The Seduction of the Crimson Rose

Chapter One

October, 1803

Sibley Court, Gloucestershire

Sebastian, Lord Vaughn, stood beside a rusting suit of armor, a dusty glass of claret in hand, wondering for the tenth time what evil demon had possessed him to accept an invitation to the house party at Sibley Court. It had to be a demon; Vaughn held no truck with deities.

The house, which had been closed for well over a decade, was a masterpiece of Elizabethan handicraft — in other words, an offense to anyone with classical sensibilities. Vaughn regarded a series of carved panels with distaste. The repetition of Tudor roses had undoubtedly been intended as a heavy-handed compliment to the monarch. The tapestries were even worse than the paneling, lugubrious depictions of the darker moments of the Old Testament, enlivened only by a rather buxom Eve, who seemed to be juggling her apples rather than eating them.

Sibley Court had slumbered among its memories and dust motes since the death of the current Viscount Pinchingdale's father and had only just been hastily opened for the accommodation of the viscount and his new bride. Vaughn had no doubt that the new viscountess would soon have the ancient flagstones gleaming. She was the managing sort. So far, she had already managed her guests through supper, a game of hunt the slipper, and an abortive attempt at blindman's buff that had come to an abrupt halt when the hoodsman, one Mr. Miles Dorrington, had blundered into a suit of armor under the delusion that it might be his wife, bringing the entire edifice crashing down and nearly decapitating the dowager Lady Pinchingdale in the process.

Undaunted by her brush with death, the dowager Lady Pinchingdale and her newest relation by marriage, Mrs. Alsworthy, appeared bent on engaging in Britain's Silliest Matron contest. So far, the dowager Lady Pinchingdale was ahead four swoons to three. The only one of the lot who seemed to have two brain cells to rub together was the long-suffering Mr. Alsworthy. He had proved his intelligence by promptly disappearing just after their arrival.

Between the dowager and his fellow guests, Vaughn was considering a spot of decapitation himself. Starting with his own head. It was beginning to ache damnably from the combination of inferior claret and worse conversation.

Nursery parties — for that was what the gathering at Sibley Court felt like — weren't usually in Vaughn's line. He ran with an older, faster set, men who knew the way of the world and women who knew the way of those men. They played deep, they spoke in triple entendres, and they left their bedroom doors open. In contrast, the crowd at Sibley Court was sickeningly unsophisticated. Part of that insipid breed spawned by the new century, Pinchingdale's set uttered words like "King" and "country," and had the poor taste to mean them. No one dueled anymore; they were all too busy gadding about France disguised as flowers. Or named after them, which was nearly as bad. Lord Richard Selwick, currently occupied in propping up the enormous Elizabethan mantelpiece, had only recently been unmasked as the notorious Purple Gentian, a flower as obscure as it was unpronounceable. The youth of England were fast running out of botanical monikers. What would they do next, venture into vegetables? No doubt he would soon be forced to listen to dazzling accounts of the adventures of the Orange Aubergine. It all showed a marked lack of good ton. Vaughn might be less than a decade older than his host, but among this company he felt as ancient as the tapestries lining the walls.

The blame for his presence fell squarely on the woman standing next to him, looking deceptively demure in a high-necked gown of pale blue muslin embroidered with small pink flowers about the neck and hem. With her smooth brown hair threaded with matching ribbons and her gloved hands folded neatly around a glass of ratafia, Miss Jane Wooliston looked more like a prosperous squire's daughter than that many-petaled flower of mystery, the Pink Carnation. It was her summons that had sent Vaughn jolting through the back roads of Gloucestershire clear off the edge of the earth to this godforsaken relic of Bonnie Olde Englande. And he wasn't even sharing her bed.

At the moment, Jane was occupied in examining a dark-haired girl who posed becomingly in front of the light of a twisted branch of candles. Like Jane, the girl was tall, tall enough to carry off the long-lined classical fashions swept across the Channel by the revolution, with the sort of finely boned features that showed to good effect in the uncertain light of the faltering candles. But there the resemblance ended. There was nothing the least bit demure about the girl across the room. The light struck blue glints in the smoothly arranged mass of her black hair and reduced the fine fabric of her muslin gown to little more than a wisp.

"She is lovely," remarked Jane, in a considering sort of tone.

