Heat curled along her spine as she remembered what Mr. Ranier had said to her and how he had touched her. Oh…it had all been so wicked. And yet…So wonderful. So wonderfully wicked.Surely, pious people did not do that sort of thing. Mr. Ranier was a blacksmith and a farmer. Perhaps that was how it was done in the colonies. It was a war-ravaged wilderness on the other side of the ocean.And then she remembered the Duke and Duchess of Helston stretched across the edge of a billiards table, Luc’s hands deep inside her bodice and Rosamunde’s…well, hers were deep inside his breeches. And they had been laughing. And gasping. And Luc had called her a witch, and Rosamunde had called him the devil. And Grace had fled to her chamber, before she died of mortification.Well. Perhaps affairs of this nature were not conducted so very differently in the colonies after all.Grace’s fingers clenched on the sill as she stared out the front window to the snow-blanketed scene before her. The whiteness reflected the sun’s rays to such a degree that it was almost painful to view, and she dropped her gaze to the gleaming brilliance of the cluster of her many ropes of pearls that always comforted her.She should be grateful for the sun, but she was not.
What do You think about Love With The Perfect Scoundrel?
