from the modiste had come an hour ago, it had contained the ivory

dress rather than the blue. There was no time to try to exchange it. When she’d asked Clayton about the switch, his lips had lifted in

a satisfied smirk.

“Shall I ask the empress to have him locked up for the rest of the ball so you can dance with someone else?”

Kate, Olivia had quickly learned, was a favorite confidante of the empress.

“No. In fact, I believe I can dance with someone else right now.”

One of the gentlemen grouped around Kate offered Olivia his hand and led her to the dance floor.

When she returned at the end of the set, she expected Clayton to be waiting, but he must have felt like he’d played his role of

betrothed well enough. For the next hour, she danced with half a dozen men and was introduced to countless more, but Clayton

made no attempt to return to her side. He always stood somewhere nearby, however, just close enough that she could never draw a

full breath of air, that her shoulders could never unknot.

Olivia surveyed the crowd swirling around the glittering ballroom, trying to shake him from her thoughts. She was attending an

imperial ball. Something far beyond the dreams of a mill owner’s daughter. She wouldn’t let him consume all her attention. When

she returned home, her friends would want details. For instance, the lush tropical trees that lined the walls. Despite the two feet of

snow outside, ripe oranges and lemons dangled from the branches.

But even this made her think of the time Clayton had tucked a peach blossom in her hair.

And there he was again, his shoulder propped against the wall with negligent grace. He appeared to be in conversation with two

blond women, but his gaze was pinned on Olivia. Despite the hopeful entreaty she put on her face, his gaze shifted past her and he

stayed with his current companions.

The room suddenly became oppressive with perfume and sweaty bodies. Her throat burned with each inhale.

“I think I need some air,” she whispered to Kate.

Kate cut off the angular young cavalry officer who argued with her about the value of mountain ponies versus purebred Arabians. “I

can go with you.”

Olivia shook her head. She just needed to get . . . away.

She forced her way through the crowd before Kate could protest. She stepped on three sets of toes, and had to use her elbows

twice before she was able to stake claim to a small open window in the corner of the ballroom.

The air inside the insufferable ballroom was so warm, it turned as thick and heavy as smoke as it fled into the night sky.

Olivia rested her hand against the sill and debated sticking her head all the way out. Behind her, women tittered and men murmured;

the cadence of the language and the occasional enthusiastic exclamation were the only things that set it apart from its English

equivalent.

She sucked in the icy breeze, ignoring the goose bumps that rose over her skin. It did clear her head somewhat.