Lovely wasn't precisely the word Vaughn would have chosen. It implied a sweetness that was utterly lacking in the self-possessed stance of the woman in white. Luscious didn't serve, either; it suggested Rubenesque curves and dimpled flesh, whereas the woman by the candles had the perfectly carved lines of a marble statue. Wanton? No. There was a discipline in both her straight-backed posture and the proud set of her head that gave the lie to the suggestive cling of her dress. Whatever her revealing gown might have been meant to convey, to the astute observer she was more Artemis than Aphrodite.

There was one word, however, that Vaughn had no difficulty at all applying: notorious.

Vaughn hadn't followed the Pinchingdale Peccadillo (as the scandal sheets had unimaginatively dubbed it), but it had been impossible to avoid learning the basic outline of the story. It had entirely eclipsed Percy Ponsonby's latest fall from a window as the gossip of choice as the Season lurched to a close. Attempting to elope with the famed beauty, Miss Mary Alsworthy, the besotted young Viscount Pinchingdale had somehow erred and managed to dash off with the wrong sister. Suffering from a foolish adherence to propriety, Pinchingdale had marched up to the altar with the compromised sister, one Laetitia, who was chiefly famed for boasting the largest collection of freckles this side of Edinburgh. It was the sort of absurd bedroom farce that couldn't fail to appeal to the jaded palettes of London's bored elite.

In the end, the hubbub had died down, as it always did. London's elite had trickled away to their country estates, to amuse themselves sneering at the local assemblies and irritating the wildlife (sometimes the two pursuits were nearly indistinguishable), while the new Viscount and Viscountess Pinchingdale wisely removed themselves for an extended wedding journey — or so the story went. The genuine version, to which Vaughn was reluctantly privy, was a good deal more complicated, involving spies, Irish rebels, and exploding masonry, from all of which the new viscount and viscountess had emerged more pleased with each other than otherwise. In fact, they had returned from Ireland rather sickeningly smitten with each other, Lord Pinchingdale's prior passion for the elder Miss Alsworthy conveniently forgotten.

Vaughn raised his quizzing glass and ran it along the elegant sweep of Miss Alsworthy's neck, cunningly accentuated by three long curls that fell from hair swept into a knot in the Grecian style. Standing in the light of a branch of candles, her sheer muslin gown left very little of the elegant lines beneath to the imagination.

A woman would have to be either a saint or a fool to harbor a rival beneath her own roof. Especially a rival who looked like that.

"If I were the current Viscountess Pinchingdale, I would not be overjoyed by Miss Alsworthy's presence."

"Letty's strength is as the strength of ten," replied Jane whimsically.

"Because her heart is pure? Never place your trust in aphorisms, Miss Wooliston. They are more for effect than substance."

The same, he reflected, could be said of the lovely Miss Mary Alsworthy. Some men had an eye for horses; Vaughn had one for women. No matter how fine a collection of points Mary Alsworthy might have, there was a glint to her eye that foretold an uncomfortable ride. It didn't take an expert to tell that she was highly strung and all too aware of her own good looks. That sort tended to be damnably expensive — not to mention possessed of an unfortunate tendency to buck the rider. He had encountered her kind before.

"Well?" inquired Jane. "What do think?"

"I think," he said deliberately, "that if you have dragged me out to this inhospitable corner of the earth on nothing more than a bout of romantic whimsy, I shall be entirely unamused."

"My dear lord Vaughn, I never matchmake." Jane smiled to herself as though at a private memory. "Well, very rarely."

Vaughn arranged his eyebrows in their most forbidding position, the one that had sent a generation of valets scurrying for cover. "Don't think to number me among your exceptions."

"I wouldn't dare."

From the woman who had invaded Bonaparte's bedchamber to leave him a posy of pink carnations, that pledge was singularly unconvincing. "I believe there are very few things you wouldn't dare."

Jane was too busy scrutinizing Miss Alsworthy to bother to reply. "Have you noticed anything particular about her?"

"Only," said Lord Vaughn dryly, "what any man would be expected to notice."

Jane tilted her head to one side. "She doesn't remind you of anyone? Her skin…her hair?"

He had been doing his best not to notice the resemblance, but it was impossible to ignore. That sweep of ebony hair, the willowy form, the graceful white dress were all too familiar. She had worn white, too. White, to draw attention to her long black hair, straight as silk and just as fine.

