Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

With a growl, he caught her to him again. Clayton traced his thumb over her lips, the leather of his glove smooth and cool. “Your lips

taste of raspberries and the finest French brandy.”

She almost kissed his finger, but stopped. “You don’t like brandy.”

His finger traced along her jaw and down her neck. “It’s an acquired taste.”

He must be able to feel her fluttering pulse at her neck.

“Have you acquired it?”

He just cocked a brow.

She stood on tiptoe so her lips were inches from his. “Perhaps you need another taste.”

Clayton stilled, his eyes lowering to her mouth. She flicked her tongue over his lips, loving the way his eyes darkened further.

There were footsteps on the stairs. Servants come to summon them, no doubt.

Clayton stepped back, but his hand cupped her face for an instant before he released her. “If you claim to be unwell, you should be

able to escape tea and get through much of the Vasin’s remaining items.” He drew a paper from his jacket then, and held it out. Her

list from last night. Ever so slowly, he tucked it in the neckline of her gown, the paper sliding under her shift to nestle between her

breasts. “It’s best to keep this somewhere on your person.”

Olivia barely managed to nod. Each minute they’d wasted with Golov had seemed like a nail in the czar’s coffin.

A footman knocked on her door and announced the general’s arrival, then did the same to Clayton’s. She hoped he didn’t notice

Clayton’s response came from her room as well.

“How well do you know Smirken?” she asked after the servant left.

They hadn’t met very many who were pleased to see Clayton.

He snorted softly. “He thinks quite well. The regiment I marched with when I saved Alexander’s life was Smirken’s. He claims to

recall me from all sorts of battles he was too drunk to remember.” He disappeared into his room and returned with the remaining

books and stacks of writing. “Rather like the time you tried to explain to me how the mill made paper.”

She grabbed some of the books from him. “You’re a beast. You knew I didn’t know how it was made.”

“I know, yet that didn’t stop you. However, I thought you had some idea.” He grinned at her. “But paper from milk?”

She glared back, but she loved his teasing. “The liquid in the vat was white. And it makes as much sense as it coming from

dissolved rags.”

He ducked back into his room, and a few moments later, knocked on her main door.

“I do know where paper comes from now,” she felt obligated to tell him as he escorted her. She attempted to push a bit further. “In

fact, I can tell you the time it takes for each weave to break down into fibers.”

Clayton ignored her for the rest of the walk to Kate’s parlor. Inside, Kate waited with a ruddy-faced man with thick gray muttonchops

and huge mustache, and a dark, shapely woman who must be his bride.

“Baron Komarov! So glad to see that someone made it out of Siberia.” Smirken spoke in Russian, laughing at his own joke, the

loud, honking sound she’d heard from above.

Clayton clasped hands briefly with the older man as Kate made introductions. The general’s wife ran a slow, appreciative glance

over Clayton, her gaze all but caressing his lean, muscular thighs and what was between them. When Clayton lifted her hand to his

lips, she let out a throaty sigh. “I don’t suppose you remember me.”

“You two know each other already? It is always good to find an old friend!”

The general thought it was good? Did he truly not see proof they’d been lovers shimmering in the air between them?

And Olivia thought to impress him with her few kisses.

“I remember you,” Clayton said. “We met at the Rigisky ball.”

Of course, Clayton remembered. He’d no doubt be able to name everything about her that night down to the color of her slippers.

He’d also remember anything that passed between them afterward.

The general’s wife rose up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Although Olivia had seen women at the ball acknowledge introductions that

way, this woman’s fat, wet lips practically devoured him. “Your hand wouldn’t bother me now,” she whispered.

His hand?

Clayton’s right hand, the one he kept constantly gloved, twitched, but he didn’t tuck it behind him as he was wont to do.

Olivia might not know why he kept it concealed, but if the woman let anything distract her from the perfection that was Clayton, then

she was a fool.

Olivia stepped next to Clayton, forcing the other woman back. How dare she imply that Clayton was wanting in any way?

Mrs. Smirken pouted. “I cannot believe you haven’t come for a visit. I have been . . . lonely.”

Now she thought to proposition him?

The general patted his wife on the back. “Sorry I cannot attend you more, my cabbage. Things have been busy of late. Then today

with the scandal about the archbishop metropolitan. The people are in an uproar. It’s a good time to remind the czar not to place so

much confidence in those black crows.”

“What scandal?” Kate asked, stilling as she arranged the cups on the tea tray.

The general’s wife smiled, her expression superior. “The metropolitan was arrested.”

“On what charge?”

At Clayton’s question, Mrs. Smirken’s expression shifted to one of outraged concern. “He’s been killing young girls. I feel quite

frightened.” She reached for Clayton.

Olivia tucked her hand around Clayton’s arm, blocking the other woman. “Thank goodness you have your husband.”

“Shall we sit?” Kate came to the rescue for the second time that morning.

Soon they were all seated. Olivia thought she’d won when she claimed the seat next to Clayton, forcing the other woman to sit

across from them.

Until the general’s wife leaned forward, her bosoms trembling on the edge of her bodice, and sent Olivia a triumphant sneer.

So Olivia put her hand on Clayton’s knee. She refused to look at him to see where his loyalties lay in this skirmish, but at least he

didn’t remove her hand.

Kate poured the tea faster than anyone Olivia had ever seen. “So, General, you must tell me again about your victory at Vinkovo. I

never grow tired of hearing of your glorious battle.”

Smirken settled back into his chair, fingers smoothing his mustache. “It was indeed glorious. We captured the artillery from right

under Murat’s nose. It’s said to be the reason Napoleon fled Russia. Baron, you, of course, were right in the thick of things. I can

recall you charging into the battle on your horse.”

Clayton nodded seriously. “You lent me your horse, I believe.”

Smirken nodded. “Yes, that is right. A fine steed, he was.”

Clayton shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure what would have happened if you hadn’t. Especially considering the poor condition of

my horse.”

The general’s wife inched forward further, her bosoms jiggling. “What happened to it?” There was a bloodthirsty hunger in her eyes.