Wanton:. Noelle MackЧитать онлайн книгу.

      KENSINGTON BOOKS

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      for the friendly wolf at the door…

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Epilogue

      1

      London, 1816…

      Marko was sure he’d fallen in love with her almost against his will. Severin bewitched him instantly. He’d needed an escape, needed the noise and frivolity of a crowded ball. And then he’d seen her…

      She waited demurely in a corner with downcast eyes, sitting in a chair that he supposed had been brought for her to sit in by some other admirer, who had conveniently disappeared to fetch a glass of punch. Or so he hoped.

      Marko sensed she was anything but demure. Her gown was daringly low-cut, made of subtly striped velvet that fell in voluptuous folds beneath her half-bared bosom and looked from a distance like the valuable fur of some rare and dangerous cat. He looked at the hands folded in her lap, and noted that her nails were beautifully shaped and—were they touched with gold? The unusual adornment added to her exotic appearance and was sensual in the extreme. He wanted to kiss each pretty fingertip one by one, feel her gilded nails rake his back…

      She rubbed one hand absently over the other. He could well imagine being caressed by her. Marko collected himself. He did not want to be caught staring.

      “Who is she?” he whispered to Denis, grateful that the youngest man in the Pack, the one they all called the cub, had agreed to come along with him tonight. Of late Denis had cut an amorous swath through the crème de la crème of female London, dark hair pomaded, strong neck dabbed with musky cologne. He represented an extreme of male style but it worked. Denis had to stay a step ahead of a few outraged husbands, who, of course, were unfaithful themselves as a rule. Still, his cubbish interest in who was sleeping with whom, married or not, meant he kept up with the latest London gossip and his information was generally accurate. It worked to Marko’s advantage, as he tended to avoid social occasions, not having the time for many.

      “I am not sure,” Denis said, to Marko’s surprise. “She has an odd name—I don’t remember it. Not married, as far as I know. And she is not upon the town.”

      Marko nodded, studying her. “Then what does she do?”

      “I believe that she is an arbiter of fashion or something like that. She is not a dressmaker, though—far from it. A friend of mine pointed her out to me once, but I was rather drunk at the time.”

      “And that is why you don’t recall her name.”

      “Exactly. But I do remember that my friend called her something odd. A mistress of illusion, I believe. Yes, that was what she said.”

      “How interesting.” Marko’s curiosity about the self-contained beauty in the corner grew sharper. If only she would look up and let him catch her eye. He needed a pretext to talk to her.

      “Do excuse me,” Denis was saying.

      “Of course.”

      “Good luck, old man.” Denis raised his glass.

      Marko scowled at him. He could have done without the “old man.” He was not that much older than Denis. But then, he thought with a sigh, Denis was still a cub, for all his sexual adventurousness.

      He crossed the room to the woman in the corner. She raised her dark head and gave him a melting look from eyes the color of amber. Marko was mesmerized. There was a knowing quality in her gaze that he found