It had been more than a decade ago, in a room all lined with glass, from the long doors leading out to the garden to the tall mirrors of Venetian glass that had lined the walls, cold and bright. That was how he had first seen her, sparkling by the light of the candles, flirting, laughing, Galatea remade in ebony and ivory. Every man present had been panting to play Pygmalion. He had been no different. He had been young, bored, running rapidly out of dissipations with which to divert himself. And then she had turned to him, holding out one white hand in greeting — and challenge.

There had been a ruby, that first night, strung on black velvet so that it nestled tightly against the hollow of her throat. Sullen red welling against white, white skin…

Vaughn let his quizzing glass drop to his chest. "The resemblance is purely a superficial one. A matter of coloring, nothing more."

"That might be enough."

"No," said Vaughn flatly.

"If," said Jane, ignoring him as only Jane dared, "someone were to speak to her; if someone were to suggest…"

"Ah." Vaughn's lips compressed, as the whole fiasco suddenly fell into place. "That's what you want of me. To play Hermes for you."

"We can't all be Zeus," Jane said apologetically.

Prolonged exposure to Jane was enough to make anyone take to Bacchus. "I'm afraid I've left my winged shoes at home. Forgive me for suggesting the obvious, but why not approach the girl yourself? Why drag me into this fiasco?"

"Because," said Jane very simply, "I don't want her to know who I am."

Vaughn regarded her with reluctant appreciation. Lulled by the peaceful symmetry of her fine-boned face, it was easy to forget that that pink and white complexion masked a mind for strategy that put Bonaparte to shame. It seemed unlikely in the extreme that Miss Mary Alsworthy was a French agent. Her interests, thus far, had tended more to millinery than politics. But hats — and all those other furbelows that tricked out the willowy forms of society's beauties — were expensive. The identity of the Pink Carnation was a commodity for which more than one person would be willing to pay dearly.

"A wise decision," Vaughn granted. "If you persist in going forward with the plan, I suggest you set one of your entourage to the task. Dorrington, for one, appears in need of occupation."

Jane gave a slight shake of her head. "Unlike Dorrington, you have something Miss Alsworthy wants."

Jane didn't need to specify. Her meaning was horrifyingly clear. Vaughn could feel the parson's noose dangling just shy of his neck.

"Which," replied Vaughn pointedly, just in case Jane had forgotten certain crucial facts, "she is not going to get."

"No," agreed Jane. "And yet…"

Vaughn polished the lens of his quizzing glass, squinted critically at it, and swiped at an invisible blemish. "Yet, my dear Miss Wooliston, is a treacherous jade. She'll lead you astray if you let her."

"Yet" kept men gambling when they ought to have thrown in their cards; it outfitted expeditions for cities of gold and fountains of youth; it dulled the critical faculties with false promises, as bright and baseless as the towered palaces of an opium dreamer's paradise. Yet led one into absurd situations such as this.

Jane wagged an admonishing finger. "You have a very low opinion of conjunctions."

"Of all kinds." His brief marriage had been enough to convince him of that.

"No one is suggesting you engage in a conjunction of a permanent sort," said Jane mildly. "I'm sure we could persuade Miss Alsworthy to lend us her talents with less drastic inducements. And she would be perfect for our purposes."

"You mean, for your purposes."

Knowing well the power of judicious silence, Jane chose not to answer. She simply continued to look at him, with an expression of calm conviction designed to persuade most men that they had always agreed with her in the first place and were simply being given time to voice it. Vaughn had to admire her cheek. It was one of the few reasons he tolerated her. Her complete lack of interest in his matrimonial value was another.

So he was to lure Miss Mary Alsworthy into Jane's schemes with his title as bait, was he? The idea was almost entirely without merit.

And yet…

Ah, there she was again, that treacherous jade, that will-o'-the-wisp, that yet. Vaughn pondered the monumental boredom of Gloucestershire and decided that will-o'-the-wisps were the lesser evil. One needed to do something to enliven the stifling ennui of the human existence. And one could only beguile so many empty hours by bedeviling one's valet or seducing the serving girls.

And then there were his own purposes….

"How could I possibly deny any lady such a simple request?" With an unhurried gesture, Vaughn shook out the lace of his cuffs before adding, "Even a fool's errand is preferable to being forced into another round of hunt the slipper."

"But my dear Lord Vaughn" — Jane blinked innocently up at him — "isn't that exactly the game you have been playing?"

