Extraits

Extrait offert par Julie Anne Long

(Source : http://www.julieannelong.com)

This snippet is part of a conversation between Ian Eversea and Miss Tansy Danforth, which takes place about the middle of the book, when Ian discovers Miss Danforth leaning a little too far out over the edge of her balcony in the middle of the night...

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"Forever," she drawled disdainfully, softly. "I hate the word 'forever.'. It's hard to really imagine the concept isn't it? And then you know. When someone is gone forever, you finally understand what it means."

"I don't much care for the word, either. Especially with regards to matrimony, and staying in one place, and the like."

She laughed at that and turned around, and …

She might as well have aimed a weapon at him.

Her night rail would have been demure, if it didn't drape the gorgeous lines of her so lovingly, so nearly tauntingly. The bands of muscles across his stomach tensed in an effort to withstand the impact of seeing itthe sightthe sight. Her hair was plaited in a large, messy, golden rope slung over her shoulder and pouring down the front of her.

And an absurdly large, girlish bow closed the neckline.

He couldn't help but smile at that.

"Why are you grinning?" She sounded irritable.

"You look like a gift, tied up with a bow."

"Like the gifts you give to your mistresses?"

"Like the what?"

"Shhhh! Lower your voice!" She was clearly delighted, stifling a laugh. She'd achieved precisely the effect she'd wanted.

"I haven't 'mistresses,' for God's sake. There aren't a host of them. And I certainly don't buy them gifts."

"All those experienced women wearing experienced expressions. What do you call them?"

"There aren't 'all those' … It's not as though I … You make it sound as though I've a harem."

The woman was maddening. It was like jousting with a weathervane. And what in God's name had she heard about him?

Clearly, enough that was close enough to the truth. Or perhaps she was an excellent guesser?

"Poor women, who never get gifts," she mourned wickedly.

"Tansy … " he warned.

"It might be interesting to be part of a harem," she said wistfully, softly.

"Never knowing whether one might get a visit from the maharajah … the anticipation … it would be … "

He held his breath, waiting on absurd tenterhooks for what she thought it might be.

" … delicious,." she finally said thoughtfullythoughtfully.

Oh, God. Oh God Oh God. She was going to be the death of him.

He couldn't speak for a time. They were teetering on a precipice here more dangerous than her balcony arabeasque of a moment ago.

"What if … " His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat. "What if the maharajah never comes?" His voice was hoarse.

"With all those wives? I'm certain he comes often."

He stared at her. Had she really said that? Did she know what it meant?

He gave a short astonished laugh.

"Shhhhh!" she said again.

"You would hate being part of harem, Tansy. All those other women competing for a bit of attention. Just imagine."

"But it wouldn't be lonely."

The words startled him into momentary speechlessness. And he remembered what Mrs. deWitt had said.

How was it that he hadn't realized before that she might be lonely? She was so effervescent; she could attract company the way a bloom attracted bees.

But he supposed it wasn't the same as belonging to someone. Or to somewhere.

But she was alone. He felt utterly chagrined that he was only now realizing it. He'd been quite an ass, in many ways.

Then again, she wasn't entirely without fault in the matter. Captivating all the men in the town was one way to ensure that the women wouldn't thrill to your company.

"And I would be the favorite wife in no time," she hastened to add, before he could think about it any longer.

"If the maharajah didn't kill you first. I hear they use scimitars when their wives irritate them." He drew a finger across his throat.

She laughed at that. The throaty, delighted sound landed on his heightened, roused senses like fingernails gently dragged down his back.

And that's when he knew: he'd waited too long. He'd somehow missed the moment when he could have, and really should have, made a sensible retreat. The night rail, the night, the girl, the lavender, the laugh-he was now in thrall to his senses. Everything served to titillate them. He was theirs to command. And anything that happened next was a foregone conclusion.

And something would happen. Oh, something would.