Mary drew her light gauze shawl more closely around her shoulders, which were beginning to show unbecoming signs of gooseflesh. The wrap, which had been perfectly adequate for London's overheated ballrooms, did very little to ward off the October chill that pervaded the Great Chamber of Sibley Court. Next to her, a twisted branch of candles did more to cast shadows than spread light. Any attempt at illumination disappeared into the depths of the dusky tapestry on the wall beside her, which appeared to depict one of the gorier episodes from the Bible. At least, Mary hoped it was biblical in origin. Otherwise, that girl really had no business holding aloft that man's severed head.

Mary might, she told herself, have endured the cold with equanimity. She might have smiled with tolerant condescension upon the antiquated furnishings and dour tapestries, graciously endured the drafty chambers, and equably accepted the lack of any local society — any local society worth knowing, that was — within twenty miles, were it not for one small problem.

Her problem sported dark blue superfine and wore his dark hair cropped close to his head. He was also walking right towards her, moving with a soft stride that seemed to swallow sound rather than create it, a shadowy presence in the dim room. He was Geoffrey, Lord Pinchingdale, Second Viscount Pinchingdale, Eighth Baron Snipe, owner of Sibley Court and all its lands and appurtenances.

Once upon a time, it had been simply Geoffrey.

Once upon a time, he hadn't been married to her sister.

Pausing in front of her, her new brother-in-law bowed briefly over her hand, their first private contact since the hot days of July, when they had met in the sunshine of Hyde Park while her maid kept lookout three trees away.

In the drizzling gloom of October, it felt a lifetime ago, like a summer flower found pressed between the pages of a book.

"Miss Alsworthy," Geoffrey said softly.

It did seem a tad formal after "beloved."

"Mary," she corrected demurely, retrieving her hand and smiling as prettily as any young girl at her first Assembly. "After all, you are my brother now."

He looked so relieved that Mary almost wished she had said something less conciliatory. She couldn't have, of course. It would have been bad ton to make a scene. Unlike her sister, she knew what was required of her. But it would have been nice to see even a touch of remorse — or, even better, of regret — rather than pure relief at being so easily released from his former bonds.

Slicing the wound wider, he said, "Letty and I were both so pleased that you were able to join us here."

What was it about married couples that always made them speak for the other person as well? Didn't he have any thoughts of his own anymore? Or was that not allowed? Letty always did have opinions enough for two.

"The pleasure is mine," Mary lied, making her eyes as limpid as nature would allow. "I have always been eager to see Sibley Court."

That struck home, at least. She could see guilt flicker across his face as the barb struck — or perhaps it was nothing more than the uneven flick of the candle flame, playing tricks with her eyes.

Well, he ought to feel guilty. He had been the one who had promised to bring her home to Sibley Court as its mistress. Over dozens of dances he had spun endless stories of the wonders of the family home: the ghost who stalked the battlements, the trees he had climbed, the scent of the ancient herb garden after a spring rain.

"Miss Alsworthy…" Mindless of the company around them, Lord Pinchingdale looked earnestly down at her, groping for words. "Mary…"

They had stood that way so often in the past, his dark head bent to hers, a private haven in the midst of a crowded room. Mary lowered her eyes against a sudden pang. Not of the heart, of course. A heart had no business engaging in practical transactions. Half the time, she reminded herself, she hadn't listened to a word he had said, mentally cataloguing the dances she had already promised and devising new ways to play off her admirers one against the other.

Call it memory, then, or nostalgia. He might have been dull, but he had still been hers. She had gotten into the habit of him.

"Mary…" His voice scraped along the back of his throat, as though he spoke only with difficulty. "I'm sorry."

Sorry, sorry, sorry. She was sick of sorry. Letty had been sorry, too. They were sorry, but she was alone. So much for sorry.

"Don't be. It all turned out for the best." If her smile was a little sour around the edges, Geoffrey didn't appear to notice. "Practically enough to make one believe in Fate." Or just very meddling relations.

"Not many would be so generous."

Any more generosity and she would choke on it. Lowering her lashes, Mary took refuge in modestly murmuring, "You are too good." That much, at least, was true. He and Letty deserved each other; they were both sickeningly virtuous. Their children would probably be born with halos already attached. "If you would excuse me? I promised Mama I would roust Papa out of the library before the supper tray is brought in."

As always, he believed every word. Geoffrey had always believed her, no matter what flummery she spouted. It had been one of his greatest assets as a suitor.

"Certainly. Do you know your way? Sibley Court can be a bit confusing on a first visit." There was no mistaking his pride in the drafty old pile.

"If I get lost," replied Mary lightly, "I'll simply call on one of the family ghosts to show me the way."

"Make sure you find your way back, or Letty will worry."

"Letty always worries."

"I know." Geoffrey smiled a private smile that made Mary feel as hollow as the elderly paneling that lined the walls. "She told me to make sure you get enough supper."

His eyes slid over her shoulder to where Letty was bustling from group to group, making sure everyone had a good time whether they wanted to or not. Letty might be a viscountess now, but she looked like a prosperous squire's wife, with her gingery hair frizzing out of its haphazard arrangement of curls and her fichu askew across her ample bosom. As she moved, the candlelight threw her shadow in grotesque parody against the wall, adding chins and lengthening her nose.

It didn't seem to matter to Geoffrey. His eyes followed his wife as she made her way across the room, his lips tilted up on one side in a smile so intimate that it hurt to observe it. There wasn't anything lustful about his gaze. Mary had seen enough lust in her time to become inured to its expression. It was something much more personal, that spoke of genuine fondness.

He had never looked at her like that.

"Must find Papa!" said Mary brightly, sweeping up her skirts in one hand. "Until supper, then."

For a man who had once haunted her steps and doted on her smiles, he barely seemed to realize she had gone.

Knowing the importance of a good exit, Mary kept her head high and her back straight as she moved deliberately towards the heavily carved door that led out to the gallery that overlooked the Great Hall. She let a slight smile tease the edges of her lips, the sort of smile that always made gentlemen wild to know what she was smiling about. It drove women equally wild for entirely different reasons.

Pausing in her leisurely progress, she stopped to examine a particularly busy portion of tapestry with every sign of antiquarian absorption. Two paces away, she couldn't remember a single thread of it. All she could see was Geoff's dark eyes drifting away over her shoulder towards her sister.

A woman scorned had a certain grandeur to it; a woman forgotten was merely pathetic.

Only when she had achieved the empty space beyond the door did she allow herself the luxury of defeat. Letting her seductive smile melt into blankness, Mary trailed one pale hand along the worn wood of the balustrade that ran along the upper gallery of the hall below. According to Geoffrey, a Pinchingdale bride had flung herself from that balcony rather than submit to a loveless marriage. More fool she, thought Mary. What was it about idiocy that attained veneration through sheer age? Mary had never understood why Juliet refused to marry Count Paris. He was a far better match than that silly young Romeo. And then to drink poison…well, there was just no accounting for some people. Mary would have taken Count Paris and his Veronese palazzo in a heartbeat.

The walls of the upper gallery had been paneled in dark wood, each square carved with a portrait head in profile. Wattle-necked women in stiff headdresses and long-nosed men glowered at Mary from their coffered prisons. The fabric of Sibley Court hadn't changed much since the Armada. It suited Letty brilliantly. She looked right against the finicky paneling and the musty old tapestries, right in a way that Mary never would have. If Mary had had her way, she would have torn the whole monstrosity down and started all over again in good clean marble.

Lucky for Sibley Court, then, that Geoffrey hadn't married her. Lucky for Geoffrey, lucky for Letty, lucky for everyone.

If she was being honest, lucky for herself as well. All through the era of his adoration, Pinchingdale had been a crashing bore.

Even a boring husband was better than being left on the shelf, forced to rely on the charity of her relations, pointed at and whispered about by giggling girls fresh in their first Season.

Reaching the end of the upper gallery, Mary slipped beneath an elaborately carved lintel, no proper destination in her head except away. She found herself in a seemingly endless corridor, where the plastered ceiling stabbed down in regular points like pawns suspended upside down. After a moment of disorientation, she realized where she was. Originally constructed during the reign of Henry, before being "improved" during the tenure of his daughter, the house had been built in the shape of an H, in a rather obvious compliment to the monarch. She was in the crossbar of the H, a long and narrow gallery that connected one wing of the house with the other.

On either side of her, narrow-faced Pinchingdales gazed superciliously down on her, their gilded frames spotted with age. There was at least half a mile between the two wings of the house, long enough to display three centuries' worth of relations and even one or two particularly prized pets. Mary wandered aimlessly among them, absently noting the dull sheen of painted jewels, repeated over and over. There was the large pearl that hung from the waist of an Elizabethan Pinchingdale; the three matched sapphires set into the collar of Spotte, A Faithfull and Lovinge Companyon (there was something decidedly smug about the set of Spotte's paws); the emeralds that adorned the neckline of a woman with tight curls and a simpering mouth, holding tight to the hand of a cavalier in a plumed hat (one assumed from her grip that he must be the donor of the emeralds); and the famous diamond parure worn by Geoffrey's grandmother to the coronation of George II, impressive even rendered in oil and dim with dust.

Those diamonds made up for a great deal of boredom.

At the time, it seemed like a fair trade. She got the diamonds and Pinchingdale got her, an ornament for an ornament, each with its price. She knew her price and she set it high.

What else, after all, was there to do? She didn't have it in her to be a bluestocking and write dour tracts. She had no interest in educating other peoples' brats. The days when a woman could make a career as a royal mistress had long since passed. Mary had always thought she would make an excellent monarch — the skills required for international diplomacy were much the same as those that Mary used to keep the various members of her entourage in check — but no one had had the consideration to provide her with a kingdom. There was only one game to be played, so Mary played it and, she had always thought, played it well.

Obviously, she had been wrong. Because, in the end, she had lost the game.

She had also come to the end of the gallery. Ahead of her, an immense, mullioned window looked out onto blackness. In the daytime, it was no doubt a pleasant prospect, looking out over the vast sweep of gardens and park that stretched out from the back of the house. At night, the leaded panels glistened like a hundred obsidian eyes. On either side of the window, doorways led off to realms unknown, unlit by either candle or moonlight. A sweeping curtain of red velvet shielded each opening, dragged back on one side like a cavalier's cloak.

Mary lowered herself slowly onto the matching red velvet that cushioned the window seat. Ordinarily, she never sat at parties. It wrinkled one's dress. Tonight, she couldn't bring herself to care. It felt good to relax into the well-worn velvet of the ancient cushion, good to stare into nothingness and not have to smile and pretend that she didn't mind that her sister had married her best chance at matrimony. Her short, plump, practical, managing little sister. Who had nonetheless learned the secret to catching a man's heart and holding it. Mary had failed to master the holding bit.

With the moon obscured by clouds, the prospect in front of her loomed as blank as her future. It didn't matter that she had been voted Most Likely to Marry an Earl three years running in the betting books at White's. No earl had proposed. Not marriage, at any rate.

What was she to do with herself? For the first time in her life, Mary simply didn't know. Her beauty had always provided both means and goal, ever since her nurse had first leaned over her cradle and clucked, "Eh, she'll marry a prince, that one, see if she doesn't!" But she hadn't. She wasn't going to. The results of three Seasons didn't lie.

Mary rested her elbows on the stone of the windowsill, staring sightlessly through the phantom tracery of her own face. What did it matter if her elbows wrinkled? She had three sonnets to them already. Four would be superfluous.

Behind her, the worn boards of the gallery creaked. Not ghosts, as Geoffrey had promised all those months ago, but a human tread. Someone else had escaped to the quiet of the Long Gallery.

Mary would have preferred a ghost. A specter might be ignored, while a fellow guest would expect conversation, might even try to persuade her back into the discomfort of the Great Chamber. Hadn't she smiled enough for one evening?

Holding herself very still on her bench, Mary hoped her presence might go unnoticed in the uncertain light. Torches had been lit at intervals along the walls, set into iron brackets placed well away from the more important portraits and flammable items like velvet swags. Her window seat was safely in shadow, aside from the dim reflection of light on glass.

Oh, go away, Mary thought irritably. Was it too much to ask to be allowed to brood unmolested?

Apparently, it was. The measured tread continued inexorably onwards, one creak following another with the rhythmic beat of an executioner's drum. Whoever it was must have seen her. Her dress was too painfully pale to do anything but stand out against the grim crimson of the cushions. The footsteps stopped a scant distance behind her — and showed no sign of reversing themselves.

Mary could feel the prickle of scrutiny scuttle across the bare skin of her shoulder blades as she sat resolutely deaf and dumb, willing the intruder away.

"Admiring the view?" inquired a masculine voice.